The Taming of the Bachelor (12 page)

Paige returned the plunger to Carol and walked back home to move the laundry forward and attack the lunch dishes.

Sundays weren’t exactly rest days, not when you were a single mom.

All the jugging and struggling wore on her. It’d been a tough Christmas, and things remained really tight.

The kids didn’t know, of course, and she kept her worries from her in-laws, but money was tight and getting tighter and she didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to hold on to the house, and the diner. One would have to go. The restaurant was her income. She wasn’t sure she should sell that, but it also took a lot of time, and limited her flexibility and the time she could spend with the kids. If she got rid of the diner, she could get a job somewhere else, get on a company payroll, get decent benefits. She could use benefits like sick days and vacation days, life insurance, and a 401 retirement plan.

But she did like being her own boss. It meant she could schedule work around the kids, and be there for their after school activities. The diner did bring in money, too. Just not enough to cover the house...

Maybe it was time to sell the house.

It’d been a mistake to buy it in the first place. Her well-meaning in-laws certainly hadn’t thought she should buy it. They’d recommended one of the smaller houses on Bramble, or one of the newer houses in the new development on the other side of Highway 89.

But she’d been stubborn. And that was nothing new. She’d been stubborn her whole life. The moment someone said it couldn’t be done, or shouldn’t be done, Paige signed up to do it.

Like falling in love with a rugged Montana outdoorsman with a thirst for adventure and a love of all-things-extreme and reckless and having his babies while he scaled mountains, surfed twenty-foot waves, and kayaked piranha-infested rivers below the equator.

If she’d been smart, she would have stayed in California after Lewis died, remaining close to her parents who knew her, and understood how stubborn she was, as well as proud. Even as a young girl, she hated to ask for help, even when she needed it.

She didn’t know why she refused to ask for help, but needing support...needing assistance...made her deeply uneasy. It was almost as if needing anything was a weakness.

Lewis liked that she could manage the kids and the house on her own. It allowed him to go off and do his own thing.

Even Dillon had complimented her on her work ethic.

People admired her for working hard. Her independence and drive were ‘inspiring’.

But independence was over-rated, she thought, putting away the last of the dishes and then stopping in the living room to plump the cushions on the couch and straighten the books and magazines on the coffee table. So was competence, if it meant you were always alone.

Kissing Dillon last night was proving to be a bigger problem than she’d thought.

Not just because she’d kissed him, but because getting close to someone had stirred up feelings, and dormant needs.

It was one thing to be without a partner for three-going-on-four years.

It was another to be without a partner for the rest of your life.

D
illon spent Sunday night packing up the rest of his things in his bedroom, clearing out clutter from the dining room, tossing food from the kitchen, and organizing ranch files to leave behind for Trey. Once he’d finished packing and sorting downstairs, he headed back up, going to his dad’s room in the two story log cabin that had been the Sheenan home since the late 1920s, planning on clearing out his dad’s clothes from the closet and dresser, and putting the boxes in the attic until his brothers could go through everything.

But walking into his dad’s room, the honey paneled walls cozy and familiar, as Dillon had spent months here, sitting next to the bed, reading his dad the paper, talking to him about what was going on with the cattle, the feed, and the weather, Dillon wasn’t sure he could pack up his dad’s things.

Dad had been gone for almost a year—it’d be a year next month—but this was still his room. His house. Dillon might not want to remain on the ranch, but he didn’t want his dad not to be here.

In the end, he tidied the drawers in the nightstand, dusted the top of the mahogany dresser, straightened the wedding photo of Mom and Dad on the wall, and then walked out, closing the door behind him.

Tomorrow he was meeting with the writer about renting the house, if the writer was interested, he could have Dillon’s room. Dad’s was off limits.

D
illon arrived at the Graff Hotel Monday afternoon to meet Sean Finley, whose real name was Shane Swan, for a late lunch. They sat in the hotel’s turn of the century bar with its elegant wood paneling and hammered copper ceiling and talked over a beer and steak sandwiches.

Dillon wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed that Shane Swan wasn’t a hipster, or a nattily dressed metrosexual. The writer didn’t have a New York accent, either. He was just a tall dude in his mid-thirties with a bushy black moustache and thick beard. In some ways he reminded Dillon of Brock—albeit leaner—he had similar dark eyes, and a similar quiet intensity.

“The ranch house is remote,” Dillon told him. “A good thirty minutes from town, and ten minutes from the nearest neighbor.”

“That’s fine with me,” Shane answered. “I want to be away from everything. Want space to walk, and think.”

“It’s going to be some harsh weather at least til May. Snow, ice. Roads will be treacherous. The house can be cold.”

“I have a four-wheel drive vehicle.”

“You know Montana well?”

“I spent time in Polson when I was a kid.”

“I like that area. My family has a cabin outside Cherry Lake.”

“Nice.”

The conversation would have ended there, if Dillon had allowed it. Shane wasn’t a big talker. Maybe that’s why he was a writer.

“You said on the phone you’re on a deadline.”

Shane’s dark head inclined.

“Can I ask what the book’s about?”

“Montana, history.”

Getting information out of this guy was like pulling teeth. “Which is why you want to live in Montana while you write.”

Shane’s dark head nodded again.

“So you’re serious about renting the house?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of lease are you looking for?”

“I’d like a nine month lease. I’ll prepay the first six months, and then I’d like to go month-to-month for the next three to six months.”

“So possibly a year.”

“If it’s not a problem.”

Dillon didn’t think it’d be a problem provided Shane’s check cleared, but he’d still have to run it past his brothers. “It shouldn’t be. I think I told you I’m leaving town tomorrow. It’d be great if we could get papers drawn up and a check before I go. That way I can just hand over a key and you can move in whenever you’re ready.”

“Your brothers don’t want to meet me?”

“They trust my opinion.”

“And your opinion is...?”

“I’ll run a credit check and if that’s good, and your money’s good, I think we have a deal.”

Shane smiled faintly. “That’s all it takes to move into the Sheenan place? Good credit and cash?”

Dillon smiled back, but he wasn’t all that amused. “It’d be different if one of us was living there, but the place is empty, so it’ll just be you and the Sheenan ghosts.”

Shane’s head turned and he gave Dillon an odd look. “Is the house haunted?”

“Are you afraid of ghosts?”

“Definitely not afraid, just curious. Are there ghosts or spirits hanging around the place?”

“Nothing too scary. Just my mother’s spirit. She died young and we think she’s found it impossible to leave.” Dillon’s gaze held Shane’s, challenging him. “Will that be a problem for you?”

The edges of Shane’s mouth curled up, his expression mocking. “No. Your mom sounds like an interesting lady. I think we’d get along just fine.”

L
unch over, Dillon swung by the bank and deposited the cashier’s check from Shane covering the first six months rent and then headed south on Main Street, wanting to get home.

He had just passed the courthouse and Crawford Park when he spotted boys on the side of the icy road, messing around.

There were five or six of them out sledding, taking advantage of the powdery snow from the storm that had moved through Crawford County Saturday night, coating the valley in glittering white powder. He was glad to see kids out, enjoying themselves. It’s what he and his brothers did before they were old enough to drive to Bridger Bowl or Big Sky.

He slowed as he approached, the afternoon sun bouncing off the snow, the light blindingly bright. From this angle it looked as if one of the boys, crouched down, was beating something, most likely an old wooden flyer with a rail that had come loose.

The boys were oblivious he was there and he drew to a stop. But once stopped, he realized that the boy wasn’t pounding a rail. The boy was pounding another kid.

Fights were nothing new to Dillon. Having been the youngest in a family of five brothers, he’d had plenty of black eyes and bloody noses as it was impossible to grow up in a testosterone-fueled house of alpha males without some bumping and shoving. You wouldn’t survive in the Sheenan household if you didn’t know how to throw a punch as well as defend yourself.

But these kids were young, and the one lying in the snow, seemed to be taking a beating and Dillon sure hoped the boy on the ground had at least gotten in a few good licks before being taken down.

It was only fair, especially as the fight looked very one-sided at this point. One-sided enough that Dillon felt compelled to step in at this point.

He turned the engine off and swung out, boots crunching snow. “That’s enough,” he shouted.

The pummeling continued.

He whistled loudly.

The boy on top stopped swinging, but he kept one hand wrapped around the kid’s jacket collar.

Dillon didn’t like being ignored. “Get off him,” he growled, striding into the knot of red-faced panting savages, lifting the aggressor off, and dropping him none too gently onto his butt.

The smaller kid lay on his back in the snow, staring up at Dillon, dazed. His nose was bleeding and his lip was cut as well. He was undoubtedly going to have a couple shiners tomorrow, too.

“You okay?” Dillon asked him, reaching down to give him a hand up.

The boy nodded blankly, clearly not okay but he put his hand in Dillon’s and Dillon pulled him to his feet. Once upright, the boy wobbled. Dillon felt a rush of sympathy. The kid was small and thin, and not the fighting type.

Dillon wrapped his hand around the child’s nape, keeping him on his feet even as his narrowed gaze swept the cluster of boys. His expression was hard and disapproving.

“Go home,” he said brusquely. “
Scram
.”

The boys grabbed their school bags and raced off.