She was snorting again at the thought, then clapping a hand over her nose. What was she doing? She was turning into Paige. When she’d wished to be more like her twin, she’d meant “tougher and more badass,” not “snorting and poorly groomed.”
“What’s funny?” Hailey asked.
“Oh,” Lily said, “that’s just Bailey. On the curb, I mean. Never mind. I just—do you use Pinterest, by any chance?”
“Well, of course, hon,” Hailey said. “That’s where I pin all my craft ideas. Why? Were you thinking about it for the store? That’s a good idea. We should do it. We could use the manufacturers’ images, or even better—you could put together looks and model them! That’s what the gals have so much trouble with—how to put it all together. Even a nightgown and a robe isn’t always easy. We could do it like paper dolls.” She beamed. “That’d be so cute and different.”
“Not happening,” Lily said. “So no Pinterest board of Hot Guys? Featuring abs and butts, maybe?” Rafe had an incredible butt. She’d happened to notice when they’d been at Walmart yesterday, when he’d been wearing those Wranglers. Definitely pinworthy.
“Lord, no,” Hailey said with a laugh. “I can just see Larry’s face when he accidentally logs into my account. He still can’t half figure out how to use the computer anyway. His brain would explode.”
“Well, I figured,” Lily said. “It just occurred to me.”
“If I want to look at that kind of thing,” Hailey said, “I look at Louise Harward’s. She has them categorized.”
“Louise Harward? The secretary at the elementary school?”
“Well, yeah,” Hailey said. “Why not? Everybody has hobbies.”
“She has a hobby. She grows roses. I saw them at the county fair last year. She won a prize.”
“And she reads books,” Hailey said. “And follows people online, movie stars and romance authors and whatnot, and sometimes, when they post somebody really good, she pins it to one of her boards and shares it with us girls. Are you telling me you never even look at pictures? Because, honey—it’s the twenty-first century, and nobody’s judging. I know you’re not ready to be out there yet, but trust me—if you don’t use it, you lose it. And I mean that. If you give up the ghost—well, you dry up, that’s all, and that’s a waste at your age. Gardening can only take you so far.”
“No,” Lily said. How had they gotten way out here on this…cliff? Hailey had been working for her for well over a year now. Was Lily giving off some kind of I-need-it-bad vibe that even her coworker could sense? “I mean, I’m fine.”
Hailey wasn’t done, apparently. “I know divorce is tough, and it’s hard to start over, but you know, hon, you don’t need a man to keep in shape. There are all kinds of things you can get online now. And if you need to look at pictures or read a book to get in the mood, you go on and do that, too. Nobody has to know. I’ll just say, though—books work best for most of us girls when it comes to giving your imagination a little boost. The movies they put out are terrible. I tried, but it turned me off as fast as it turned Larry on. Books are better.” She patted Lily on the arm.
Masturbation. Hailey Robinson was advising her about masturbation. Lily looked outside, because looking at Hailey wasn’t going to be happening.
Fortunately, Rafe wasn’t anywhere to be seen. It was just Bailey. Visiting the porno store.
Rafe saw the girl at the last minute. When he was pulling into the diagonal parking space between two enormous pickup trucks that had blocked his view, to be exact. He hit the brakes hard enough to feel the jolt in his shoulder harness, and behind him, there was a low “Whuff!” as Chuck presumably hit the back of his seat. And then Rafe was out of the SUV and advancing on Bailey.
“Do not sit there!” he told her. “I almost hit you! What were you thinking?”
Bailey had already jumped to her feet. She was in another striped T-shirt and the same jeans from yesterday, and behind her, Lily and an older blonde woman were coming out of a shop. A shop named Sinful Desires, the name written in script over a storefront that looked like a chocolate box, or a Swiss cottage, or something equally delectable. The wood was painted dark green with purple trim and had a sort of cottage-roof treatment going on, and there was a stained-glass fanlight over the door, featuring pink and green ribbons, that was as sensual as anything he’d ever seen. Except for the things displayed in the window. All of which were what he’d been looking at instead of where he was going.
“You didn’t almost hit me,” Bailey said. “Cars don’t hit the curb.”
“Yes, they bloody well do, if the driver isn’t paying attention. Do not ever do that again.”
Bailey was all but flinching. “OK.”
“Oh, for…” Now he’d been an arsehole. He’d scared her, and not in the way he’d meant to. “I’m sorry I shouted. You scared me.”
“That’s OK,” Bailey said.
He thought about saying something else, then gave up. “I brought you Chuck.”
“Oh,” Bailey said. “OK.”
The older blonde was watching the two of them in evident fascination, because this event apparently passed for excitement in Sinful. He took a breath, then adjusted his accent and said, “Hi. I’m Clay.”
“Hailey,” she said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he said. That sounded suitably southern. He told Lily, “I decided to buy you another dog bed. I noticed that Chuck settles down when he’s got a spot, and if he’s going to be in your shop, he’d better be settled down.” He went to the car, opened the back door, grabbed Chuck’s harness before he could leap to the ground, and handed his leash to Bailey. “Here you go. As promised.” He’d have ruffled her hair, if she’d been a boy. Or maybe not even then. Modern life was hard. He went around to the back of the SUV instead and pulled out the dog bed and bike helmet he’d just picked up at Walmart. He tossed the helmet at Bailey, said, “Wear it,” then hefted the dog bed and told Lily, “Wherever you want it. I took a chance and guessed that cream and gray might be good. That it might go with your, ah…décor. We could put it in that back room of yours, maybe. The unexciting one.”
He wasn’t meant to be staring at her body. He knew it. He couldn’t help his peripheral vision, though, and she looked—quite a bit different. The round neckline of the peacock-blue knit dress wasn’t low-cut, the sleeves reached halfway to her elbows, and the hem hit below her knees. It was probably meant to look like a T-shirt, except that it was nowhere close, because if a dress had ever accentuated a woman’s curves, it was this one. Her hair was pulled back in that same messy knot she’d worn the first night, her semi-high heels were slim and elegant, she wasn’t wearing stockings, and if she’d been dressed like this then…
He’d have fallen even harder.
He hefted the dog bed in his arms and said, “Show me where.” And then he got to watch her turn around and walk away.
Bloody. Flamin’. Hell.
He’d spent more than a decade working with some of the most beautiful women in the world. But at this moment, all he could think about was how it had felt to cup that curvy backside in his hand and have her pressed up against the wall. While she’d had her own hand at the back of his head, pulling him closer, and he’d been lifting her practically off her feet.
Pull your head in, mate, he told himself as he followed her into the shop, then through a white-painted, unobtrusive door at the rear.
The back room. In here, the décor was limited to a few cartons against the wall, more tidy shelving, a good-sized work table, and some hanging racks. Lily walked around behind the table and said, “Put it back here for now, and we’ll hope for the best, although I imagine I’ll have to give in and put Chuck next to the register in the end. He’ll bark. I’m fairly sure of it.’” She smiled at him, showing off the absolutely kissable dimple in each cheek. “And thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He set the bed down beside her, and she didn’t move away. “You look very beautiful.”
“Different.” He touched one of the wisps of golden hair escaping the knot. “Or maybe…perfect.”
He watched the color creep up her chest and into her cheeks. Unfortunately, he also watched her turn at the sound of a bell. Front door, probably. She said, “Right. Thanks. Uh…I have to get to work, but you could make a cup of tea, if you like. I thought you were doing something this morning.”
He looked at his watch. “Damn. Yeah. Riding lesson. I’m going.”
He passed the older blonde—Hailey—who was with a customer. He smiled at her absently, then told Bailey, who was hovering near the door with Chuck, “See ya. Watch for cars,” and rumpled her hair. If that was wrong, so be it. And then he hit the door. He didn’t do “late,” and he didn’t do “unprofessional.” Time to go.
Hailey was standing at the front of the store, supposedly getting ready to open up, with one hand on her ample chest. She was patting it, actually.
“Who was that?” she asked. “Lily? Hon?”
Bailey said, “That’s Clay. He’s cool. He’s sharing Chuck. Bye, Lily. Chuck and me are going to the lake.”
“Remember,” Lily said, turning the key and opening the door for them, “he needs lunch. Bring him back around one, OK? I brought a sandwich for you, too. We’ll have a little party.”
“OK,” Bailey said. “Bye.” She buckled the bike helmet Rafe had brought her, then headed out with Chuck, and Lily thought, Right. Right. Breathe.
Hailey said, “Wait. Lily. Who was that? He looks like—well, my gosh. He looks like sex on a stick, is what.”
“That’s Clay,” Lily said. “He just moved to town. He’s doing some training for a new job in…law enforcement. Bailey’s right. He’s cool.” She wasn’t sure how long Rafe was going to be able to hang onto his secret, sunglasses or no, but it wasn’t hers to share.
“Oh,” Hailey said. “Goodness. I’d say you don’t need books. Or Pinterest.”
Rafe was headed west, leaving the head of the long valley behind. The GPS lady told him, “In five hundred feet, turn left on Johnson Drive,” and he did it. Johnson Drive was gravel and took him uphill, away from the fields and up into the trees, and he thought, Wait. Wouldn’t an equestrian center be on level ground? Barns and paddocks and all?
A fork in the road. The GPS was mum, so he tossed a mental coin and took a right. Over the rise, maybe, and into another valley. That could be it.
More trees, the road narrowing and getting rougher, and a clear-cut area on the slope ahead. To the left, a dirt side road, marked with flags, headed up the mountain.
“Rerouting,” the GPS told him, and then, “Perform a U-turn when possible.”
“Now you tell me,” he muttered. He reversed a hundred yards and pulled into the side road, heard a rumble, and looked in the rearview mirror.
Holy shit. An enormous cab with a trailer behind was headed around the corner and bearing down on him, going too fast to stop.
The only stunt driving he’d ever done had been on a motorcycle. Didn’t matter. He was moving. He shifted into Drive faster than should have been possible and floored it, the blast of the powerful horn ringing in his ears. The logging truck’s horn. The logging truck that had been about one second from flattening him like a pancake.
“Arsehole,” he said, and put his foot down a little more. This must be some kind of Montana version of Deliverance. Probably the state sport, chasing unwary Californians. The GPS lady was still silent, but he didn’t care. When he came to the fork in the road again, he didn’t take the left one. Instead, he made it back to the main road fast, pulled all the way off it next to some mailboxes, and got a wave—the one-fingered kind—and a parting toot of the horn from the logging-truck driver.
He rang Martin.
When he finally made it up a mile-long, absolutely unmarked drive and stopped in front of a long white-painted stable block, he pulled on his navy blue West Virginia Mountaineers hat, summoned his inner sheriff, and climbed out of the car.
Martin gave him a cheery wave from the shade, where he was standing beside a tall, rangy woman, her faded blonde hair pulled back in a braid. Both of them were wearing jeans, which was no surprise. Martin was also, Rafe realized as he headed over, wearing new cowboy boots and a white button-down shirt, and had a red bandanna tucked into his back pocket.
“Morning,” Rafe said to the woman. “Clay Austin.” He asked Martin, “Is there a hoedown later, or will you need to cover your face when you rob the train?”
“Hi,” the woman said, seizing Rafe’s hand in an iron grip, giving it one fast pump, and dropping it. “Jo Schweitzer. You finally found us. If you’d called me, I would’ve told you not to follow the GPS. Doesn’t work so good out here. We go by country directions.”
“Uh…” Rafe said.
“Turn left at the cemetery,” she said. “Take a right at the old propane tank next to the Johnsons’ old place, then another right at the white barn. Country directions.” She stuck her hands into her back pockets and looked him over. “So. Tell me what you’re here for.”
“I filled her in,” Martin said, his bony face, behind the black-rimmed glasses, going for “serious” and not quite making it, “but she’d rather hear it from the source.”
“I’m not looking to ride in the Wild West show,” Rafe told Jo, ignoring his assistant. “Just the basics. Get on the horse, don’t look like too much of a fool riding it, and get off it again without it running away with me or going on strike. I’d like to do some trail riding. Up and down. Rocky. Fording the creek. That sort of thing.”
“Uh-huh,” Jo said. “What do you know how to do now? You obviously don’t have much sense of direction, so we better not send you up the mountain first.” That was clearly a joke, because she laughed, and so did Martin. “You’re also from Hollywood, which doesn’t exactly fill me with optimism, and you’re using a fake name. You really want me to use that? Because I’ll tell ya—if you’re doing something stupid on a thousand pounds of horse, I want you to hear me fast, not once you remember your name’s supposed to be Clay.”
Martin said, “Don’t look at me. I didn’t tell her. You’re too pretty. It’s the dimples.”
Jo snorted. “If you can’t tell one animal from another, you don’t belong in the horse business. And nobody in Montana except Ted Turner has an assistant. That’s what you’d call a clue. So let’s hear it. I’m not saying you don’t look good doing all that fighting in the movies, but I’m guessing that’s mostly fake. You ever been on a horse? Got any actual physical talents?” She looked him over from T-shirt to boots, so clearly expecting the answer to be “no” that Rafe had to smile. “Tomorrow,” she added, “wear a long-sleeve shirt. Horses itch. Cowboys don’t just wear jeans because it makes their asses look good.”
“Noted,” he said. “Cheers. Call me Rafe, then. I should answer to that fairly quickly. As for talents—I ride motorcycles. Do some surfing. A few things for my core, rings and so forth. Your basic fitness activities, running, swimming. That’s about it.”
“Your core,” Jo said. “Surfing. Huh. Balance, we’ll hope. I won’t expect too much, and then I’ll be pleasantly surprised. Because the first thing to know is that you don’t know anything. A motorcycle’s a fun thing and all, but it doesn’t go up and down at the same time it’s going forward, and it’s not going to up and decide to leave you behind. Let’s go meet a horse I know. We’ll start you out on Thunderbolt.”
“Thunderbolt” didn’t sound much like a starter horse, but Rafe had clearly decided, somewhere between Walmart and the logging truck, to surrender to the whims of the universe. Jo turned and headed for the stable, and Rafe followed her with Martin beside him.
“Where’s your hat, cowboy?” he asked Martin. “And if you’ve got a can of snuff in your back pocket, you’re fired. Filthy habit.”
“Excuse me? Martin asked. “Who’s wearing three-hundred-dollar sunglasses? Not me. Who’s wearing long sleeves?
Not you. I’m in character.”
They didn’t have time for more, because Jo was opening a half-door on a horse box, giving a freakishly large brown animal a rub of the nose and a pat of the shoulder, fastening a rope to his head collar, and saying, “This is Thunderbolt.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out a baby carrot, and handed it to Rafe. “Flat palm,” she said helpfully. “Don’t want him biting your fingers off.”
Martin had his arms crossed and an I-told-you-so look on his face. Jo asked him, “Are you paying for lessons, too?”
“No,” Martin said. “I’m here to assist.”
“Well, I don’t need your assistance,” she said. “Go on up and wait at the house. There’s some iced tea in the fridge.”
Martin opened his mouth, closed it again, and left, and Rafe grinned. He might end up conceding that Martin had been right, but he was an optimistic fella. He’d hope for the best, and ignore the fact that when he’d told his assistant the Montana plan and Martin had checked it out, Martin had rung back and said, “It’s not Colorado, that’s all I’m saying. Star Stables had the best reviews anywhere. This place isn’t on the radar. It’s not on the Doppler. It’s nowhere. If what you want is to be an old cowhand from the Rio Grande, though, wrapping yourself up in your bedroll after a hearty meal of beans from the chuck wagon, I’m guessing you’ll be all set.”
“I thought that was all you were saying,” Rafe had said.
“It is. The owner’s name is Jo Schweitzer, she’s expecting you on the seventh, and I’ll put everything into an email and send you a text just in case. If you want to know your instructor’s name, it’s also Jo Schweitzer, oddly enough, because she’s all there is. Until the Fourth of July, of course. That’s her high season. She has a helper after that. Probably ten years old.”
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