Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8) Page 6

  “There are only two in town, both competent. Probably hungry at this point, considering the economy.” Atticus glanced at his watch. “We need to get going. Gin’s off work now.”

  Sawyer nodded. They were meeting her at the ClaimJumper to celebrate the real estate closing.

  His lips tightened. Last time they’d been at the tavern, Att had gotten his ass jumped. Now he’d be going back to work—which would put him at risk.

  It was time to drive the Aryan Hammers out of Bear Flat.

  Sawyer smiled slightly. Should be interesting, if nothing else.

  Turning, Att slapped his shoulder. “Might be some pretty women at the tavern.”

  “Jesus, Att, you changing careers to matchmaking?” Sawyer shook his head. “Women run away from me.” Or he’d get the ones who wanted a danger fuck like pretty Mallory. Trying to get her out of his mind, he’d indulged in a few since, but… She’d stuck in his mind. Didn’t it just figure she’d be his neighbor? “At least the nice ones run.”

  Apparently hearing the edge in his voice, Atticus laid a hand on Sawyer’s shoulder. “You know how small towns work. You’ll be disreputable for a while, then the prison stint will turn into interesting past history. Takes time, though.”

  “Yeah.” Atticus was right. Eventually, his past would be of less interest than the present and future.

  Damned if he wouldn’t make himself a shining future.

  Chapter Five

  ‡

  On Friday evening, Mallory opened a second bottle of wine and crossed to her great room where Becca and Kallie lounged in front of the fire. It was her birthday, and her friends had shown up unexpectedly with wine and food to celebrate.

  As Mallory filled the glasses, Kallie picked hers up. Curled into a corner of the white slipcovered couch, the tiny brunette looked like a contented kitten. Aslan sprawled over the other half of the couch. One giant, fluffy, orange cat.

  Tossing her red hair out of her face, Becca drank some wine, resting her long legs on the coffee table. Her golden aura was a softly radiant glow around her. “So, Mallory, did you ever find yourself any hero material?” She glanced at Kallie. “She saw my kinky books and told me she was holding out for a hero.”

  “Ah.” Kallie grinned. “The guys who come for hiking and climbing are pretty buff. Want me to bring some over here? You live close enough, after all.”

  The thought of Kallie tromping across the bottomland followed by a herd of males was enough to make Mallory choke. “What a…lovely…offer. No. Just no.” After a second, she added a polite, “Thank you.”

  Becca had descended into giggles. “Such an expression. Like Kallie was offering to bring over a pack of…what were they called? Orcs.”

  Mallory gave Kallie a stern stare. “No Orcs. Bring me Aragorn—or Éomer—or nothing.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Kallie waved her wine glass in a salute. “Request is noted. So is the difficulty. Have you ever found any man even close to your specifications?”

  The memory of the man—the nameless man—swept through Mallory, followed by a wave of heat that went straight to her face.

  “Oh my God, you did.” Becca sat upright. “Who is he? Do we know him? Are you—”

  “No.” Mallory’s flat statement silenced the enthusiasm. “Actually, he was just some guy passing through.” She sure hadn’t seen him in town since. “It was a while back and”—she tipped her head to Becca—“as ordered, I indulged in a one-night stand.”

  “As ordered?” Kallie looked at Becca in dismay. “You thought Mallory should have casual sex?”

  Becca had an unhappy expression. “I didn’t think you really would.”

  Mallory frowned. “Other women do, and it’s not a big deal. It’s not like I’m a virgin, so why are you shocked?”

  Kallie shook her head. “You just—maybe it’s me—but everything you do has…well, significance, I guess. I can’t imagine you going for meaningless sex.”

  Because she didn’t, and it hadn’t been meaningless, at least for her. Though it had been for him.

  “Are you okay? Was he nice? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” Becca’s mouth tightened.

  Under their worried eyes, she shrugged. “It was fun and good sex, but no, not something I’ll do again. I found something else instead.” Her lips curved. “Remember the book you gave me, Becca? By the sun and stars, it was amazing. I have a whole shelf of kinky BDSM romances now.”

  Kallie’s mouth fell open, then she giggled. “You’re corrupting the natives, city girl.”

  “I’m doing my best.” Becca waggled her glass at Mallory. “Let me know when you want to do more than read about BDSM.”

  “Mmmhmm.” When would probably be never. Mallory leaned forward and refilled the glasses. “Drink and we can cut the cake.”

  Becca took a sip and—thankfully—found a new subject. “Did you get new furniture?” She patted the floral slipcovered chair.

  “No, I just slipcovered the couch and chairs. Although the upholstery was dingy, Gramma’s furniture is sturdy enough.” Mallory glanced around and grinned. “The last time Serena was here, she called this ‘shabby chic’—which sounds rather insulting but at least implies I planned the décor this way.”

  “I love the way your house looks,” Becca said. “French cottage décor, I’d say. The feel is so light and airy.”

  Mallory’s smile faded. After Gramps died, she’d binged on remodeling, more to fill the empty silence than due to any artistic desire. She’d removed most of the downstairs walls…and had compulsively continued. “The decorating just kind of happened. When I added the sunroom and put in bigger living room windows, the increased light made the old brown couch look ugly. So I covered it in white linen. Then the brown plaid chairs looked wrong. So they went a pastel floral.”

  She looked at the overflowing foliage in the windows and corners ruefully. “The plants aren’t my fault. Honestly. They just migrate in. I’m not sure how.”

  Kallie grinned. “Because every time you discover a new plant, you can’t resist propagating it and end up with a dozen.” She nodded at the line of African violets in one windowsill. “Like those.”

  “True. I expect you and Becca to take a couple with you, by the way.”

  “Always.” Becca grinned. “Logan finally stopped glowering at the plants I put in the lodge. He’s actually admitted the main room seems friendlier and the guests more comfortable.”

  Quite a concession for such a scary man. Just as friendly plants could turn the lodge into a cozier place, Becca’s love had transformed the owner into being…somewhat…less intimidating. Nice, nice work.

  “Time for cake, birthday girl.” Setting her glass down, Kallie leaned forward and started pushing green candles into the white-frosted birthday cake—more and more candles.

  Mallory rolled her eyes. “That’s not a cake; it’s a forest.”

  Becca snorted. “I know the feeling.”

  “Have you noticed how the mountain under the ‘forest’ had a landslide?” Kallie indicated the way the cake slumped to one side. “Morgan slammed the door so hard this morning it’s a wonder only the cake fell.”

  Mallory frowned. “Slamming doors sounds more like Wyatt than Morgan.” Morgan was a year younger and quieter than Wyatt.

  “Not anymore. Morgan’s mood has gone steadily downhill ever since Wyatt headed off to Ethiopia.”

  “I bet Morgan’s still in shock.” And lonely. The brothers were a year apart in age and, aside from when they led wilderness tours into the backcountry, they were rarely apart.

  “He is, and also majorly grumpy.” Kallie swiped up a stray piece of frosting and stuck it in her mouth before smiling at Mallory. “You’d better stay out of his reach. He blames you for encouraging Wyatt to join a volunteer corps.”

  “Wait a minute. I didn’t encourage him. I told him he should talk with a counselor.”

  “Really? I thought—”

  “Really. When he insisted on leaving, I checke
d around since I still have a contact from when I served in the Peace Corps. She recommended an organization able to process his application quickly and willing to accept a mere six months of his time. Otherwise, he’d be gone two years like I was.”

  “Oh, wow. I’ll tell Morgan.” Kallie shook her head. “I feel terrible for Wyatt…and it still pisses me off how he walked away in the middle of our busiest season. I want to hug him and wallop him, and I know Morgan feels the same.”

  Becca shook her head. “Poor Morgan…and poor Wyatt.”

  Poor Wyatt, indeed. Mallory’s heart went out to him. During the jailbreak in June, the escaping convicts had headed into the mountains with two hostages. One of the social workers was Atticus’s girlfriend, and since Wyatt and Morgan knew the backcountry like no one else, they’d gone with him. During the bloody rescue, Wyatt had killed one of the convicts.

  Afterward, Wyatt had been…different. He’d come over to her place often to sit in her meditation garden room. Looking for peace. The death had traumatized the big wilderness guide. She’d understood his need to make amends with the universe, although the tough guy would never admit to such a thing.

  During her morning meditations these days, she included prayers he would find the peace he was searching for.

  “There. Thirty candles.” Kallie lit the candles, and Becca joined her in singing the obligatory birthday song.

  Even as Mallory leaned forward to blow out the forest fire, her heart glowed with happiness. No birthday present could match the gift of friendship.

  “Hey, make a wish first,” Becca said.

  “Right.” A wish. What did she need?

  I want Gramps back. Regrettably, such a wish wasn’t one she could make.

  So, what else? On the whole, she had a good life. She loved her work, loved her town, and loved her friends and her mountain home. Okay, maybe she was lonely now and then—and a bit envious of her friends who’d found men. And maybe she wanted a baby, one as adorable as Becca’s Ansel.

  Well, she had a wish, didn’t she? Feeling like a traitor to feminists everywhere, she sent her desire wafting into the ether. I want a protective, strong, confident husband, one who thinks I’m wonderful, and I want his children, too. I want a family to fill this house with laughter and love.

  As the longing grew strong enough to make her chest ache, she blew out the candles. Every single one.

  Chapter Six

  ‡

  The next day, with a sack of cat food on her hip, Mallory walked through the feed store, breathing in the scent of leather from the corner filled with tack, and the dry fragrance of hay and grain from the back room.

  Having no self-control whatsoever, she detoured to the room’s center, where a clear enclosure held several kittens. Free to a good home was posted on the outside.

  There were three yellow kittens along with two black-and-whites. All fluffy with tiny tails straight up in the air. At the surge of kitten craving, Mallory shook her head. Honestly, she knew better than to have come over to see them.

  Aslan would have a fit if she took one home.

  “Kitties!” Seven-year-old Heath Simmons ran up and pressed his nose against the glass. Kids always wanted to play with the puppies and kittens…which was why the glass enclosure had been elevated so high.

  Mallory smiled at the boy. Brown tangled hair, freckles, and a snub nose. He was too cute for words. The purple hue of his aura said he’d be good with animals. “Want to hold one?”

  The child’s vigorous nod said it all.

  Setting down the bag she carried, Mallory reached in and scooped up a yellow-striped ball of fluff. “Sit down.”

  Heath dropped and crossed his legs.

  Mallory squatted and placed the kitten in his lap.

  The kitten set its paws on the boy’s stomach and looked up. Mew, mew, mew.

  “He likes me.” Giggling, Heath carefully stroked the tiny feline.

  Approaching, Roger Simmons spotted his son and groaned. “Oh, hell no.” The big gas station owner was a ruddy-faced man with a loud voice—and a tender heart for his children.

  Heath looked up. “Da-a-a-ad, please?”

  When Mallory laughed, Roger gave her a harassed look. “Mal, his mama would murder me.”

  “He looks pretty responsible.”

  “He is, actually.” With a sigh, Roger set the kitten back in the enclosure and helped his son stand.

  The look on Heath’s face was heartbreaking.

  His father harrumphed—and caved. “All right, boy, you can have a kitten if you take responsibility for feeding and cleaning up.”

  The yell of happiness made everyone in the store laugh.

  Shaking his head, Roger grinned. “Come on, son. Guess we better get some kitten chow.”

  “And a dish. And toys.” Heath gave Mallory a strangling hug and kiss on her cheek. “Thanks, Mallory.”

  Smiling, she watched the boy trot after his father. Children were so amazing. Her favorite times in the Peace Corps had been when helping the children.

  As she bent to pick up her cat food, her ass thumped into someone passing by. “Sorry.” Straightening too quickly, she lost her balance.

  Hard hands closed on her waist to steady her. “Easy there.”

  That dark, smooth voice. She spun.

  Tall and muscular. Cowboy hat and boots. And eyes the color of desert bluebells.

  Those eyes had appeared in her dreams. “It’s you!”

  Happiness filled her, bouncing around like bubbles in her bloodstream. Moving closer to the compelling warmth of his aura, she closed her hands over his forearms, remembering the powerful feel of his muscles under her fingers.

  And, hiss and spit, she was overreacting. What was she thinking? She hastily let go of his arms.

  “You okay?” He wasn’t smiling.

  Her own smile faded. She nodded.

  He released her and stepped back. “Good.” His voice held no warmth, and his aura had darkened to a muddy red. His eyes weren’t cold, simply indifferent, as if he were a complete stranger and not someone who’d kissed her…everywhere. Who’d been inside her.

  From his shuttered gaze, she could tell he recognized her—and didn’t want anything more to do with her.

  The excitement and wonder at seeing him shriveled away, leaving a heavy hollow of pain behind. However, she couldn’t object. If this was how he wanted things to be between them, she had no place to say different. He was still amazing.

  Certainly, she was fantastic in her own way, yet her experiences with other men had taught her she was too quiet and not stupendous enough for a man like him.

  Embarrassment was something she rarely felt. What other people thought of her wasn’t as important as what she thought of herself. Nevertheless, right now, yes, she could feel heat rising in her cheeks. She took another step back, pulled on Gramma’s social manners, and inclined her head the proper degree. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  “No problem.”

  “Sawyer, let’s go,” someone called from the front.

  “Coming,” he yelled back. He glanced at her, touched his hat brim, and then her one-night stand walked away.

  Well. She let out a breath, feeling as flattened as road-kill. At least she knew the first name of the man who had fucked her stupid. And stupid she’d been.

  They sure hadn’t made love, no matter what her feelings had told her.

  Chapter Seven

  ‡

  With the September sun scorching his shoulders, Sawyer leaned against the wall of his run-down log cabin as the general contractor jotted down numbers on a clipboard.

  Dressed in jeans and a work shirt, Larry Burns was tall, lean, and hollow-cheeked, with silvering hair. His construction company had built mostly new homes until the Bear Flat market had gone belly-up.

  Sawyer hoped the contractor was eager for a new job.

  The hum of a vehicle caught Sawyer’s attention. In the dry air, dust rose from a pickup coming down the lan
e.

  As the vehicle pulled into the drive, Sawyer glanced at his watch and frowned. If this was the second contractor, he was early by a good hour.

  But the black-haired guy who jumped out of the cab and headed for Burns wasn’t any contractor. Sawyer stiffened. The man had worked as a correctional officer in the prison—and was a complete asshole.

  “Hey, boss. Got a situation at the house on Jackass Way. The fittings—” He glanced at Sawyer and halted abruptly. “Ware.”

  “Romero.”

  “I’m sorry for the interruption, Mr. Ware,” the contractor said, moving toward the pickup. “Just give me a minute to settle what he needs.”

  As Burns and his man walked to the pickup, Romero’s voice was all too audible. “…was one of the prisoners. Got out early. Yeah, a convict.”

  Sawyer’s gut tightened. Yeah, he deserved all the fucking grief he got—after all, his best friend was dead because of his screw-up. Yet the derogatory labels used by the locals—convict, felon, crook, prisoner—scraped like sandpaper over open wounds.

  After a few minutes, Romero jumped into the pickup and drove away.

  Burns returned to Sawyer, the casual friendliness now replaced by stiff formality. “Sorry about the interruption. I didn’t realize my cell’s battery was dead. The crew needed answers before they could act.”

  “Not a problem.” Sawyer glanced at the clipboard. “When will you have an estimate ready?”

  “Shouldn’t take more than a day or two.” The man’s mouth tightened. “I have to admit I’m backlogged right now. The crew wouldn’t be able to start on the job for a couple of months.”

  “Months?” When they’d set up the appointment, Burns had sounded as if his current job would finish within two weeks. Sawyer gave him a hard look.