Montana Darling (Big Sky Mavericks Book 3) (4 page)

Nerves and discord he’d thought were behind him took hold. The world he’d been hiding from found him. Damn.

He turned away from her penetrating look and poured his coffee into the whimsical mug he’d bought at a yard sale for fifty cents. Be Happy, it said.

Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen. Peace was an illusion. A dream. And his wake-up call was standing a few feet away tapping her toe impatiently.

“Cheers,” he muttered.

‡

T
he look on
this surprisingly attractive stranger’s face when she told him she had a deed to the land he was squatting on would have made a bigger woman pull the poor guy into a hug and tell him everything was going to be okay. But that would have been a lie, and Mia was truthful—sometimes to her deep regret. Like when she told Edward exactly what was wrong with their marriage. The truth drove him straight into the sympathetic arms of his starry-eyed barista. It was almost enough to make a person drink tea.

Almost.

Ed’s new wife, Bree, was about the same age as the scruffy camper guy who, instead of defending himself, turned around to pour coffee from his French press into his stupid cup.

The aroma made her mouth water and her empty stomach gurgle.

How come my coffee never smells this good? Her coffeemaker had a built-in grinder and water purifier, and it cost three hundred bucks. He made his with beans he’d ground without electricity and run through the simplest contraption she’d ever seen.

She wished like heck that didn’t impress her. Why did it? Because the simplicity reinforced her sense of disconnect? Lately, she’d noticed just how out of touch she’d become from everything important—her family, her kids, the simple act of living in the moment. As if she ever had.

Even at age ten, Mia had been self-motivated, highly competitive and intensely focused. Her brother hadn’t given her the call sign Nitro when he was naming the Big Sky Mavericks because she sat around communing with nature. What kind of grown man did that?

A loser.

Said loser straightened his broad, rather muscular shoulders and inhaled deeply, which brought her attention to his nicely formed chest and narrow waistline. He closed his eyes and let out a long, heartfelt sigh, before taking a sip from his ridiculous mug.

She was standing close enough to see the lush imprint of black lashes against his tanned cheekbones. Yes, his face was too hairy. She didn’t like beards or bearded men. She’d always assumed the facial hair hid some kind of flaw—bad skin, a weak chin, or jowls.

None of those defects appeared to be Ryker Bensen’s reason for sporting a beard, but she used his scruffy appearance as proof of his unsavoriness. “How long have you been camping on my land?”

The sharpness of her tone could have come straight out her daughter’s mouth. Lately, nothing Mia did was right as far as Emilee was concerned.

He opened his eyes and stared straight into hers, unblinking, despite the bright Montana morning sunlight. A shiver she couldn’t explain started under her breastbone and radiated inward and down, swirling with lush, crazy warmth that pooled somewhere it had no business settling. The sensation was so real, so unexpected, she took a step back, heart racing.

Goddamn hormones. She blamed all her emotional highs and lows on the stupid little buggers bouncing around her body like Tasmanian devils, stirred into a frenzy by the poisons she’d received and the operations that took away her natural hormones. She and her doctor were still trying to discern the right supplemental cocktail to make her fairly normal.

But, at least, the worst of the treatment was behind her. Now, all she had to do was concentrate on regaining her energy and strength so she could pick up the pieces of her life.

What she hoped would be a long and cancer-free life.

He took another drink of coffee. “A couple of months I suppose. Time sorta blurs when you’re camping.”

The word made her look around. Camping sounded so innocuous. Living off the land in the high country. Hiking, backpacking. Healthy, ambitious pastimes. As a kid, she’d been all over the Absarokas with her parents and siblings. But had she and Edward ever taken their children into nature? No, of course not. Ed was a five-star hotel traveler, and Mia had to admit she’d grown to love her creature comforts. When you worked sixty-hour weeks, you deserved a little pampering, right?

“Two months definitely constitutes squatting.”

His eyes narrowed. The first sign he might have a little fight in him. “Is that a legal definition?”

She had no idea. Why hadn’t she researched the legal aspect of this? The old, legal eagle Mia Zabrinski would have had briefs prepared before she stepped foot on the lot. She felt a blush creep into her cheeks.

“You don’t know, do you?” He took a big manly gulp then tossed the dregs into the willows. “You ambushed me without warning when you don’t have any idea whether you’re right or not.” He took a step toward her. Not aggressively, but Mia assumed a kick boxing stance, ready to stand her ground.

“I know this is my land. My husband—”

“So you said. But, my father, Martin Bensen, bought this land in the early 1980s. He and my brother and I camped here every July for ten years. We fished the river and floated on inner tubes he’d buy from that old garage in town. We’d skinny dip on moonlit nights—Dad at our sides. Before he died, he put the property in a trust. My brother and I are the only ones who could sell this land, and I guarantee you neither of us would do that.”

Mia had two brothers. Paul was as kind and honest as a Montana summer day was long. Austen on the other hand was the most competitive, unsentimental person Mia knew. If something came up that could benefit them both, she could see him selling the land without consulting her. “It’s dirt,” he would have said. Well…the old Austen, at least. Since meeting and falling in love with Serena James, Austen had mellowed. He’d also become more connected to the ranch he’d bought solely for its tax benefits.

“I suggest you call your brother and ask him.”

“Believe me, I will. Only he’s fighting a forest fire in California at the moment. He works for the National Park Service. I’ll leave a message, but I may not hear back for days.”

She could have argued. The old Mia would have called Austen to ask for the names of a couple of off-duty cops to help motivate the guy into moving. But the fact was she couldn’t be sure she owned the land until she located the boxes of important papers her parents had so generously packed and moved into their garage. Mia had been throwing up at the time, so damn sick she wouldn’t have known or given a damn if they’d tossed everything in the local dump.

She couldn’t get her ducks in a row until she found them.

“I’ll be back,” she snapped, preparing to pivot and march back to her car.

“Wait.”

The command held a strange power. Mia Zabrinski didn’t take orders, she gave them. She clamped her hands to her hips prepared to tell him so, when he suddenly disappeared into his tent—a surprisingly high-end tent, she realized once she stopped and looked at it. The realization made her look around with a more discerning eye.

No car, but a Surly bike. She recognized the brand from her ex’s I-want-to-be-a-marathoner stage. The titanium lock proved the guy wasn’t a moron. Nobody left a bike worth an easy two grand unlocked—even in Marietta.

He emerged a second later, camera in hand. “I want to remember you.”

The words struck her as odd and a tiny bit threatening. “Why? Are you suffering from short-term memory loss?”

“No. But I’ve been taking pictures so long I’ve come to rely on it…like a crutch. My girlfriend called it photo-sensitive memory.”

Mia looked around for any sign of a woman. “Where’s she now?”

“Dead. A traffic accident. A distracted driver.” His tone was flat. Resigned. The look in his eyes one she’d seen in the mirror all too often over the past couple of years. A sort of how-did-this-happen-to-me look.

Mia was sorry she asked. She didn’t want to feel anything for this guy. She didn’t want to know him or care even one small whit. She didn’t have the capacity to empathize. Getting her life back on track and reconnecting with her kids was all she could handle right now.

He put the older, high-end SRL to his left eye and clicked three or four shots before she could even formulate a reply. She held out one hand. “Stop. I don’t want my picture taken. Not when I look like this,” she added without meaning for the words to slip out.

He lowered the camera and tilted his head. His medium brown mop of curls tumbled in a sexy, just-out-of-bed way. “What’s wrong with this?” He looked her over from toe to head in a slow, lingering, man-woman way that made a tingle chase down her spine. “You look like a woman who just came from the gym. A little thin, but healthy and fit.”

“Healthy,” she muttered. Her last scan had come back cancer free. She’d done everything in her power to eradicate those nasty aberrant cells from her body. The process had been extreme. She’d encountered surprising resistance to her choices, but she’d done what she believed best for the long-term. And she needed to keep her eye on that goal.

A goal that included relocating to her hometown and building a house.

Here. On my land
.

But instead of standing her ground, she said, “There’s no gym in Marietta. Just a martial arts place. I’m not into karate, but I’m thinking of enrolling my son.”

“You have a child?”

“Two. Why?”

He walked toward her but stopped within arm’s length. Close enough for her to see his beautiful clear greenish-brown eyes and sun-kissed skin tone. He radiated vitality—the kind she feared she’d never possess again. “Just curious. What did you plan to do with this land?”

His tone bothered her. She wouldn’t call him smug, but he obviously felt he had the upper hand. Blind trust was a fool’s game. He’d understand that soon enough. She almost felt sorry for him.

“I’m going to build a home. It might be too late to get one framed and enclosed before winter—especially if you’re going to contest the validity of my deed. But maybe it’s for the best. I’ll take the winter to work on the design. Calculate the best angle for solar. Pick a floor plan to make the most of the views.”

He turned his head to look where she was pointing. In profile, his scraggly beard didn’t look so bad. It couldn’t distract from his square chin and strong, solid jaw. His nose was straight and quite near perfect. Even sticking out at all angles, his hair was the kind of mess Mia envied. She’d had great hair at one time—thick and straight. Nearly down to her waist.

“My brother and I are going to subdivide the ten acres into two lots. When I was ten, we arm-wrestled over which of us would get this section. Flynn’s two years older than me, but I won.” He glanced back at her. “Even then I knew this land was mine.”

His conviction sent a shiver straight down her back. She’d always respected conviction, but the lawyer in her knew better than to show any kind of weakness. She had to look after her client’s best interests, and this time her client was Mia Zabrinski.

“I’ll be back when I have the proper documentation. I suggest you talk to your brother. Find out why he sold the place without telling you.”

“He’d never do that.”

She shrugged. “I believed my husband when he said our marriage vows…including the part about sticking together in sickness and in health. Look where it got me.”

She turned and marched to her car. Inside, she was quaking. She couldn’t believe she’d shared something so personal with a complete stranger. A beautiful vagabond with a soulful way about him, but a stranger nonetheless. One who was living on her land. She climbed into the driver’s seat, started the engine and made a wide circle, conscious of Ryker Bensen watching her. Her SUV’s large tires pressed down the yellowing autumn grasses, marking her territory in a very real way.

Mia Zabrinski had lost enough. This was one battle she planned to win.

*

Ryker paused at
the base of the wide stone steps leading to the doors of the Marietta Library. The building had become a sort of sanctuary for him. He’d hated libraries as a kid—until the day he stumbled into the photography section. He’d eschewed the boring How-to titles, immersing himself, instead, in the prismatic colors of the nature photographers and the crisp angles and haunting images of the black and whites. As his interest for image grew, he began to read biographies of the greats, the path-breakers. Stieglitz. Man Ray. Adams. Arbus. Gradually he came to understand that his passion would take him places on a journey he’d never completely get right. There was no place for perfectionism in nature photography. There might, on occasion, be a “money shot,” but there would always be a thousand others you wished you could re-take.