Stand By Your Man (11 page)

At five-thirty on Tuesday morning, Dave Cousins showered and dressed in jeans, a snap-front Western shirt, and cowboy boots and slipped out of the two-bedroom owner's suite at the top of the Wild Rose Inn. He moved quietly so as not to disturb Robin, his eleven-year-old daughter, and Merlin, their black standard poodle, who were asleep in her bedroom.

An athletic guy, Dave took every opportunity to get some exercise, so he ran lightly down the four flights of stairs rather than take the elevator.

Sam, the retired RCMP officer who handled the Inn from ten-thirty to six-thirty, was frowning into space through his horn-rims when Dave strode up to the front desk.

“Morning,” Dave greeted him. “Words not flowing?” Sam was writing a mystery novel and it came in fits and starts.

“Got distracted,” Sam said, scratching his balding head. “By the woman in twenty-two.”

“Someone who checked in last night?” Twenty-two had been one of only three empty rooms when he and Sam had touched base at the beginning of the man's shift. “I take it she's pretty?” Sam had never married and had an eye for the ladies, which, thank heavens, translated into a rough kind of charm that suited the Wild Rose's ambience, rather than into inappropriate behavior.

“Pretty, for sure. Once she got some color back in her cheeks.” He paused, a born storyteller confident that he'd hooked his audience.

Dave obliged. “Go on. Why was she so pale?” Though he asked the question, he knew Sam would choose how he wanted to tell the story.

The night manager leaned forward, his pale gray eyes bright even after a night awake. “It's past eleven when she staggers into the lobby. Mid- to late twenties, slim build, got some Latina blood. Faded jeans and a long-sleeved green tee. Too light a top because the air's chilled off. You know how it gets this time of year.”

Dave nodded. June in Caribou Crossing featured warm, sunny days but the temperature cooled when the sun went down.

“But those white cheeks of hers, they aren't just from the cold. It's more like she's done in, on her last legs. And those legs aren't working so well. She stumbles across to the desk, backpack weighing her down. I get up to go meet her and take her pack, but before I get there, what does she up and do?” His shaggy gray eyebrows lifted.

Dave asked the expected question. “What does she up and do?”

“Faints dead away.”

Dave frowned, worried. “That's not good. Did you call nine-one-one?”

The storyteller was probably incapable of giving a simple yes or no answer. “I bend down, make sure she has a pulse, and by then she's stirring. So I whip into the bar and fetch a shot of whisky. The Caribou Crossing Single Barrel rye. Figure if our hometown drink doesn't fix her up, I'll call for help.”

Dave didn't know whether to groan or grin. Warily he asked, “Did she drink it?”

“I wave it under the gal's nose, and she kind of snorts and jumps back like a horse when it sees a snake. She sits up, grabs the glass and downs it in one swallow, and says, ‘Damn, that's good.'”

Surprised and relieved, Dave laughed and Sam joined in.

“I did offer to call a doc,” Sam assured him, “but she says no, she's just exhausted and hungry. Been hitchhiking all day, up from Vancouver, hasn't had much to eat. Says she came in to ask if there's a hostel in town. That whisky put some color back in her cheeks and she's trying to be all bright and cheery. But under all that, she looks like a nag that's been rode hard and put up wet. I tell her she'll stay here; she starts to argue; I tell her I won't take no guff. Give her a key, take her bag and walk her to the door, then I heat up some leftover beef stew and biscuits from the kitchen and take it up.” He shrugged. “After that, I don't hear another peep out of her all night.”

“Hmm.” Dave glanced at the ceiling, still concerned. “All the same, I wish you'd had a doctor come look at her.” The four family practice doctors in Caribou Crossing had an arrangement through an answering service: one was always on call, and they made house calls.

“She said she wasn't going to go wasting a doctor's time just because she'd been on the road all day and hadn't had a chance to eat. The gal was pretty damned firm about it.” He gave his balding head a shake. “Put me in mind of old Ms. Haldenby. You know?”

The retired schoolteacher was a fine—and intimidating—woman who definitely knew her own mind. “There's no arguing with someone like that,” he agreed. “Well, it sounds like you did all you could. Good work, Sam.”

“See if you still say that when I tell you I didn't get a credit card or even a name from twenty-two. Figured it could wait till she was feeling better.”

“Good decision. Even if she skips, it's no big loss.” Dave was more worried about the woman's health. But Sam was a smart, observant guy. If he'd thought their visitor really was sick, he'd have overridden her objections, just as he had when he'd given her a room.

“Anyhow,” Sam said, “the damn woman took my mind right out of my book. Got me thinking about her story, and I bet it's a good one.”

Dave rolled his eyes. “You and your overactive imagination. She's just a hitchhiker who didn't have the sense to have a rest when she needed one. She'll be up and on the road, hopefully paying her bill before she goes. Anything else happen last night?”

“One late check-in, a couple who were driving from Seattle to Williams Lake and realized they were too tired to be safe on the road. Restaurant closed early and it was a quiet night at the bar, but that's normal for a Monday.”

“Thanks.” Dave tapped the desk lightly with his fist. “Okay, you hold down the fort a while longer, and I'll be in the office.” He'd check receipts from the bar and from the Wild Rose's restaurant, and catch up on e-mail until Harminder, the day receptionist, arrived.

After touching base with her, he'd run back upstairs and make sure Robin was up and tending to Merlin's needs. Then they'd have breakfast and she'd head off to school. She was excited because there were only three days left before the summer holiday.

He liked the days Robin was here. Custody was split equally between him and his ex-wife, Jessie, and her husband, Evan. On the days Rob wasn't around, Dave's life, no matter how busy, felt empty. Lonely.

If Anita hadn't died, things would be so different.

He swallowed against the familiar ache at the back of his throat, blinked back the burn of unshed tears. No point thinking of what could never be. Not when it hurt so much.

Around eleven, Dave was at the front desk, relieving Harminder while she used her midshift break to take her son to the dentist. The receptionist was a few years older than his own twenty-nine, married with two kids. Her social worker husband got the children up and to school in the morning, while she picked them up after school.

Sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up his forearms, he frowned at the computer screen. He was trying to book opera tickets in Vancouver for guests who were heading there tomorrow, but the online system kept glitching. Maybe it was time for an old-fashioned phone call. Frustrated, he exited the site just as a cheerful female voice said, “Hi, friend. Anywhere around here I can get a good capooch?”

He looked up. Aha. This had to be twenty-two. She was dressed like the typical tourist, in casual shorts and an olive tank layered over something that had pink straps. Yes, she was pretty, just as Sam had said. Medium height, slim, nice curves. He saw the touch of Latina in her olive-toned skin and the shiny black hair cut in a short, elfin cap. Her black-lashed eyes were blue-gray and sparkling, matching nicely with her white smile.

He smiled back. “Would that translate to cappuccino?”

Humor warmed her eyes. “What else?”

“Thought maybe you were talking about some weird mixed-breed dog.”

Her burble of laughter was musical and infectious. “No, it's caffeine I need right now.” She yawned widely without covering her mouth. It should have been unattractive but he had trouble imagining that anything this woman did would look unattractive. Despite the yawn her face was animated, her striking eyes dancing here and there, studying the lobby and studying him too.

“Oh yeah, I need a double-shot capooch to get me going.” She stuck a hand out. “By the way, I'm Cassidy. Cassidy Esperanza.”

With guests, he always aimed for the personal touch, so he came out from behind the desk and extended his hand. “Dave Cousins.”

As she turned toward him, he spotted a tattoo on the cap of her right shoulder: a Canada goose flying across the moon. Beautifully done, and rather haunting.

Cassidy's handshake was energetic; her hand was like the rest of her: brown, shapely, slender, and full of vitality. He shook a lot of hands in the course of a day, but this one felt particularly good in his. A strange thought. The last thing he was looking for, after losing Anita three years ago, was a relationship. If he wanted female companionship, he had his friend Sally Ryland, a widow who had no more intention than he of giving love another chance.

Trying to ignore the odd tingling sensation in his hand, he freed it from his guest's. “Best coffee in town's right here.” Yes, a couple of the coffee shops did a fine job too, but for some reason he wanted to keep Cassidy Esperanza at the Wild Rose. “Good food too, if you're hungry.”

“Swell.” She gave another of those huge yawns, stretched her arms up, and raked her fingers through that cap of hair, ruffling it. Normally, he liked long hair on women—like Anita's red-gold waves or Jessie's straight, glossy chestnut hair—but the pixie cap suited Cassidy's slightly exotic face.

“I'm awake,” she said with a quick laugh. “I swear I am. Got a good sleep too. Don't know why I'm yawning.” Then her face sobered. “Before I do anything, I need to have a talk with the manager.”

“Let me guess, you're twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two?” She shook her head slightly, looking confused. “No, I'm twenty-seven.”

“Sorry, I mean, room twenty-two. The woman who came in last night and . . .” He paused deliberately, curious to see what she'd say.

“Fainted.” She raised her brows ruefully. “That's me. Really embarrassing. But the guy on the desk was great. Only problem is . . .” She leaned forward. “Look, can I confide in you? Maybe you can give me some advice.”

“Uh, sure.”

“The nice guy gave me a room last night, and food, but the thing is, I don't have the money to pay. I came in to get warm and see if anyone could suggest a hostel, and next thing I knew I was on the floor and this guy was”—she broke off and grinned with the memory—“waking me up with a whiff of potent whisky. Which tasted delicious, and I guess I owe for that too, now that I think of it.”

“Look—”

“No, I realize I owe for the room and everything, and this is a classy place so it won't be cheap. But the thing is, I'm pretty much broke.”

Oh, great.

He opened his mouth, but she rushed on again. “I swear I won't cut out on you. I was going to look for a job in Caribou Crossing anyway, and as soon as I get one and have some money, I'll pay up. But it might take a few days and I'd sure understand if the manager was mad. So, if you could give me any tips on how to deal with him, I'd really appreciate it.”

As best he could tell, she was sincere. Dave grinned. “Just tell him the truth. And you did. I'm the owner of the Wild Rose.”

“Oh! My gosh, I didn't realize.” She studied him again. “Gotta love a hotel where the owner wears jeans and cowboy boots.”

“It goes with the ambience we're trying to create here.”

She glanced around the lobby again, and nodded. “Yeah, it's kind of a cool blend of Old West and Santa Fe. That room—twenty-two—is just awesome, by the way. That four-poster canopy bed with all the ruffles and flounces, the stool to climb up into it. I admit I had a moment's worry when I saw the chamber pot, but then I realized it was just for decoration and there was a real bathroom. Claw-foot tub and all.”

Her gaze returned to him and she grinned. “So, Dave Cousins, Mr. Owner, want to have breakfast with me? I'll run my tab even higher and then maybe you can tell me where I might find work in this town?”

Though he liked being friendly and a little casual with guests, he always kept it professional. Occasionally, he joined them for a drink or a coffee, but not often. This time, to his surprise, he was tempted.

Cassidy studied the man in front of her. He was handsome in a way that snuck up on you. At first, he just seemed like a tall, rangy guy with regular features. But the longer she looked, the more she took in. The leanness of hip and length of leg in nicely faded jeans belted with braided leather and breaking across the front of brown tooled cowboy boots. The flex of muscles in his tanned forearms and beneath the gentle drape of his olive green Western-style shirt. The way his thick sandy brown hair framed the strong lines of his face and flopped engagingly over his forehead; the direct gaze of hazel eyes flecked with green and gold; the tiniest suggestion, when he smiled, that a dimple might want to break through.

Easy on the eyes. The expression had been made for Dave Cousins.

Too bad his own eyes were saying no to breakfast. His mouth confirmed the message. “I need to stay on the desk until the receptionist gets back.”

Cassidy was about to say that was too bad when her attention was caught by a young Native Canadian woman who was striding down a hallway into the lobby. She looked to be twenty or so, and was striking with long, shining black hair falling past the shoulders of a crisp white Western shirt. Dark jeans hugged curvy hips and slim legs, their red belt matching her own cowboy boots. Silver earrings in the shape of feathers dangled from her ears.

“Hey,” Dave greeted her. “Madisun, this is Cassidy Esperanza, one of our guests. Cassidy, Madisun Joe is my assistant manager.”

And very young for such responsibility, Cassidy thought. Clearly, Madisun had ambition, drive. Things that weren't part of her own life, which was all about new places, new people, new experiences.

“It's nice to meet you,” Cassidy said. And nice of Dave not to mention her empty pockets problem.

“Welcome to the Wild Rose, Cassidy,” Madisun said. Then she turned to Dave. “I have the final plans for Karen and Jamal's wedding reception, whenever you want to take a look.”

“Thanks.” He glanced at her, then at Cassidy, then back again. “Say, would you mind taking the desk until Harminder comes back?”

“No problem.”

“Great. And could you book two tickets for the Vancouver Opera's
Carmen
at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre, Wednesday night, for Mr. and Mrs. Grunewald? The online system glitched on me so you may have to make a call.”

“Of course.”

“If you need me, I'll be in the restaurant with Cassidy.”

Madisun's brown eyes widened slightly, like maybe this was unusual behavior for her boss, but all she said was, “Okay.”

Cassidy crossed the lobby at Dave's side. As they were about to enter the dining room, a female instinct made her dart a glance over her shoulder. Madisun stood rooted to the same spot, staring after them.

Hmm. She wondered if the girl had a crush on her boss, even though he had to be ten years older than she was. As Dave said hello to a female server garbed in old-fashioned clothing, Cassidy peeked at his ring finger and found it bare. If he really was single, a handsome guy like him, a business owner, had to be one of the most eligible bachelors in this small town.

Not that she was looking. Well, not for a marriage-minded man. That was the absolute last thing she wanted. For her, men were good for short-term fun, and that was it. And Dave Cousins, with that lean, fit body and hazel eyes, had the potential for being a lot of fun.

The server seated them in a booth by the window. After Cassidy had ordered her capooch and Dave had asked for plain black coffee, she grinned at the man seated across from her. “Nice place you've got here. But I was expecting boots and cowboy hats. This is more like, uh, an old-fashioned gentleman's club.” The dining room was attractive and classy, with lots of dark wood and brass, and the male and female staff were garbed like they belonged in the 1800s.

“An upscale gold rush saloon,” Dave said. “Our bar next door is where you'll find the boots and hats.”

“Oh yeah, this must have been a gold rush town, right? I saw those old photos in the lobby.” She'd noticed sepia photos of miners and cowboys, which fit nicely with the attractively rustic furniture.

“Yup. Caribou Crossing was on the Cariboo Wagon Road. A couple of miners struck gold in a big way in the early 1860s and a town sprang up, the same kind of thing as with Barkerville and Horsefly.” He cocked his head, asking if those names meant anything to her.

“I've heard of Barkerville. It's a historic site now, isn't it? They restored the old mining town? It's on my list to see.”

“Yeah, it's really interesting, but you ought to see our own Gold Rush Days Park as well. Anyhow, when the gold dried up, some other places became ghost towns, but that didn't happen here. A few enterprising miners decided not to follow the lure of gold, but to start ranching. The land was ideal for it. And now Caribou Crossing is also a tourist town, playing up both our gold rush history and the Western ranching theme.”

Cassidy nodded eagerly. “That's why I came. For the horses.”

“I'm curious. But you're hungry.” He gestured to the menu lying on the table in front of her. “Order some food; then tell me what brings you here.”

Listening to Dave had distracted her, but now her tummy growled, reminding her that she was starving. Confident that she'd find a job and pay this nice man back, she wouldn't choose the cheapest thing on the menu but instead go with miners' flapjacks served with bacon, maple syrup, and fresh strawberries.

She accepted the frothy cappuccino the server brought her, then placed her order. “Fuel for job hunting,” she said cheerfully.

While Dave added his order for a side of biscuits, she glanced out the window. Across the street were small shops: a toy store, a women's clothing boutique, an arts and crafts shop, a drugstore. They were all attractive and well maintained. Each had its own style, yet they fit together comfortably. The town definitely was picturesque.

A woman in a business suit, carrying a briefcase, strode briskly past a family of four who'd stopped to peer in the window of the toy store. An attractive brunette in an RCMP uniform stopped to chat with a middle-aged couple in Caribou Crossing T-shirts bearing a logo similar to a pedestrian crossing sign but with a stylized caribou.

Dave's voice drew her attention back from the view. “Go on, Cassidy. You came here for the horses?”

She nodded, thinking how wonderfully different she felt from when she'd dragged in yesterday. A taste of her coffee had her giving two thumbs up, then taking another sip before launching into her story. “I was waitressing at a sports bar in Vancouver and the job itself was fun, especially on the nights when Canucks games were playing on the wide screen. Man, it got lively.” She grinned, remembering the cheers when the home team scored, not to mention the good tips.

“But the manager was an asshole, kept coming on to me, wouldn't take no for an answer.” The memory changed her grin to a scowl. “Sunday night, he crossed the line. I got away from him, but it was totally obvious I couldn't keep working there.”

Dave frowned. “That's terrible. You should report the jerk.”

“Yeah, well . . .” Maybe she should have, but it was easier to just move on. Besides, she'd been more than ready to leave the city behind. “I also wasn't getting along with my roommate. I'd moved into her place and was paying half the rent, but I sure didn't get equal rights. She filled the fridge with her crap, hogged the bathroom, always had her friends in the living room, even stored some of her stuff in my bedroom. We fought all the time. It was a freaking pain.”

Their orders arrived. Dave's steaming biscuits were the same kind she'd savored last night along with the rich beef stew, though this morning they were served with butter, honey, and strawberry jam. Her own flapjacks were a golden-brown stack surrounded by crisp bacon and sliced strawberries. The server placed a ceramic jug of maple syrup on the table.

“Mmm, thank you,” Cassidy's nose twitched happily at the scent of bacon as she dug in.

For a few minutes, she ate happily, taking an occasional sip of her cappuccino. Dave ate and drank too, seemingly content to wait for her to pick up her story when she was ready. She liked that. Most guys were so self-involved they'd fill any silence with talk about their jobs, their cars, their favorite sports teams.

She'd also liked the intentness with which he'd listened to her, and the concern and indignation in his eyes when she'd told him about her former boss. A nice guy, this Dave Cousins.

After downing half her meal, she carried on. “I was tired of Vancouver too. I mean, I love cities and it's a great one, but I was ready for something different. I'd been there almost two months and I rarely stay anywhere much longer than that.”

His brow furrowed as if he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. Lots of people didn't relate to her gypsy lifestyle.

“Anyhow,” she went on, “this woman I met when I was getting my hair done one day, she was talking about how much fun she had at a resort ranch near Caribou Crossing.”

“The Crazy Horse?”

“Yeah, that's it.” She accepted the server's offer of a second cappuccino, then told Dave, “I've done a little riding and I have a craving to do it again. And to breathe nice fresh country air.” City days were long and demanding, what with work, friends, partying. She was only twenty-seven, but she'd been feeling her years. Tired, run-down. And then there was that stupid thing with her left leg. She must have strained it somehow, probably from working a double shift, because ten days ago it had gone all tingly, then numb. The problem had lasted more than two days, then more or less cleared up though she still got occasional pins and needles and numbness. Like last night, when that crazy-long exhausting day culminated in her embarrassing face plant.

She'd strained her leg, and she was run-down, that's all it was. It was nothing like what had happened to Grand, who'd ended up unable to walk, unable to speak properly, incontinent—

No, she wasn't going to think about her great-grandmother. No way did she have Grand's debilitating disease.

“So”—Cassidy summoned a grin—“yesterday morning I told my roomie I was leaving. She bitched about it being almost month's end. She said I owed her rent because I wasn't giving notice, so I gave her the few hundred dollars I had and just kept twenty for myself. That was kind of dumb. I should have kept at least a hundred, but she was yelling and I couldn't wait to get out of there. I tossed everything I own in my backpack, and hit the road.”

Dave frowned, like she wasn't making sense. “You must have money in the bank, though.”

“Nope. I've never been big on saving. Life's for living, right?”

“But you have to think about tomorrow, next month, next year.”

“Maybe you have to, but I don't. Tomorrow comes, I'll decide what I want to do. Next month, I'll decide where to go. Next year”—she shrugged—“I could be in India, Albuquerque, or Cuba.”

Now he was looking at her like she'd descended from outer space. “Where's your home?”

She was tempted to say Alpha Centauri but figured the truth would freak him out enough. “Wherever I hang my backpack.”

“But you must come from somewhere.”

“Born in Victoria, but I haven't lived there in a long time.”

“Your parents are there?”

She shook her head. “They're in Acapulco right now. But that won't last.”

“Why not?”

“They split up when I was a kid, got back together, split again, got back together a couple years ago. I give them another year or two.” She polished off the last of her late breakfast. “That was delicious.”

“You have no home, no money in the bank, and everything you own is in your backpack?” His face bore a glazed expression, like she'd laid too much on him too quickly. The guy probably lived in the same town he'd been born in, and she figured a man who owned an inn must be into stability.

“That's me.” When the server came to clear their empty plates, Cassidy said, “Bring me the bill for both of us, please.”

The woman whipped it out of her apron and placed it on the table. When she left, Cassidy added a twenty-five percent tip, then passed it over to Dave. “I don't have a credit card either. If you pay for this, I'll pay you back the moment I get my first paycheck.”

He glanced at it. “You're a generous tipper.”

“Good service deserves it. And now I need to pick your brain about where I might find work. You think the Crazy Horse might be hiring?”

“I doubt it, but I'll give you Kathy and Will's phone number and you can ask. What kind of job are you looking for?”

“Whatever. Server, bartender, salesclerk, cashier. Receptionist, clerk, admin person. Nanny, companion, housekeeper, chambermaid. Flag girl, shelf stocker, dishwasher. Basically, anything that doesn't call for a degree or certificate, I can do.”

Seeing skepticism on his face, she said, “I'm good at that stuff, honest. And I don't just up and leave jobs. Yeah, I'm not into putting down roots, but I give fair notice. Unless the boss harasses me.”

“I hear you.” His tone said he was reserving judgment.

“It's summer and you said this is a tourist town. Businesses must be taking on extra staff, right?”

“You have references?”

“Sure. On my flash drive. I just need to find a place to print the file. And I have a decent set of clothes to wear to an interview.”

He studied her, his brow furrowed. “You really are good at all those things? Waiting tables, bartending, cashier, receptionist, chambermaid?”

“Believe me, I have loads of experience. I've worked across Canada, the States, Europe, Asia. I speak fluent Spanish—learned from my dad—and a smattering of French, German, and Italian.”

“Huh.” His eyes had an inward look.