by JoAnn Ross
Despite what she’d said about having grown up on a farm, she was definitely city now. While he was country to the bone.
He was domestic beer in a long neck bottle.
She was imported French champagne.
Her husband had probably worn a fancy tuxedo to take Rachel to the opera.
He’d worn faded jeans, a blue chambray shirt, and smoke-smudged boots to take her on an outlaw train ride.
Cooper was realist enough to know that while Rachel might be attracted enough to kiss him, hell, maybe even go to bed with him, she’d probably never end up with a small town sheriff like him.
But knowing that didn’t stop him from wanting her. Bad.
“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t warn you. During the years I spent all over the globe, I began to realize that my roots go a lot deeper than I’d thought. So, while I might’ve come back home because of Dad, I stayed because I’m old-fashioned enough to believe I might actually be able to make a difference in people’s lives.”
“And you couldn’t have made a difference in Portland?”
“I might have, from time to time. But the system was too impersonal for my tastes. How about you?”
“Me?”
“What made you give up the big-city lights of Manhattan for the sleepy ambience of River’s Bend, Oregon?”
“Manhattan was where Alan’s office was located. We lived in Connecticut.”
He knew that, having seen the video the real estate agent had made when she’d listed the Hathaway McMansion for sale. This entire bungalow probably could have fit into the two-story library that had been paneled and furnished like some aristocratic English gentleman’s club.
“But you still went to school in New York City. Probably had date nights. Lunches in fancy Michelin star restaurants with friends and potential clients.”
“True.” Hedging the issue, she pulled the sunshine yellow curtains aside and looked out the kitchen window. “I wonder if I should call Scott. Dinner’s nearly ready and he’s not home.”
“He’s still got a couple of minutes,” Cooper pointed out. “Conversation getting a little too personal again, Rachel?”
“Not at all,” she insisted as she stacked cheese on top of the burgers and slid them into the oven beneath the broiler. “It was merely a question of the most return on my dollar. I couldn’t afford to buy anything along the lines of Chez Maxime, but I could afford the New Chance Café.”
Cooper topped off their wineglasses and asked the question he’d been wondering about since meeting her. “Surely there were other restaurants between here and New York or Connecticut you could afford to buy. Why this one? And why sight unseen?”
“The cheese is bubbling,” she complained, pulling the broiler pan from the oven as she continued to dodge his questions. “Where is he?”
Scott chose that moment to burst in the door. “Dumb ole Warren doesn’t believe these are a real outlaw’s fingerprints,” he complained, tossing his jacket on the back of a chair, where it slid down onto the floor.
“Pick that up and hang it and your hat on the rack,” Rachel instructed. “Then wash your hands and sit down before the burgers get cold.”
“But what about Warren?” His face was flushed with frustration and indignation.
“Warren can get his own dinner. I only made three burgers. Wash.”
Apparently recognizing her no-nonsense mom tone, Scott scooped up the jacket and hung it on the wooden rack next to his cowboy hat. Then he went over to the sink, where he pumped liquid soap onto his palms and waved them briefly under the water before wiping them on his jeans. Which had Rachel rolling her eyes, but she didn’t call him on it.
“They really are an outlaw’s prints, huh, Cooper?”
“Sure are. Bad Bill was one of the most infamous stage and train robbers in Oregon. Which is why he always leads the gang on the outlaw ride.”
He didn’t mention that Bad Bill was usually played by his father-in-law, who also belonged to the Boothill Ghostriders, a western re-enactment group that performed for rodeos throughout Oregon, Nevada, and northern California.
“Is it all right for Scott to have them?” Rachel asked as she brought the cheeseburgers to the table.
“We were cleaning out the files,” Cooper assured her.
“You were throwing away official records?”
Her tone was so serious, her expression so sweetly grave that it was all Cooper could do not to bend down and kiss her, right now while her hands were filled with plates and she couldn’t push him away. Since her son was right there, he merely smiled.
“Rachel, Bad Bill Barkley escaped from the Oregon State prison in 1925, after which time he was rumored to be hiding out for a while with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in Utah. I doubt there’ll be any immediate need for his fingerprint file.”
Scott frowned as he bit into his cheeseburger. “Butch and Sundance died in Argentina,” he said when he’d finished chewing. “I’ve seen the movie lots of times.”
“That’s what they say,” Cooper agreed. “However, Butch’s sister, Lula Parker, insisted that the men killed in Argentina were intentionally misidentified to give Butch and Sundance a chance to bury their past and go straight. She said Butch died in Spokane after spending his last years as a trapper and prospector.”
“Wow!” His eyes were saucers. “Just think, Mom, my fingerprints belong to a friend of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid!”
“Just what every boy needs,” Rachel said dryly. “An outlaw hero. Do you believe that story?” she asked Cooper.
“I don’t really know. Gramps swears they escaped, having heard the tale from his dad, who’d heard it from this lady, Pearl Hughes, who used to have a small spread outside town. Apparently some people around here claimed she was actually Etta Place—who may or may not have married Sundance—hiding out under a new name. Rumors had her buying the farm with money Sundance had given her. There were also reports of Etta living up in Marion, in the northern part of the state.”
“Geez.” Scott was clearly awestruck. “Now I know what I’m going to write my Oregon history paper on. Can you help me, Cooper?”
“I’d love to, sport, but Gramps would probably be able to give you a lot more facts since most of what I know is just rumor and passed-down family stories.”
Scott mulled it over while he chewed on a ketchup soaked French fry. “Okay,” he decided. “Mrs. Wilson said the papers have to be non-fiction. That’s the truth, not made up,” he elaborated for Rachel’s benefit. “So I guess facts would be better. But the stories are great, too,” he tacked on as if afraid of hurting Cooper’s feelings.
Amused, Cooper winked. “Glad you like them. How about after we do the dishes since your mom cooked dinner, you and I go next door to Warren’s and I’ll verify your fingerprints.”
“Geez,” Scott, said happily, “this is turning out to be a great night!”
18
“It’s been a lovely evening,” Rachel said a few hours later.
Scott, his reputation and fingerprints vindicated, had gone to bed, leaving her alone with Cooper. A gentle autumn rain sounded a steady tattoo on the roof and contributed to the intimacy of the small living room.
“You sound surprised.”
“I suppose I am. And while I’ll probably feel guilty in the morning, I have to admit that it’s nice to take some time off. Mrs. MacGregor certainly didn’t seem surprised when I called to tell her not to bother coming over this evening.”
Cooper didn’t need to be a mind reader to tell that taking these few hours off made Rachel uncomfortable, but the fact that she wasn’t rushing back to the New Chance revealed he was making progress.
“That may have something to do with the River County Sheriff’s Department Jeep parked in front of your house,” he suggested.
“Probably.” She sighed. “By tomorrow it’ll be all over town that we had dinner together.”
“Does that bother you?”
She shrug
ged. “I suppose not.”
But it did. Cooper could tell. Knowing that it took time to get used to the fishbowl existence that came with life in River’s Bend, he sought to put her mind at ease.
“I can tell everyone that I was testing out the cook,” he said helpfully. “So they’ll know what they’re getting when the New Chance reopens.”
“Just don’t tell them I fed you a cheeseburger.”
“Hey, don’t knock cheeseburgers. They’re considered gourmet fare here in ranching country.”
His smile encouraged one in return, and he could feel her relax as she told him of her plans for the café. “I’m covering up the interior log walls with sheetrock that’ll be textured like plaster,” she said. “While I understand why Johnny stuck with the original logs in the dining room and bar, they’re dark and impossible to clean. I suspect decades of nicotine are embedded in them.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” They were sitting on the overstuffed couch in front of fireplace. Although it no longer worked, she’d placed half a dozen fat white candles where logs would have gone. Cooper put his arm along the back and played lightly with her hair.
“I’m sticking with that Navajo white Fred was generous enough to donate in the kitchen, and going with a warm gold for the dining room. And although red’s considered a death color for restaurants, I decided on a wonderfully rich terracotta brick color for an accent wall. And we’re stripping all the horrid layers of paint off those wonderful original wooden moldings.”
“Sounds great.”
Encouraged when she didn’t move away, he allowed his hand to slip down and rest on her shoulder. Just like high school, Cooper thought wryly. Building up to necking with Ellen while parked in his pickup at the old Pelican drive-in theater that had closed during his first deployment.
“And we tore out all those terrible fluorescent lights that make people look like zombies and food look like something the dog would turn down.”
“You pretty much just described Johnny’s menu.”
She laughed as he’d meant her to. “Well, I’m using LED pendant lights and wall sconces. Not only are they energy efficient, they’re much more natural. And Hank Young just happened to come up with some wonderful antique embossed copper ceiling tiles. Apparently he bought them a few years ago for song at an auction in Medford, but the woman who’d ordered them changed her mind, so he figured I might want them. He offered to donate them, but I insisted on reimbursing him. Which turned out to be an amazingly low price.”
Cooper knew Hank had found the tiles for sale at a restoration wholesaler after Cal told him Rachel had mentioned wishing that she could squeeze a hammered copper ceiling into her budget. But that bit of information, along with what the hardware store owner had actually paid for them, would remain Hank’s secret.
“Lucky,” he said.
“Isn’t it? And you have to see the skylight Cal put in. It makes the entry look so much larger. I’m thinking of getting a tree. Nothing too big. Maybe just a Norfolk Island pine, or Ficus or maybe bamboo, though bamboo’s too oriental for the menu. A banana tree would be wonderful, but again, it doesn’t really fit into a western theme and it needs so much humidity. Also, Ficus can have a leaf drop problem, so perhaps I ought to stick with the pine.”
“I’ve found it’s usually best to go with your first impulse,” Cooper said, wondering why he was sitting here talking about trees when he’d rather be tasting her mouth.
“You’re right.” Rachel nodded decisively. “The pine it is.”
“I’m glad we got that settled.”
She was so lost in thought that his dry tone went right over her head. “So am I. It’s one less thing to worry about. I’m also beginning to interview people who worked for Johnny. Even starting out small, I can’t do everything myself.
“Oh, and you’ll never guess what we found when we pulled up the linoleum in the dining room today.”
“The bodies of everyone who died of ptomaine poisoning after eating Johnny’s cooking?”
“Haha. A wood floor. Cal says it’s Oregon white oak, which these days can mostly only be found in salvage yards, so it has to be original. The color’s so much richer than eastern oak and it’s also hand-fitted tongue and groove. Isn’t that marvelous?”
“Marvelous,” he murmured distractedly. The scent of her lotion was swirling around in his head, making it difficult to concentrate.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
“For what?”
“I’ve been talking nonstop about myself and haven’t let you get a word in edgewise.”
Actually, she’d been talking about the restaurant, not herself, but he wasn’t about to quibble. “That’s okay. I’m perfectly content just to sit here and smell your neck.”
She suddenly stiffened. “Really, Cooper . . .”
“Really. You always smell like sunlit wildflower meadows after a warm spring rain.” When he trailed his fingertips down her neck, she trembled.
“Cooper.” It was little more than a whisper, but easily heard in the stillness of the room.
“Is that a complaint?” He pressed a kiss behind her ear. “Or an invitation?”
Cooper sensed her building hunger in the way her body softened beneath his increasingly intimate touch. He felt it in the quickening of her pulse; viewed it in the way her eyes were turning to dark and gleaming pewter as they met his.
But he could feel her vacillation, as well. Her hands were pressed against his chest as if trying to decide whether to clutch at him, or push him away.
Slowly, reluctantly, once again, he solved the problem for her and backed away.
“You really are so damn lovely,” he murmured. Still needing to touch, he ran the back of his hand down the side of her face. “I like your mouth. A lot.”
Cooper planned to spend a lot more time tasting that luscious mouth. But, it appeared, not tonight.
“Did I thank you for dinner?”
“You did. Several times. Did I thank you for the wine?”
“Three times.”
“Well. I guess we’ve covered everything, then.”
“I suppose so. Except for what you’re doing for Thanksgiving.”
“I’ll be working.”
“At the café.” It was not a question.
“Where else?”
Where else, indeed? Cooper was starting to get a handle on Rachel’s workaholic habits. Cal had told him that although all the men tried to get her to take a break from time to time, she steadfastly refused.
He took hold of her hand and turned it over. Her soft skin was marred by angry blisters at the base of each finger. A few of the blisters were hardening to calluses. “Look at what you’re doing to yourself.”
“Those calluses are merely the sign of hard, honest work,” she countered. “Do you have something against work, Sheriff?”
“Of course not. Do you have something against moderation?”
“There’ll be time for moderation once the New Chance is open for business.”
Cooper wondered about that. From what he’d seen and heard about Rachel, the lady was definitely driven. He could understand ambition. Could even respect it. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that Rachel was carrying things too far.
“Look, I understand why you want to get the place open, but you’re only human. You can’t keep working around the clock indefinitely.”
“It’s not indefinite. The café will be open before Christmas. I’ve hired a student at the Oregon Institute of Technology in Klamath Falls to set up a Facebook page and make me a basic website and bought ad space in both the Klamath Falls Herald and News and the River’s Bend Register.
“But Mitzi says people like to ski on Modoc Mountain over the holidays, so I’m considering running a grand opening ad in the Rogue Valley papers, as well. And maybe even go east and try the Lake County Examiner. Of course, that would increase the advertising budget, but if I picked up some repeat vacation business the additional cost might b
e worth it. What do you think?”
“I think you’re working too hard.”
“Thank you for your concern, Sheriff. But I don’t believe that’s any of your business.”
Her tone had turned city cool and Cooper could practically see the No Trespassing signs going up all around her.
“Actually, your son sort of made it my business.”
“Scott?” She looked at him disbelievingly. “What does Scott have to do with this?”
“How about the fact that he’s forced to talk to a virtual stranger about his father because his mother’s too busy to take time to listen?”
Every bit of color fled Rachel’s face.
Damn. Cooper immediately regretted his reckless words. “Hell, I’m sorry.” His hands cupped her shoulders. “That was a low blow. And totally uncalled for.”
“No.” Her shadowed eyes glistened. Dear God, please don’t let her cry. Cooper would rather face down a dozen gangbangers than deal with a woman’s tears.
“It’s true,” she said on a long sigh. “Scott doesn’t talk to me about Alan. I’ve tried, so many times, but he always changes the subject.”
She was tense. Too tense. Feeling lower than a Western diamondback in a rut, Cooper caressed her shoulders with his palms, seeking to soothe the cruelly twisted muscles.
“In case you’re worried, I haven’t been pumping him for information.”
“I know you wouldn’t do that. And although my maternal pride is admittedly dented, I’m glad he has someone he feels he can talk with.”
“If it helps, the only reason he doesn’t discuss his dad with you is because he’s afraid of hurting your feelings.” The pain in her moist eyes tore at something deep inside Cooper. “It seems he’s got the mistaken impression that it’s his job to protect you.”
“The man of the house.” Rachel gave a long, weary sigh. “I wasn’t the one who put that idea into his head. Honestly, I wasn’t.”