The Princess of Coldwater Flats (15 page)

Sammy Jo smiled faintly. Since Brent’s “sort-of” proposal in the barn, she’d seen him twice. Once for coffee, once for a picnic in the small park off Main Street. There’d been no more talk of marriage—thank God—but Sammy Jo knew Brent was waiting for an answer.

This morning, Matt Durning had called and talked long and hard about Sammy Jo’s plans. He was clearly feeling guilty about the bank’s hard-line position, but his guilt didn’t mean Valley Federal was changing its mind about foreclosure. No sirree. Still, no one had come to kick her out the door just yet, so maybe she had a little time left.

But marriage? To Brent?

“So, when’s the big date?” Aggie asked.

Sammy Jo was saved from answering by the arrival of Jack Babbitt.

“Well, hello there,” Jack greeted her. “Long time no see.”

“I’ve been meaning to stop by,” Sammy Jo apologized. Like she really would with Cooper there.

“Well, y’know the strawberries are looking peaked, but peaches are turnin’ gold. And Lettie makes a fine peach cobbler.”

“Oh, it’s gonna be a few weeks ‘til them peaches get good enough for a cobbler,” Aggie argued. “Don’t get Sammy Jo’s mouth waterin’ just yet.”

“I promise to drop by soon as I can,” Sammy Jo said, ending the argument.

The cash register bell dinged loudly as Aggie pressed the button for the cashier drawer. “Well, let’s see now. How’re you payin’ for the feed?” Aggie asked Sammy Jo.

“Can you put it on my bill?” Sammy Jo asked, swallowing.

Aggie gave her a piercing look.

“Put it on Mr. Ryan’s bill,” Jack suggested. “The man said he owed Sammy Jo for what she and Carl did on that beaver dam that was stoppin’ up Cotton Creek.”

“No, put it on
my
bill,” Sammy Jo reiterated sternly. She and Carl hadn’t taken out the dam. They’d managed to move a few sticks around, but that was the extent of it. The beaver dam was still standing sturdy and strong. Luckily, the trapper they’d hired had managed to move the beaver family to forest service land without mishap—paid for courtesy of Cooper Ryan—so now she and Cooper were just left with one heck of an architectural wonder.

Aggie twiddled a pen in her fingers, clearly undecided. “Well, honey, you got a pretty big bill already,” she murmured uneasily. “I don’t know if I can give out any more credit.”

“When’d you become such a stickler, Aggie?” Jack complained. “Give the girl the feed!”

“I gotta be careful, that’s all.”

“No, it’s okay,” Sammy Jo interrupted. “I’ll—pick up the feed later.”

“Damn it, Aggie!”

“Sammy Jo, honey, I’ll put it on your bill,” Aggie said, giving in. “I know you’re good for it.”

A hot lump swelled in Sammy Jo’s throat as she watched Bentley employees load the feed into the back of her pickup. It had been difficult to thank Aggie properly for her kindness, so Sammy Jo had just nodded her appreciation. Now, her eyes stung and she had to clamp her jaw and blink rapidly several times to bring herself under control.

At the ranch, she hauled the feed to the storage bins in the barn, then headed dejectedly for the house. She had a date with Brent tonight. This was when she was supposed to give him her answer. He was waiting.

Sighing, she took a long, hot bath, then with extra care, she fixed her hair and pulled out a white eyelet halter dress. She tied the straps behind her neck, and stared at her reflection. The dress had been one she’d bought on a lark, then had shoved to the back of her closet. Now, she stared at it grimly, aware she was about to make the most momentous decision of her life.

“Well, it isn’t San Francisco. Not even close,” Bev Hawkins giggled, “but it’s nice, isn’t it?”

Cooper glanced around The Riverside’s slate patio. It was more like a deli, really, though in the evenings the place did serve one mouth-watering special. The best part about it was the view. Drought-bleached grass rolled down to the clearwater stream, which wound its way through downtown. During less dry seasons, the grass was green and lush, but Cooper still appreciated the prettiness of the setting. Around the patio’s perimeter hung Japanese lanterns, creating an almost romantic atmosphere, and he could make out the outline of one or two of those metal stars that studded the bank.

Bev apparently felt the romance. She leaned her elbows on the table and gazed rapturously at Cooper. She was a beautiful woman in a well-tended way. Her skirt was short above shapely legs; her taupe silk blouse hugged her breasts. Her skin was smooth, and he suspected she helped keep it that way by buying products from those half-hour infomercials that clogged every cable channel on Sunday mornings, maybe a little Botox.

She was definitely an expensive woman.

He could’ve told her he’d paid the price for her type once before—and the price was too damn high. But she was lonely and miserable. Contrary to popular belief, her husband had left
her
, and she was trying to pick up the pieces.

“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” Bev remarked softly.

On that he could agree. The air had cooled down to a comfortable seventy-five degrees, and the night was still, warm and sparkling with countless stars. Cooper leaned back and took a deep breath, the director’s chair creaking slightly under his weight. He’d left his hat at the house and traded his blue jeans for a pair of brushed chinos, as much a concession to fashion and proper attire as he cared to make.

“I guess that little thunderstorm the other day was a taste of what’s to come,” Bev went on with small talk. “Weatherman’s predicting more later on this week.”

“Hmm,” Cooper answered.

“You are quite the conversationalist, aren’t you?”

“Sorry.” He made an effort. “I was thinking about the ranch.”

“You’ve really gotten attached to Serenity, haven’t you?”

“I like Coldwater Flats.”

“This little burg?” she laughed. “I’ve spent my whole life here and the only time I’ve been happy is when I’ve taken trips to San Francisco and Los Angeles. But Roy would never let me move, and now…”

“You could leave,” he suggested.

“Roy would move heaven and earth to keep Emmy, and I don’t want the fight. But we were talking about you. You really like this place?” She gestured disbelievingly to her surroundings.

“I’m a small-town boy at heart,” Cooper said with a smile.

“I don’t believe that. This is just a diversion for you. It’s not the real you.”

Who was she trying to convince, him, or herself? It was clear Bev wanted to ship out. And she wanted to use him as the vessel.

Cooper was searching around for a way to make his feelings clear when musical, feminine laughter met his ears. Familiar laughter. Sammy Jo’s laughter.

He turned, but apart from the ponderosa pines, aspens and scattering of wildflowers, there was no one in sight. Amazing, how someone with such a lemon-sour disposition could have such a beautiful laugh, Cooper reflected in irritation. Sammy Jo Whalen was the testiest, orneriest, most unfeminine woman he’d ever had the misfortune to run across, and woe to the unsuspecting male who—

She appeared at that moment, long tanned legs swinging around the corner of the slate patio. Her hair was down, loose, straight and full; her dress white, glowing softly in the dim light of dusk; her feet, delicately arched and small, enclosed in tan strappy sandals; her mouth a soft smile, the kind of smile that could melt steel. A surge of possessive desire swept through him. Her long-lashed eyes crinkled at the corners with real humor, and they were focused on…‌

The man she was with.

Cooper couldn’t help staring. The man was about Sammy Jo’s age. Dark hair. Uncallused hands. Wearing a suit. A business-type. Could even be one of the young men who buzzed into corporate ranching with big dreams and bigger mouths and buzzed out again as soon as they realized they had to work for a living.

Unfair
, his rational mind told him, but he didn’t feel like being fair.

“Do you know Brent?” Bev asked.

“Brent?”

“Brent Rollins. He’s Coldwater Flats’s local real estate agent. There are others in the area, of course, but Brent’s the only one who really matters. There isn’t that much buying and selling going on here. You didn’t use him when you bought Serenity?”

“I don’t think so.” The truth was, he hadn’t paid a lot of attention. He’d seen the place, called the agency and signed papers within one week.

“I know you know Sammy Jo,” she stated carefully.

He forced himself to drag his gaze from one of Sammy Jo’s shapely legs. That halter dress had hiked up her thigh, giving him a good, long look before she tugged it down.

Cooper’s mouth was cotton.

The waitress stopped by their table. “Tonight’s picnic night,” she said. “You’d be a fool not to order our special—The Riverside’s own fried chicken, ‘To Die For’ potato salad and watermelon.”

“God forbid I should be a fool,” Cooper drawled. “I’ll take the special.” Glancing at Bev, he caught her nod of agreement, but past her, Sammy Jo’s real estate friend was seating her at a table. “Make that two,” he said just as his gaze collided with Sammy Jo’s. “And I’d like another beer. Quick.”

“White wine,” Bev told the waitress, pointing to her empty glass.

Sammy Jo’s animated face darkened, and she turned away quickly. Perversely, Cooper was glad to note that he affected her. Negatively, maybe, but at least it was something.

“You haven’t had any run-ins with her, then?”

“Who?” he asked automatically.

“Sammy Jo,” Bev stressed, fighting annoyance.

“What do you mean, run-ins?”

“Well, she’s got this godawful temper. Anybody who knows her will tell you the same. She’s prickly as a porcupine and stubborn as a mule.”

And pretty as a picture,
his fertile mind couldn’t help adding. “Honest as the day is long?” he asked, amused.

Bev stared at him uncomprehendingly, “I guess. At least I never heard anyone complain about her cheating them. Not yet, anyway.”

“I’ll keep my guard up.”

Bev smiled faintly. Sammy Jo laughed again, and the sound seemed to envelop them, like the scent of expensive perfume. Irritated by his susceptibility to a self-proclaimed shrew, Cooper practically grabbed his beer off the waitress’s tray and proceeded to gulp half of it down.

“…‌you don’t know how to take a compliment,” Brent accused her, smiling. “I tell you how beautiful you look, and you laugh.”

“You’d better believe it.” Sammy Jo buried her nose in a glass of red wine. She preferred white, but seeing perfect Bev drawing her index finger around the rim of a glass of white wine, then slowly lifting the glass to her luscious red lips had changed Sammy Jo’s mind on the spot. Juvenile, perhaps, but hey, who said she had to be a grown up all the time?

“You
are
beautiful,” Brent insisted.

“Okay, I’m beautiful,” Sammy Jo returned flippantly. For reasons probably buried deep in her psyche, she could never handle anyone commenting on her looks. Her personality, yes. The moment some bozo complained about her, she was ready to battle it out. But a compliment on her looks, something you are basically born with and could only alter so much—even with plastic surgery—made her uneasy. It almost compelled her to show the nasty side of her temper, though she’d told herself specifically to be on her best behavior with Brent.

She was going to accept his proposal of marriage. It was the prudent—the only—thing to do. Half the people in the world married for love and were miserable. She would marry for
like
and maybe be happy.

“What do you want to order?”

Feeling the weight of someone’s gaze, she glanced up. Cooper flicked her a look, then turned back to Bev. Sammy Jo stared pointedly, then became conscious of Brent’s waiting.

She cleared her throat. “What’s the special?”

“Fried chicken and picnic stuff.”

“I’ll take it.” Spying his frown, she asked, “What about you?”

“I think I’ll have the veggie sandwich.”

“Do you like animals in any form, Brent?” Sammy Jo couldn’t help asking. “You don’t raise them, and you don’t eat them.”

“Do I detect a criticism?”

“Just curiosity.”

“Does my answer matter?”