“No more questions,” he grumbled, his voice rough and edgy. “But you can stay, at least until you figure a way to dump these guests.”
She bristled at his caustic comment regarding River Run’s patrons. “Mr. Connor may I point out a fact to you?”
He sighed and stood silent, raising his brows for her to continue.
She shook her head and inhaled in an attempt to not physically smack the arrogance off his face. “If you choose to close River Run, then it won’t be a very profitable business to sell next summer, will it?”
Emma’s saw his mind working. His eyes never showed one iota of emotion, but his jaw tensed and he frowned.
“I need to think on that.”
She offered a half-smile, praying she’d won her first battle. If she could convince him to stay, make the resort work, and show him exactly how valuable an employee she was, maybe he’d reconsider selling.
Her identity would be safe.
She would be safe.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Stone commanded.
“Like what?” Emma replied, shocked at his anger.
“Like I’m gonna save ya,” he said. “I’m a long time gone from that business.”
Emma shook her head and stepped back, slightly discombobulated at his insight. She looked at Stone Connor closely for the first time since he’d arrived. For all she’d been through in her twenty-eight years, Emma had become a very good judge of character.
Maybe it was due to her father’s coaching in her early childhood on working the room with visiting political members, but she had an innate ability to read people and instinctively understand what made them tick and how to approach them. It’d been an invaluable asset in managing River Run. She swore when she realized her pre-occupation had blocked this sense.
Stone snarled once more and strode past her to the back deck. She recognized the defensive I don’t give a damn armor. It didn’t bother her; two could play that game. She traipsed behind him.
“That’s a tributary from the Snake River,” she said, trying to connect on some level, attempting to allow her sixth sense its freedom and provide her with insight.
He remained silent. Aloof. Emma studied his face. High cheekbones dropped to a firm, intense mouth. No laugh lines there, she mused. At least she figured there weren’t any -- his entire face was cloaked in hair.
She avoided direct contact with his eyes. Their empty, soulless depths bothered her. He topped her by a good foot. Every muscle rippled, tensed to battle some invisible enemy. The fact that Margaret had rarely spoken about Stone suddenly dawned on her.
“Over to the left,” she rambled. “Is an old graveyard that belonged to the family who first settled here in the early eighteen hundreds.”
She stepped back as he turned to her, piercing her with steely eyes.
“Why do I need to know this?”
She shrugged, her unease flooding back. “I thought you might be interested,” she said kicking herself internally for her mousy voice.
“You thought wrong. Where’d you say my room was?”
Squaring her shoulders, Emma met his gaze. “There’s no need to be rude.”
“There’s no need to be friendly.”
“I wasn’t being friendly, I was being polite. There’s a huge difference. Friendly would mean I care.” Let him fire her. She ignored the stream of fear gurgling beneath her pitiful display of courage. He was a hideous man with no manners, and she’d not tolerate him. A deep rumbling emanated from his chest followed by a derisive snort.
Was he laughing at her?
She stood as tall as possible, her back as straight as the Lodgepole Pines scattered across the yard. A grin spread across Stone’s face, sending an unfamiliar parade of sizzling sparks along her nerve endings.
His eyes lit, and she thought a spark of something flashed within their steel depths, but it was gone as quick as it came.
“I think we’ll get along just fine Ms. O’Malley. Just make sure you stay polite,” he said.
“Polite won’t be a problem, Mr. Connor. Please follow me. I’ll show you to your room.” Curiosity snuck out from behind her emotional fence and tickled her mind. Stone Connor was an enigma, and it bothered her.
They entered the house, and she led him toward the western corner.
“Tell me, Ms. O’Malley, how long have you been employed here.”
She tensed at his question but quickly realized it was normal under the circumstances. “Fifteen years, Mr. Connor. I’ve lived here for fifteen years.”
“You were only a child?” he said, his voice laced with astonishment. “Why would Grandmother hire a child?”
“I was more than capable,” she responded icily. She needn’t elaborate on her past. He was prying.
“Capable of what? Doing your homework?”
“My past really is of no concern to you, Mr. Connor. I’m more than qualified to perform my duties.”
Stopping in front of a large wooden door, Emma twisted the glass knob and opened it. She walked into the center of the sitting room for the master suite, verifying everything was in order. With a nod, Emma turned to head out and slammed smack into a concrete wall.
Eye level with his chest, she inhaled sharply as his scent invaded her senses.
Stone grabbed her upper arms, his fingers tightened painfully, and she winced.
Gazing up, her eyes met an entirely different wall. A wall of blue fire that burned right into the center of her soul.
“What game are you playing?”
“I don’t understand?” Emma said, trying to clear the cobweb of physical awareness that spread across her brain.
“You and my grandmother? What game is this? You’ve lived here for fifteen years, and she willed the place to me? If this is some hair-brained scheme to reintroduce me into society, then you can stop the charade right now. I’ll have nothing to do with it.”
Emma’s heart was doing a great rendition of a paddleball game. She hated this feeling. “Let go of me, you’re hurting my arms.”
“Not until you tell me the truth.”
“The truth?” She cringed as her voice rose several octaves. “I don’t understand this madness any more than you do. I created this place. I brought the clientele here. I wanted nothing in return but a little security. Nothing but a home to stay in.” Her voice rose in crescendo until she practically screamed the last few words at him.
He released her in obvious shock. She swallowed quickly controlling anymore words from spewing forth and continuing this regrettable outburst. “I’m entitled to my rages as well, you know. You haven’t cornered the market yet,” she said, fighting to regain her internal balance.
He flashed that grin again. Emma ignored the gone-over-the-hill-too-fast-left-my-tummy-behind jig feeling it evoked.
She needed air. “I’ll be preparing dinner for eight o’clock, until then help yourself to whatever you want in the kitchen.”
Emma spun and exited the suite before she did something stupid like slug him. These were uncommon urges for her and extremely unsettling. She raced through the resort into the comforting environment of her private apartment.
Emma paced from cubby-sized room to cubby-sized room, absently rearranging knick-knacks given as parting gifts from appreciative guests.
Space.
She needed space. Stripping out of her jeans and into a pair of grungy khaki gardening shorts, Emma knotted her hair on top of her head and headed outside.
Retrieving a rusty blue wheelbarrow from the barn, she piled her pruning shears and gloves inside.
The scent of hay and the warm summer sun smoothed her tangled emotions. Emma wove between the white hens that were scattered across the barnyard and headed out past the horse pasture.
“Tomorrow would be a good day to gather eggs,” she said to herself, realizing she’d forgotten this morning.
She couldn’t prevent the giggle that emerged as the back of her legs were nudged by little furry heads. Rhett
and Scarlet, the resort’s pair of Pygmy Goats, danced behind her. They followed her happily, frolicking in the grass and chasing butterflies. Passing a grove of quaking aspens, Emma arrived at her destination.
A patch of wildflowers grew in abundance, shimmering beneath the sunlight in an ocean of blues, purples and yellows. Emma carefully selected the flowers she wished to display, clipped them, and placed them gently in the wheelbarrow. She then knelt and pulled at the stubborn weeds sprouting from between the carefully laid brick border. She smiled at the silly antics of the goats. They were everywhere. In her garden, down the field, back to the garden, and up to the house.
It was times like this that all her troubles faded away. Life was good and wonderful. The velvet petals on her Black Eyed Susans were a miracle of nature, fragile yet sturdy enough to battle the stiff western breeze that blew through the valley.
Emma inhaled the sweet afternoon scent. Suddenly, things weren’t all that bad. She’d tolerate Stone Connor, and maybe…somehow, talk him into keeping River Run. Her heart swelled to near bursting at the thought of not having to leave the ranch.
A loud curse and panicked squeal spurred Emma out of her daydreams and into a dead run. She raced up the hill, the goats grunting happily as they nipped at her heels. Hurdling the white picket fence outside the master bedroom, she darted through the open French doors and discovered what she’d feared.
Stone, crouched in a fighter’s stance, waved a malicious looking knife at the one thing she valued more than River Run.
Chapter Two
Small, beady eyes flared with rage. Stone shuffled sideways, careful not to make any aggressive movements.
“Easy, boy…nice pig.”
It moved closer and snarled, displaying an amazing amount of jagged, yellow teeth. Stone made a quick survey of the room. He didn’t want to inflict too much damage, but if the pig charged he’d be forced to go for the jugular. Blood would be everywhere.
“Put that knife away, Mr. Connor,” Emma O’Malley demanded, pushing in front of the rabid, walking roast and glaring fiercely at him. He didn’t know what to do first. Kill the pig or kill the pain-in-the-butt-know-it-all resort manager.
“Get back, Ms. O’Malley. I know what I’m doing.” He crouched lower as Porkchop snarled louder.
“She’s not dangerous. Put your weapon away.”
“I don’t think so, ma’am. That hunk’o’ham’s about to make me the laughing stock of Jackson Hole.”
“You’re right about that. It doesn’t take much of a man to kill a defenseless old pig.”
His eyes widened when the woman actually knelt down and wrapped her arms around the ugly round critter. This was certainly no Wilbur. Its hide was covered with gray, bristly hair and a layer of green slime decorated its snout. By her actions, it was clear Emma O’Malley loved this disgusting creature.
Snapping his knife shut, he listened as she spoke in a honey tone of soothing words that spread a disquieting flicker of sensation down his spine.
“I was referring to the fact that I’d make the front page news as being the first human to ever die from a rabid pig,” he said, straightening up and backing further away from the odd couple sitting in the middle of his bedroom.
The woman turned watery green eyes in his direction, causing a lump to form at the back of his throat. She looked sad, as if someone had yanked the world right out from beneath her milk and honey perfection.
“Pocahontas isn’t rabid. In fact, she thinks you’re the intruder here. The only thing she did wrong was assume that this was my room.”
“And is it?” Stone concentrated on maintaining a straight face and not responding to the pig’s name. Who in their right mind would name an ugly, old pig Pocahontas?
“Is what?”
“Is this your room?” He frowned as she continued to croon softly and stroke the pig’s side.
“Not anymore,” she sighed. “It seems River Run is under new management.”
“Oh for cryin’ out loud, I already told you that your stay here has been expanded to a year. How long will it take you to find a new place and a new job?”
“Forever,” she said. Without so much as a see-ya-later, Emma O’Malley stood up, shuffled the filet of flesh out the door and exited the suite. He swore the three-hundred-pound pork chop smirked at him before disappearing around the corner.
Stone stood within the silent confines of the master suite. Running his fingers through his mop of hair, he suddenly realized the enormity of what’d been handed him.
He didn’t want to be responsible. The bullet that tore through his upper torso more than a year ago left a bigger emotional scar than the visible puckered skin around his shoulder.
Inability to make decisions.
No longer a leader.
Scared of Death.
But not scared to die. Oh no, he wasn’t scared to die. In fact, he’d tried to stay with his men...die with them. But that damn baby was pushed into his arms, and he’d made a dash for safety, leaving behind the cries of pain and the only family he’d acknowledge. Dead. All of them. Killed in a massacre the world would never know about.
They’d asked him to retire...said it was for the best. Said he should have a life filled with happiness and not war. What did they know?
Stone walked into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. He flipped the silver knob to the shower and waited for steam to fill the room. Glancing around, his mind fantasized imagining Emma O’Malley languishing in the marble jacuzzi or standing beneath the wide spray of water from the showerhead. He could almost see her sheer, silken nightgown, white as a lily with no other adornments but the glow of her flawless skin. Shaking his head, he realized he did see her nightgown. It was hanging on a hook on the back of the door.
He guessed that confirmed her answer. She must occupy these rooms when the place was empty.
Stepping beneath the stream of hot water, Stone concentrated on what he faced.
Disregarding the faint stirrings of a physical attraction, he figured he didn’t particularly care for the prickly Miss O’Malley. But if she was willing to run the day-to-day operation of the resort, then he supposed he’d better get used to her.
What other choice did he have? Allow his father to inherit? He wouldn’t give that man one thing that belonged to him, not even if it meant living with a million different people over the next twelve months.
Stepping out of the shower, he grabbed a towel and spent a quick second in appreciation of the thick Egyptian cloth.
He’d never been one for luxury, but he had to admit it had its perks.
Staring in the mirror, he toyed with the idea of shaving. He wouldn’t do that, fighting a quick pang of fear at having to face his clean-shaven image. That man was a killer. He didn’t want to see that person again.
Stone pulled on his jeans and an army-issued t-shirt and walked out the French doors. He looked around, ignoring the breathtaking vista that lay before him. There’d been a time when the mountainous range of the Grand Tetons embraced him in their beauty, grabbing his breath, and making him thankful to be alive.
But time passed. He was no longer thankful to be alive and didn’t want to acknowledge the wonders that surrounded him.
A radio blared from above, and he climbed the wooden stairs that led to the back deck. Sliding silently between the open double doors, Stone stole a few moments to absorb the woman before him.
Emma O’Malley, chief cook and bottle washer, moved gracefully around the kitchen. Her back was to Stone. He admired her quick, precise motions. The way her faded jeans hugged her entirely too enticing derriere as she pulled vegetables from the refrigerator, rinsing, then chopping. He frowned when she wiped the back of her hand across her face.
Why was she crying?
He hated tears. Backing away, Stone stumbled over a needlepoint-covered footstool and knocked a stack of books off the coffee table. He closed his eyes at the outburst sure to follow.
“Are you spying on me?�
�� Emma demanded.
“I wasn’t spying,” he grunted, picking up the books and replacing them on the table.
“Yes, you were,” she said.
“Why are you crying?” He stood up and looked straight at her tear-stained face. Green eyes flashed back through wet lashes and a blush that would make a strawberry patch proud spread across her face.
“I’m not crying.”
“And I’m not spying.” He threw her what he prayed was a dangerous glare and retreated back through the French doors. Enough of that. Tears and sadness were nothing he could help with. Glancing up at the roof, he frowned. It needed a bunch more shingles and the entire estate could use a fresh coat of paint. If he wanted a quick sale, he’d have to spruce it up.
“I was not crying,” a loud voice called behind him. Sighing, he turned and faced the angry woman.
“I guess I was wrong then, but it seems to me that tearstains and wet lashes are definitely tell-tale signs of crying.”
“This is what’s making my face all funny,” she said, waving a large yellow onion at him. She brought it closer and shoved it beneath his nose. “I don’t waste time on emotional release, it’s too draining.”
“I see,” he said, pushing the offending vegetable away. “I apologize for jumping to conclusions.” His eyes widened as a fresh batch of tears pooled in a sudden emerald ocean. She pursed her lower lip and turned away. “Hey, I’m sorry, okay?” he said.
“Shut up,” she retorted, a slight waver to her voice. “I’m not crying.”
“I can see that,” he said, although he was certain that this time she was definitely crying, especially when the tears spilled over her bottom lashes and snaked lazily down her cheek.
“Good, I’m glad you understand my position,” she hiccupped. Waving the knife in his face, she began to say something but stopped when the blade fell off and clattered to the deck. She bent down spewing words that burned even his well-seasoned ears.
He was trying very hard not to laugh. It would be mean to laugh, but her language tickled something he’d thought dead a long time ago. “You’d better take your onion back to the kitchen before it has you sobbing.”
The Fifth Season Page 2