Shame the Devil (Portland Devils Book 3)

by Rosalind James

  The guy who’d shouted at Owen now yelled something at the kid, and everybody started heading back to their machines, starting them up again with a roar. Which was good, and Harlan saw Owen’s shoulders relaxing with relief

  That was when the bull put his head down and charged. He feinted at one of the machines, then headed for another, twisting and turning like he was coming out of a rodeo chute, and the group shouted and scattered and ran.

  The bull kept on. He was headed straight toward the kid who’d been posing, who was scrambling onto his seat, helmet-less, trying frantically to start his machine with clumsy mittened hands.

  Harlan forgot that he didn’t know how to ski. He didn’t look to see where Owen was or what he was doing. He skied straight at the bull, waving his arms and shouting, and he could hear Owen shouting, too. The bull jumped to one side, then shook his head, lowered it, turned in a circle, and aimed his big body at the kid’s snowmobile again. The kid got the engine running at last, and the snowmobile leaped forward as fast as the kid could floor it.

  Right at the woman with the freckles.

  Harlan didn’t think. He dove like he was going for the end zone, caught her on the chest, and knocked her out of the way just as the snowmobile shot by, an inch from his skis. His last image was of the boy’s head turning towards him. His eyes were stretched wide, his mouth open, saying something. Saying, probably, “Sorry.”

  Harlan didn’t know where the bison was, so he stayed where he was, on top of the woman. She wasn’t saying anything at all. He’d knocked the wind out of her, maybe, but he couldn’t worry about that.

  Owen’s voice, then, shouting, “Get out of there!”

  Harlan rolled off the woman, or he tried to. He’d forgotten he was on skis, though, and it took him an awkward few seconds to get over them and onto his feet, and to put a hand down for her.

  Her fluffy pink hat had come off in the collision, and her hair was red, curly, and wild against the snow. Her eyes were enormous and gold as coins, which startled him, and her nose and cheeks were covered in freckles that stood out against her white face as she stared up at him. He said, “Give me your hand.” The bison was standing a little ways off, still shaking its massive head. “We have to get out of here,” he told the redhead. “He doesn’t look happy.”

  “I’m not that … good a skier. I don’t know how to … get up yet. I haven’t learned, uh … that part.” She took her own look around, saw the other skier, and called out, “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” the other girl said. “I’m not the one on the ground. Come on. We need to hurry.”

  “I’m trying,” the redhead said. “I … told you we should snowshoe.” She was trying to push herself up, but since she didn’t have her weight over her skis, she wasn’t making much progress and kept falling back.

  Owen said to the other girl, “Come on. We need to put some distance between us and that bull, get him less upset.”

  It wasn’t easy to get somebody upright when you were on slippery skis yourself, but by planting himself behind the woman and sideways to her, Harlan found he could crouch down, get both arms around her, and haul her to her feet. The second he did, she said, “I’m good now. Thanks. Let’s go,” and headed toward the others. Not very fast, but clearly as fast as she could go. She may have been limping some, if limping was something you could do on skis.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She waved an arm. Since it had a ski pole attached, she waved extra, and nearly fell over again. He grabbed her arm and said, “Steady.”

  “Oh,” she said, “I’m fine, thanks. Just fine. What a wonderful vacation. I am going to kill Blake. I’ve been here about five hours, and I’ve already almost died twice. This was supposed to be relaxing.”

  “You have not almost died twice,” the other woman said, because they’d caught up to the others now, thankfully leaving the bison behind. This girl was younger and extremely pretty, with short, pale-blonde hair that looked natural, a double ring through the outer part of her right eyebrow, and about the most lively little heart-shaped face Harlan had ever seen. “You’ve been spared twice,” she told the redhead. “And there’s more to life than relaxing. Wow. That was such an adrenaline rush. I’m shaking. Are you shaking?” she asked Owen, who was skiing beside her.

  “Yeah,” he said. “But in a good way.”

  “I know,” she said with clear delight. “Right?”

  “Do not say it,” the redhead said. “Do not quote the Tao at me. I’m not in the mood.”

  “Life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes,” the elf-girl said, and the redhead groaned.

  “Don't resist them,” Owen put in. “That only creates sorrow. Let reality be reality. Let things flow naturally forward in whatever way they like.”

  The elf-girl turned her whole body to him and said, “You study the Tao?”

  “It’s that or read my horoscope,” Owen said, and she laughed.

  “Right,” the redhead said. “Well, apparently I’m failing at flowing, because to me, that just felt like almost getting mowed down by a ten-year-old on a snowmobile. What a stupid way to die. I need a glass of wine. Or two. Probably two.”

  “I think you’ve earned a glass of wine,” Harlan said. They were almost back at the lodge now, and he was feeling a whole lot better about his weekend. She was wearing stretchy black ski pants and filling them out just fine, he liked those freckles and that hair, she had a great mouth, wide and full and just as curvy as the rest of her, with a deep crease in the center of the upper lip and the kind of bow you wanted to keep on kissing. That mouth promised everything, and let’s just say she was a pleasure to lie on top of.

  While rescuing her. Besides, he’d got right off again.

  Owen wasn’t saying anything, for some reason, so Harlan ran with the ball. “If you’re staying here at the lodge and you don’t have other plans,” he told the redhead, “we could buy you that glass of wine. Adrenaline rushes can leave you a little shaky. Good to talk it out. Also, I think you may be hurting some. Advil works, but wine tastes a whole lot better. Or, hell, let’s go all out. Hot buttered rum.”

  “Oh,” the redhead said. Blankly, like she was completely taken aback by that. By a guy asking her out for a drink. Along with a friend. At a lodge where they were all staying.

  Which meant she had a boyfriend. A husband. Somebody. That was another bad thing about cold weather: gloves. You couldn’t check for the ring.

  She’d said “Blake,” he remembered belatedly. Well, yeah. That would be it. That would be the guy.

  The elf-girl said, though, “We’d love to. That sounds fun, doesn’t it, Jennifer?”

  The redhead, for some reason, looked even more flustered at that, opening her mouth, then closing it again. She didn’t say anything, though, and after a second, Harlan said, “I’m guessing here. Hang on, because I’m about to use my intuition. You’re taking a break from the relationship. You’ve broken from the relationship. You’re still in the relationship, but your girlfriend’s trying to talk you out of it, because the guy’s a jerk. I’m guessing one of those is it, because you don’t seem used to being asked, and I can’t think of any other possible reason for that.”

  She was still limping some, but she was hanging in there. “Maybe I am used to being asked,” she said. “Maybe I get asked all the time. Maybe I just don’t like you, did you think of that?”

  He laughed out loud. “Nah. Plus, I saved your life.”

  “I thought we were just experiencing a natural and spontaneous change,” she said. “Flowing naturally forward.”

  “Hey,” he said, “I’m not the one who said that. I’m going with saving your life.”

  7

  Practice

  Jennifer let the door to the lodge room bang shut behind her, and Dyma said, “Mom. Breathe.”

  “I am breathing,” Jennifer said, unzipping her coat and unwinding her scarf. What did she have to wear that would look both like
she was expecting nothing, and like she was … well, possibly expecting something, without being too obvious about it?

  Not that she wanted something. Anything. And why had he asked her, anyway?

  “It’s a drink,” Dyma said. “Not an invitation to a menage a trois. Unlike your first Yellowstone boyfriend, back in the ski shop, and you weren’t nearly as thrown by that. You thought it was funny, even though it was actually gross.”

  “I know it’s a drink,” Jennifer said. “Which he invited us to have because we went through a harrowing experience together, and besides, there isn’t much to do here in the evening. And you’re not having anything alcoholic. Don’t even think about it.”

  Dyma sighed and took off her boots, then started stripping down. “Like they wouldn’t card me. And like that guy wasn’t into you. Mom. He was totally into you. Also hot. Not as hot as his friend, but still.”

  “He said about three sentences to me. And what’s with the ‘Jennifer’? Don’t think I didn’t notice that. I am not pretending to be your girlfriend. And that guy is way too old for you.”

  “He doesn’t look old to me,” Dyma said. “He looks amazing, and he knows the Tao. What’s not to like? Haven’t you ever wondered about being with somebody that big?”

  Jennifer stared at her. “Excuse me?”

  Dyma sighed. “No, I haven’t had sex and failed to inform you. Still holding out for that special guy, exactly the way you’ve always suggested. Well, mainly because most guys my age are clueless. But I at least read. And, all right, how about just kissing somebody that big? Is that an acceptable wonder? Or should I be imagining how big his hand would feel around my tiny, dainty one, and leaving it at that?” She sniffed at her underarms. “I’m taking a shower.”

  “We said twenty minutes,” Jennifer called after her as Dyma headed into the bathroom.

  Her daughter popped out again. Sticking-up-hair, pretty, petite little body, and all. Jennifer wished she weren’t so cute. How were you not supposed to worry about your adorable daughter with all her reckless self-confidence, off at college, all alone?

  “Mom,” she said, “they’ll wait. I can’t believe I have to explain this to you. And put that shirt away. You’re wearing the cream-colored sweater, and jeans, and your cute boots, and not much makeup, because you don’t need it for confidence. You’re pretty and fun, but appropriately casual. That’s your mindset. Too bad Blake’s paying for all this, because we could totally get those guys to buy us dinner. Except that it’s kind of manipulative, which would be wrong.” She sighed. “Too bad, because if they’re staying here, they have major bucks. I looked up the prices, and—whoa.”

  The bucks didn’t have to be that major, not in relative terms. Jennifer knew that now. That was what working for a truly rich person could show you, although rich people, she’d learned, hated the word “rich.” They preferred the word “wealthy,” or better yet, “comfortable,” which still made her laugh. Yeah, she guessed they were comfortable, with their down-stuffed couch cushions and their heated driveways, so their boots wouldn’t have to touch snow. Three hundred dollars a night, though? That didn’t even make an impression on people like Blake.

  “It’s still just as manipulative,” she told Dyma, “even if they can afford it. And that sweater’s too tight to wear without something over it. It’s a base layer. I’ll look obvious.”

  Dyma banged her head against the door. “Mom. That’s the point.”

  It was probably just hitting her head, Jennifer told herself as she laid out her clothes, then took Dyma’s place in the shower, and finally did her best with lotion, mascara wand, and lip gloss. Her head did hurt, because she’d banged it on the snow when the guy had tackled her. Her butt hurt, too. She had a bruise on the back of her shoulder the size of a silver dollar, and one on her butt—She twisted around to check it in the mirror.

  Whoa. It was huge. No wonder it hurt.

  That wasn’t what was worrying her, though. Redheads bruised. Fact of life, and she did have Advil for that. It was his eyes.

  When he’d been lying over her, and then when he’d stood up with the kind of athleticism she’d only ever seen in … well, athletes, and had put his hand down to her, she’d had the same dizzying sensation as when the wolf had stared at her. Like the world had stopped. Like she couldn’t catch her breath.

  His eyes were blue. Bright blue. And something had happened.

  What had happened, she thought as she forced her way into her jeans and tried not to hurry—why did jeans have to become so extra-hard to get on when your skin was a tiny bit wet, making you feel like you were stuffing a bulging sausage into a too-tight casing? —What had happened was that she’d seen a tall, built, extremely handsome guy up close, had just broken up with her boyfriend (also tall, built, and handsome, though not nearly as much of any of those things, and look how that had turned out), had gotten the wind knocked out of her in every possible way, and had somehow instantly taken a ride into fantasyland.

  Fantasyland was fine, though. She was on vacation. She’d go have that drink, set everybody straight on Dyma, get every bit of enjoyment she could out of looking into those eyes, possibly practice flirting, since she was apparently terrible at it, and give herself motivation to work out and eat fewer brownies over the next few months. She wouldn’t do anything else, even it was being offered. Of course not. She was modeling responsible adult behavior for her daughter.

  If she wanted to have a fling with a handsome guy once Dyma was off at school, though? When she was someplace other than Wild Horse, she never had to see the guy again, her eyes were wide open, and she was the one setting the terms? She could do that, if she wanted to.

  Whoa, reckless thought. It felt more than reckless. It felt impossible.

  Why should it, though? She was thirty-four. She’d been careful for, let’s see, nearly nineteen years now. For more than half her life, and face it, she was probably never going to look any better than she looked right now. If she wanted to be reckless, ever? This was her time.

  And tonight was her chance to practice.

  You look fat in clothes, and you don’t know how to make a man feel good.

  Even if it was true, so what? You could always get better with practice. People could add muscle when they were over ninety. She’d read it in a book. If a ninety-year-old lady could get biceps, she could learn something new at thirty-four. Just because it felt impossible didn’t mean it was impossible. Feelings weren’t facts, and your insecurities didn’t have to be your truth. And so forth.

  Meanwhile, she wasn’t looking for a fling, and she wasn’t looking for a savior. She wasn’t even looking for a meal ticket. She was looking for practice.

  She zipped up her cute boots.

  Owen told Harlan, “You realize you’re about to get your butt kicked again.”

  They were sitting at a table next to the windows in the lodge’s too-rustic-to-believe bar. The metal lampshades had Christmas-tree designs cut into them, the rafters were tree trunks, and you could’ve roasted a steer in the stone fireplace. Harlan said, “Nope. I’m about to have a drink. A hot buttered rum, I guess, unless she drinks Tennessee whiskey. How come your dream girl never drinks Tennessee whiskey?”

  “Because she thinks it has too many calories,” Owen said, “and that she’ll get drunk too fast. And she’s not into you, man. You’re going to pass up all those women who are into you and try for the one who isn’t? There’s a word for that. Masochism.” He looked at his watch. “It’s been half an hour. They’re probably not going to show. Too bad. I liked that little blonde. She puts her whole self into that laugh.”

  “You forget,” Harlan said. “I’m not Thor anymore. Maybe nobody’s into me now, did you think of that?”

  Owen said, “Yeah, that’s probably it, that you got ugly.”

  Harlan laughed. He couldn’t explain this feeling. Like champagne fizzing in your veins. Like you’d run your pattern perfectly, and now you were turning, seeing the ball spiral
ing down toward you, and it was going to hit you right in the numbers. Right in the hands, and the goal line was right there. All you had to do was catch the ball, and the touchdown was yours.

  He knew the women had come into the bar from Owen’s face. It didn’t get animated. It got still. He turned around himself, then got to his feet.

  Well, damn. He’d been right.

  The redhead, who wasn’t too much taller than the little blonde, was wearing a thin, ribbed turtleneck that fit her just as well as the ski pants had, a pair of snug, dark, boot-cut jeans, and Western boots to go with them, and she swayed when she walked, like she had too many curves to walk a straight line. She was just plain curvy-soft all over. Her hair was a mass of coppery-gold ringlets, her face was full of freckles, her nose was a snub kind of thing, and that mouth looked just as good as it had before. Except that she wasn’t smiling.

  “Hi,” he told her, then indicated the chair he’d been using. “Sit here, and you’ll be able to see out. Snowing pretty hard out there.”

  “I’m not sure I want to see that,” she said, but she did sit down. “I’m thinking a tropical beach vacation sounds a whole lot better at this point.”

  “I know, right?” he said. “Australia. Great Barrier Reef. That’s a vacation. What are we doing in the snow?”

  The blonde sat down beside her, facing the window, next to Owen. She was cute. Adorable, in fact, a little like a kitten, with her pointed chin, big blue eyes, and dimples in her cheeks. Her haircut was short and undercut to a buzz at the bottom, leaving the top to fall casually around that little face, and she was seriously pierced. Three silver piercings in the lobe of one ear, a star and a moon and a lightning bolt at the bottom, and another lightning bolt on the other side, plus a thick silver cuff encircling the outer area of her ear. She had that double ring in her eyebrow, too. All the hardware made the rest of her look even cuter, somehow, like she was playing dress-up.