With a towel wrapped tightly about her, Deanna had edged the slacks and blouse through the crack of the door. "Sorry, dry clean only For what I paid for them, they should be self-cleaning!"
A circuit overload had delayed her from drying her hair until the clothes had been fluffed in the dryer. As she waited for the lights to come back on after the fuse blew, Shep mumbled something about a step-above knob and tube wiring and meaning to upgrade someday. He must have thrown in one of those fragrant fabric softener sheets though, for she felt almost like new when she stepped out of the bathroom nearly an hour later.
Her stomach growled at the tantalizing scent of the steaks cooking on the barbecue grill on the back porch. She peeked through the screen door. "Anything I can do?"
"Nope." Shep took the scrumptious-looking meat off the grate. "Do you like your steaks warmed or more done?"
"Pink." Everyone had his or her own interpretation of rare, medium, and well done.
"Then take this one inside while I give this other one another lick or two on the coals."
"Sure thing."
A pitcher of tea—the real thing with bags suspended from the lift top—stood ready on the table. The red Formica tabletop had been set for two with a pair of matching glasses from a fast-food promotion and mismatched stainless ware. Deanna put Shep's steak next to a glass of tea that he had half consumed. As good as the grilled meat smelled, raw or not, she could have torn into it like a hungry dog, but helped herself instead to another pretzel stick. Since the steak had been frozen an hour earlier, it couldn't be much more than warmed as he'd described it.
A few minutes later, her benefactor joined her. Not only was her steak on the platter, but so were four ears of corn wrapped in foil that had been roasted on the coals.
"Worry a critter too much and it'll toughen up on you," he warned, nodding at the beef he set in front of her. "But see if that meets city specs anyway."
Deanna made a small incision and smiled. "Done to perfection...and none too soon." She chuckled as her tummy growled again.
She watched Shep retrieve baked potatoes from the microwave and juggle them to the table, tossing one on each plate with a boyish grin. Then, wiping his hands on his shirt, he took the seat opposite her.
"Mind if I say grace, Deanna?"
"Not at all. I am so thankful for this food."
She bowed her head as he began. "Lord, we don't pretend to know Your purpose all the time, but we thank You that You've provided for us one more day May this food nourish our bodies as You nourish our souls. Amen."
"Amen," Deanna echoed, struck by the individual rendition of thanksgiving. But then, everything she'd seen about her host so far was original. C. R. had been such a stereotype, but she'd been too blinded by his sweet drawl and attention to notice. Deanna banished the thought before she lost her appetite. She needed all the nourishment she could get, for both body and spirit.
"So how'd this place get the name Hopewell?" She helped herself to a shameful dollop of block butter on her potato. Real tea, the familiar dinnerware and Formica table, block butter—it was like stepping back in time, except no one like Shep Jones ever sat across from Deanna at her grandmothers Formica table.
"It was a mining town until the small vein of gold beneath it ran out. I guess a lot of folks had high hopes that it would last longer. My uncle Dan always said he 'well hoped' it might amount to a ranch some day." Shep topped off his glass of tea. "That man could make a horse do anything he wanted."
The genuine admiration playing beneath Shep's long, lazy lashes was for his Uncle Dan, but it still made her heart do a somersault. Those lashes would be dangerous if he intended to flirt.
"He taught me a lot about animals, horses especially. People round these parts paid top dollar for any Hopewell horse. I'm hoping to keep that reputation."
"So this was a horse ranch then?" Deanna dug into the food on her plate rather than risk being drawn into the unfamiliar territory of his eyes. She needed to eat. Then she needed to think about her next move. The last thing she needed was the same kind of distraction that got her in this predicament to begin with—that of a man wielding a winsome Western charm.
"And will be again someday," Shep replied with a wistful look. "Not that we don't enjoy hunting," he admitted. "I guess I just inherited my uncle's love of horses as well as his ranch."
"You weren't raised here?"
He shook his head. "I was a military brat. My folks moved all over till they divorced. I went to school in D.C. where Mom moved and visited Dad at whatever base he was stationed. But I spent every summer here with my dad's brother and his wife."
"So that's you in the picture on the mantel?"
"Yep." He leveled a thoughtful look at her across the lazy Susan in the middle of the table for what seemed an interminable time before picking up the conversation. "After Uncle Dan died, his horses ran wild for two years. That sorrel that ran you off the road? I've been trying to round him up for nearly three months. He's an elusive son of a prairie biscuit."
"Is that how long you've been here?" Deanna nodded toward the boxes that prompted her observation.
"I guess I ought to finish unpacking one of these days," he admitted with a sheepish grin.
Deanna's toes curled under in the confines of her shoes.
"But enough about me. What kind of work brings you out to Big Sky from the Big Apple?"
She clenched her toes even tighter at the change in conversation. How much did she dare tell? "I managed an advertising campaign for a Great Falls company, and they offered me a position in their marketing department. I'm just out here checking it out before I do anything definite."
"What's the company's name?"
"Image International."
Shep scowled. "Never heard of it."
That was because it was in New York. Amtron Enterprises had lured her away to Great Falls—or rather, its suave CEO had after Deanna had put together a sweeping advertising campaign for his company. "That's because we promote our clients' services and products, not our own."
"Hmm." It was an innocuous sound, but it might as well have been a full interrogation as Shep contemplated her. Clearly his curiosity wasn't satisfied.
Deanna scraped the remains of her baked potato, avoiding his eyes. "So what are we going to do about my car?" The sooner she was away from Shep, the better. She didn't know exactly why, she just felt like a worm on a hot brick around him. Maybe it was the guilt his forthright manner made her feel. He harbored a fugitive, even though she was innocent. The irony that a shave and a bath had changed her perception of her rescuer from a serial killer to a knight in shining armor did not escape her.
"Actually, while you were in the shower, I radioed Charlie Long to pick your car up and take it to his garage for damage assessment. He's the mechanic I told you about earlier."
Deanna nodded. That was good, so why did she feel like someone was pulling the carpet out from under feet?
"The way the crushed fender had flattened your right front tire, I don't think you can drive it." Her reservation must have shown, for he added, "But if you want me to drive you into Buffalo Butte after supper, I'll do it. A trip to Great Falls is out of the question at this hour."
"Actually, I am a bit strapped for cash. So if you don't mind, I'll take you up on your offer of lodging tonight."
There it was again, that flicker of suspicion. Or was it concern?
"Is there anyone you need to get in touch with? Someone expecting you home maybe?"
"No, I..." Deanna thought quickly It was better that he not know she had a place in the city because he may insist on taking her there—the last place she wanted to be at the moment. "I was staying with business associates in the city. Tomorrow I can call when we check on the car... not that they're expecting me back until after the weekend. They knew I was checking out the area."
Or at least pretend to call them. The idea turned in her stomach. She was sinking in a mire of lies and couldn't seem to escape them.
It went against everything she'd been raised to be, but for now, she had no choice.
"Well, I can tell you repairing that fancy car of yours won't be a cheap fix, but Charlie will give us the best price."
"I've had a struggle making the insurance premiums to start with, fender bender or not."
So how do you happen to be driving a snazzy imported sports car if you're strapped for cash? Was that the question behind the curious appraisal fixed on her and he was too much of a gentleman to ask?
"But since I chased the red into your path, I feel kind of responsible, even if you were on my property."
"The car's not new, believe me. I was just in the right place at the right time." Okay, that much was true. "And the bank owns more of it than I do."
Another truth. Deanna had never been the kind to fall for any kind of scam, but when she did, she went all the way—losing her head and a good job, going into debt for a "new" pre-owned car because it looked hot, and ending up with a silver-tongued swindler.
Beginning to feel like she was on the receiving end of a twenty questions game, Deanna resisted the urge to squirm in her chair. After all, the guy deserved to know a little about the stranger he was taking into his home... just not everything. She gathered her napkin from her lap and made a show of dabbing at her lips, her attention wandering beyond Shep to the cabinet bulkhead. A small, embroidered plaque hung there, its background yellowed with age. The words, nonetheless, were clear: Father Knows Best. The stitched image of an open Bible implied which Father.
"But maybe we can work something out, since you can see I'm not exactly rolling in the green stuff either."
Thank You, Lord! Even though she didn't exactly deserve God's attention, given her lack of the same to Him, maybe He was listening after all. Regardless, she was grateful.
"Though I don't know how long a fellow can afford to feed you," Shep added with an impish glance at her plate.
"Well, since you feel that way," she rallied, buoyed to her feet both spiritually and physically. "I guess I'd better try to earn my supper and do the dishes."
"Deal. The soap's under the sink. I'll take out the scraps for the barn cat and check on Ticker... unless you need me for something else."
Deanna wanted to say, "No thanks, you've scrambled my thoughts enough as it is." Instead, she called out above the rattle of the dishes in the sink. "Go ahead. Just pretend I'm not here."
"I doubt I can do that."
Startled by his comment, she glanced over her shoulder to see him half in and half out of the screen door, staring at her in unabashed appreciation. Heat crept up from the open collar of her blouse as those brown eyes of his suspended her pulse and breath for an electric moment. Then, with a mischievous wink, she was released.
"Nope, it's not every day a man has someone to do his dishes."
***
Shep ducked out of the door, letting it slam behind him. The smile that had grazed his lips faded as he strode across the dirt yard down the narrow street toward the livery stable. He hardly paid any attention to the yellow tabby that fell in step with him, eager for the food scraps he'd gathered up in a napkin while clearing the table. He shook them out as he walked along, but his thoughts spun like a load in Aunt Sue's old washer, around the woman he'd left in his kitchen, kicking up enough ruckus to make his head hurt.
What was wrong with that picture besides the obvious— svelte silk and linen in a gingham setting? Salon-manicured nails in dishwater? Lost in the case of Deanna Manetti, Shep slowed as he approached the butcher shed.
Startling Shep from his introspection, Ticker emerged from the shed and bolted the door behind him. "Yep, I smell it too."
"What's that?"
"Trouble, with a big T. I was just comin' to check on you," his longtime friend and partner informed him.
"Not like that I hope," Shep snorted, as the man pulled off his apron and wadded part of it into his back pocket. "You already scared the daylights out of her." Twenty years Shep's senior, Ticker had helped Uncle Dan ever since Shep was a kid. Part Indian and part mule, his uncle used to say of his friend and employee.
Ticker grinned. "Reckon I did at that." He rubbed his ear.
"Wasn't sure I'd hear right again after she squealed like a stuck pig." He looked toward the house. "She stayin' over?"
"From the looks of her car, not much choice," Shep said. "I'll take her into town tomorrow. Maybe I can get her a bus ticket to Great Falls till her car's fixed."
"Excitable little filly, ain't she?"
"Seems so." Shep glanced back toward the house at the end of the street. Behind it, the mountains colored the skyline with a dark jagged edge, above which a few cloven clouds reflected the rising moon. He loved to study the sky's canvas, which was ever changing, ever beautiful, whether fierce or fair.
Tonight he hardly noticed. His mind's eye was fixed on an oval face with lake blue eyes deep enough to dive into—except when they looked at him from the safe side of a can of pepper spray. Then they were blue ice, frozen in a mixture of fear and fight like those of a cornered animal. He let out a deep breath, as if to rid himself of the spell they'd somehow cast upon him.
"So it's like that, is it?"
Shep cut a sharp eye at his friend. "Like what?"
Ticker spat to the side and grinned. "Last time I heard you sigh like that, you was lookin' at the red stallion. Now it's a horse of a different color."
Blue. Shep closed the gate on that stray thought right away. "Nonsense. Tomorrow, she's out of here, one way or another."
The last thing he needed in his relatively happy life on the range was a woman, especially one city born and bred. His ex-fiancee had soured him on the sophistication that had once intrigued him.
"A man can't stay out of the race forever, ya know. A horse is nice and a dog is fine, but there's somethin' about a female that makes a man complete... leastways, if she's a good 'un like my Mary Ann."
Ticker's wife had nursed Sue Jones through her long ordeal with a stroke. When Aunt Sue died, it was no surprise. But no one was prepared when Mary Ann Deerfield fell ill and succumbed to cancer a few months later.
"An' speakin' of critters, I gotta pick up Smoky from Doc Marine's place. Maybe that pup'll think twice the next time he comes across a porkypine."
"You going to take him with you on roundup?"
Ticker hired out every spring for roundup at the neighboring cattle ranch for extra money While they split the outfitting income, Shep couldn't afford to pay his friend for his ready hand with the ranching endeavor. Tick graciously called it an even trade for land rent, but Shep knew better. If he let it, the free helping hand would bother him, but a man had to crawl before he could walk.
Shep had to repair the place before he could hire men to round up decent stock to start training. With his bum knee cutting short his successful career with the U.S. Marshals and ending his engagement to the woman with whom he planned to spend his life, Shep figured he had the rest of his life to fulfill the only dream that had survived a perpetrator's bullet. Meanwhile, his disability paid for the essentials. And someday, he'd do a good deed in turn for Tick or someone else.
"...if you don't mind," Ticker answered, drawing Shep back from the past.
Shep processed the words he'd heard but not registered, catching up. Take care of 'im till I git back. "Sure thing. The dog spends as much time at my place as yours."
Smoky was part Border collie, part shepherd, and all overgrown pup. Unlike his mother, a fine cattle dog of mixed blood, Smoky was given to bouts of playfulness, forgetting his responsibilities in bringing stray steers or horses back in line when they tried to break from the herd.
"Reckon I'll feed 'im in the morning, 'fore I leave. He'll find you."
A shapely silhouette appeared in the front door of the house.
Ticker started with that ticking thing he did with his tongue. Sometimes it was funny; other times, it was downright annoying.
"If there's anything left of you in the mor
nin', that is." His friend launched into a leisurely walk down the main street toward his trailer.
"You're an ornery son of a prairie biscuit," Shep called after him. Ticker answered with a wave, not bothering to look back.
When Shep looked back at the door, Deanna had disappeared. Lord, I don't need Ms, he prayed as he started for the house. But then, she'd be gone tomorrow. He was just giving her his bed for the night, not sharing it. How could being a Good Samaritan for one night hurt anything?
Five
Smoky chased the trailer behind Tickers truck to the end of Hopewell's main street the following morning, yipping at his master as if to say, "Hey, you forgot something!" But when the truck didn't stop, the dog sat and watched the vehicle disappear. Shep knew how the animal felt. Ellen Sanderson had left him in the dust much the same way.
His fiancée refused to understand why Shep couldn't settle for a desk job in the D.C. office. She hadn't really known him at all. When she refused to even consider heading west with him to pursue his dream of horse ranching, he knew their love had been based on the false shine of the social life they'd shared. They took a great picture together—the diplomatic darling and her gussied-up escort—but the relationship had been no deeper than the paper the picture was printed on.
Shep bent down as Smoky trotted up to him for consolation. "Cheer up, partner." He scratched the shepherd mix behind the ears. "At least Ticker's coming back."
Big city and Big Sky just didn't mix. Much as Shep had enjoyed the excitement of being a U.S. Marshal, he'd never really been at home in the East.
"Tell you what, Smoke. You watch out for me and I'll watch out for you. How's that?"
The dog barked and wagged his tail. Whether it was because he agreed or was just glad for the attention was anyone's guess. Shep dodged a generous lick and straightened, looking at the house.
"What say we go see if our guest is stirring yet?"
Smoky fell in behind Shep's long stride with an uncannily timed yip. Either the dog actually understood the English language or he was the best con artist Shep had ever seen. The subject had been a source of debate between Tick and Shep on more than one occasion.
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