The Virgin and Zach Coulter (5 page)

“I thought about that.” Zach met his brother's gaze. “I'll consider it if there's no other way. But until we know there's no other choice, I want it left on the wall at the Lodge. It feels right for it to be there—where Mom wanted it hung and where it's stayed all these years.”

“Your call.” Cade's voice was noncommittal, but his eyes held understanding and agreement.

Four hours later, Zach had finished crunching numbers and called his boss. When he hung up, he not only had an open-ended approval of leave on his contract duties, he also had a guarantee of financing from his boss's company.

 

Between helping Cade repair pasture fences, replace the brakes on a tractor and lining up contractors to work on the Lodge renovations, it was four days before Zach was back in Indian Springs. He'd worked long hours, accomplished a lot and missed too much sleep.

He hadn't been able to forget Cynthia Deacon, though, and when someone needed to make a trip to the feed store to pick up an engine part, Zach had instantly volunteered, hoping to run into the beautiful blonde.

Just as he finished loading the sacks of grain into the back of his truck, fate decided to take pity on him. He glanced across the street just as Cynthia stepped out of a café, pausing to put on a pair of dark-framed sunglasses. She wore a bright blue top that left her arms bare and a white skirt that hugged her hips and ended above her knees. Her long blond hair was loose, falling down her back past her shoulders. She looked better in person than she had in the dreams that haunted Zach's sleep.

Zach started across the street, halting to let a dusty pickup drive by before he jogged the rest of the way and stepped up on the curb.

“Hello.” He was only a few feet from her when he spoke.

Cynthia immediately recognized the deep male voice drawling the greeting and she couldn't restrain the smile
that curved her lips before looking over her shoulder. The corners of his mouth lifted in an answering smile that appeared to say he was as delighted to see her as she was to see him.

She turned and, with slow deliberation, let her gaze move from the top of the white Stetson that sat atop his black hair with the brim tugged low on his brow, down the length of his muscled body in white T-shirt and faded tight jeans to the toes of his black cowboy boots. “My, my, Mr. Coulter. You look like a cowboy.”

His eyes sparkled with laughter but his voice was grave. “I am a cowboy, Ms. Deacon.”

“Hmm.” She lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you were a corporate shark.”

He nodded. “I am—just taking a break for now.” He nodded at the café behind her. “Can I buy you coffee? Soda? Chocolate cake?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “What makes you think I like chocolate cake?”

Shock spread over his features. “You don't like chocolate cake?”

“I didn't say I don't, I'm just wondering why you assume that I do.”

He cocked his head, fixing her with an interested stare. “I've never known a woman who doesn't like chocolate cake. On a scale of one to ten, seduction-wise, chocolate cake is right up there with roses.”

She rolled her eyes, hiding a smile. “You're impossible.” She turned on her heel and strolled away, window-shopping as she walked and well aware he prowled just behind her. “How are things out at the Triple C?” she asked, glancing sideways at him.

He shrugged, powerful muscles shifting under the white T-shirt. “Busy. I'm in town to pick up some parts for equipment we're rebuilding and sacks of grain at Miller's Feed.”

“It's nice that you can take time away from work to stay and help your brother,” Cynthia commented, lowering her sunglasses to look at him. “I'm sure your brothers will be glad you can stay. How long will you be here?”

“I'm not sure. We're still looking for my two younger brothers, so I'll be here at least until they make it home.”

“You must have a very accommodating boss if he'll let you take an indefinite leave of absence,” she commented, curious.

“My boss and I have an understanding,” he said with a slow smile.

And what did that mean? she wondered. “What kind of work do you do—when you're not climbing mountains?” she asked aloud.

“I work for a capital venture firm in San Francisco. The CEO calls me in to analyze companies the firm has either bought or plans to buy. I spend a few weeks on-site and after assessing the potential problems tell him whether he should keep the company.”

“You're a corporate hatchet man.” She eyed him consideringly.

He winced. “That's not the term I like to use.”

“What job description do you use?”

“Financial analyst,” he said promptly.

She shook her head. “No, sorry, that's way too in
nocuous. I bet the people working at those companies think of you as a hatchet man.”

He laughed. “You could be right. It's the nature of the job—nobody likes to be out of work.”

“As I can certainly confirm,” she said without thinking.

His gaze sharpened. “Are you unemployed?”

“Temporarily,” she said with an offhand breeziness she wished was real. “But as it turns out, the timing was fortunate, since I had to come back to Indian Springs to take care of my great-uncle's estate.”

“That was Nicholas Deacon?”

She tensed. “Yes, that's right. Did you know him?”

“No, can't say that I had the pleasure. Mariah mentioned the other day that you'd returned to settle Nicholas Deacon's estate.” He looked at her, his green eyes warm. “I take it the two of you were close?”

“I adored him,” Cynthia said. “I grew up in his house. He taught me to garden and play checkers, and showed me how to make a perfect pot roast.” She smiled, aware her vision had gone misty. “He was a wonderful man. The best uncle ever.” She lifted her sunglasses to brush her fingertips over her lashes, then drew a deep breath. “But he wouldn't want me to cry over him. Nicholas was a practical and pragmatic man. He'd tell me to get on with my life and not worry about him because he's with Min now. She was his wife,” she added in explanation. “They loved to dance and they're probably waltzing all over heaven together, having a fabulous time.”

“He sounds like a great guy,” Zach commented, his deep voice gentle.

“He was. I wouldn't have survived childhood without
him.” She slipped her sunglasses off to better view his reaction. “My mother is Natasha Deacon.” She watched Zach's face but couldn't detect any change in expression. Either he already knew about her mother, whose dark-haired beauty and promiscuous lifestyle had gained her a notorious reputation in the county, or he hadn't heard the gossip about Natasha.

Zach merely nodded, his expression grave and nonjudgmental. “I knew Natasha was Nicholas's niece, so I assumed there was a connection between you and her.”

“Yes, well…” Cynthia sighed. “As I said, Nicholas was wonderful and I missed seeing him after I left for college.”

“Where did you go to college?” he asked.

“Harvard—too far away to come home very often during school. I had scholarships, but I had to work during the summer so I didn't get to visit Nicholas then, either.”

“I went to Berkeley,” he told her. “What did you major in?”

Warmed by what seemed to be genuine interest, Cynthia smiled at him. “Business.”

“And what have you been doing since college—working on Wall Street?” he asked, eyes gently teasing.

She shook her head. “No, I've been managing hotels—small boutique hotels. It's a great job and I've traveled a lot.” She frowned. “But I'm currently unemployed and finding it's not as easy to find work in today's market.”

Cynthia realized she'd said more than she'd planned to about her home life as a child. What was it about Zach
that made her open up about subjects and her personal life that she never talked about with anyone else? “Listen to me, going on about myself and losing my great-uncle when you've lost your father recently, too. You must know exactly how I feel.”

“Not really.” His voice was cooler, bordering on caustic.

Startled, she looked at him, eyebrows lifting in surprise.

He shrugged. “I hadn't seen my father in more than a decade.”

A horn honked on the street behind them, and they both turned. Grady Turner leaned out the passenger window of a passing truck, its bed fully-loaded with bales of hay.

“Hey, Cynthia—Zach.”

They returned his greeting, and Cynthia waved.

When she looked back at Zach, his eyes were narrowed over her. “Are you and Grady Turner seeing each other?”

Startled, she felt her eyes widen. “You mean—like, dating?”

He nodded and she laughed, a peal of pure amusement.

“Goodness, no. I've known Grady since we were in kindergarten. He's just a friend.”

“My brothers and I spent as much time as we could at the Turner ranch when we were growing up,” Zach said. “All of us are good friends, but of the six Turner brothers, I guess I'm closer to Grady than the rest.”

“He's a good guy,” Cynthia said with affection. “Get
ting to see him more frequently is one of the perks of being back in Indian Springs.”

“You know,” Zach said, “I feel the same way.”

They smiled at each other. The sense of being in perfect accord with another person was something Cynthia had rarely felt before. The connection surprised and startled her.

Zach Coulter was handsome, sexy and blatantly male, but she hadn't expected to feel a connection with him.

Suddenly realizing they'd been standing on the sidewalk talking for more than a few minutes, she glanced at her watch and gasped.

“I'm late for an appointment. I'm sorry to run off again, Zach, but I have to go.”

Flustered, she caught a glimpse of his amused smile and his drawled farewell as she turned and hurried off down the street. When she pulled open the door to Jeanne Renee's Hair Salon a half block away, she looked back.

Just as before, he was still standing there, watching her.

She lifted a hand to wave and he nodded, touching the brim of his hat.

She stepped inside the salon, wishing she had stayed with him longer. And knowing she was much better off keeping her distance from a man like him.

N
ot quite a week after talking to Zach Coulter outside the café on Main Street, Cynthia was on her front porch, sitting on a wicker love seat with her feet propped on the edge of the matching glass-topped coffee table in front of her. She bent over, stretching to reach her toes. With deft, practiced strokes, she used the tiny brush to apply a second coat of scarlet to her toenails. The red polish matched her favorite summer top, a loose cotton camisole with tiny spaghetti straps that she wore over white shorts in the balmy, mid-seventy-degree afternoon.

She leaned back, critically eyeing the bright color tipping her toes.

This is what my life has come to,
she thought with a groan.
Spending the afternoon trying to paint my toenails without a single smudge.

Sighing again, she gazed around at the yard. Where Cynthia sat, the porch was shaded by a thick lilac bush,
and flower beds skirted the front and sides of the house. A brick walkway ran from the foot of the wide porch steps directly to a gate in the picket fence that let out onto the sidewalk and street. Cynthia's convertible was parked in the drive just beyond the end of the porch. She'd left it there earlier when she came home from the pharmacy after purchasing the new scarlet nail polish she was currently applying so meticulously to her toenails.

A girl needed a pedicure now and then. Especially when she was doing her best
not
to think about a man like Zach Coulter. She frowned.

Earlier this morning, she'd stood in line behind two older women at the grocery store and she couldn't help but overhear as they spent long moments speculating about Zach and his brothers.

As Cynthia well remembered, this kind of endless discussion about the Coulter boys was a popular pastime for the folks in Indian Springs. She'd been a freshman in high school when the youngest, Eli, was a senior. He and his three older brothers had been wild, and wildly popular. In contrast, she'd been quiet, studious and not the slightest bit socially active, although she'd had a few close friends. She hadn't attended her high school prom nor any of the parties after graduation.

In fact, she mused, she wasn't surprised that Zach didn't remember her. After her mother accused her of inviting his attentions when Natasha's boyfriend attacked her, she'd taken to wearing clothing that concealed her budding shape. As a teenager, she'd done everything possible to fade into the background and
remain inconspicuous. She certainly remembered Zach and his brothers, though—their bigger-than-life personalities, their reputations, their coal-black hair, green eyes, broad-shouldered bodies and sheer male power. It was a wonder the female population of Indian Springs had survived the excitement and heart palpitations the Coulter boys had caused just by their existence.

She plucked the cotton balls from between her toes, tossed them into the empty pharmacy bag and walked down the porch steps to the water spigot at the corner of the house. Twisting the handle, she filled a metal watering can and carried it back onto the porch to water the pots and hanging baskets filled with red and white geraniums and trailing green ivy. Toes curling against the cool boards of the floor, she bent to reach a terracotta pot filled with herbs, the plants still small green shoots only inches above the black dirt.

“Good morning.”

The deep male drawl had her spinning around. Water from the can splashed her toes. Zach walked toward her up the walkway and behind him, a newer model black pickup truck was parked at her curb.

“Hello.” She didn't move, staring at him. She hadn't heard his truck and she briefly wondered if merely thinking about him had conjured him up out of thin air. “What brings you out this morning?”

“Actually, I came into town to see you.” He mounted the shallow steps.

Cynthia stepped back, unconsciously giving way before she realized she was doing so and stopped abruptly. Pleased though she was to see him, she couldn't help
wondering why he was here. She tried to ignore the heated rush of blood as her heart beat faster.

“I see.” She didn't, not really, but nonetheless, gestured to the corner of the porch where two wicker armchairs sat at right angles to the love seat. “I was about to have coffee. Would you like some?”

“Thanks.” He followed her across the porch, waiting until she settled onto the love seat before dropping into an armchair. He took off his white Stetson and set it on the empty seat of the second wicker chair, raking his fingers through his hair.

“What's it like being home again after so much time away?” she asked, willing her fingers not to tremble as she poured coffee into mugs and handed one to him. She'd brought the carafe out earlier, knowing she'd want a cup before long.

He leaned forward to take the cup from her hands, his fingers brushing hers.

Even the small contact sizzled along her nerve endings. It was all she could do not to snatch her hand away from his. Instead, she calmly filled a mug for herself and sat back, sipping her coffee while trying not to stare.

In the days since they'd talked briefly outside the cafe on Main Street, Cynthia had repeatedly told herself Zach couldn't possibly have looked as good as she remembered—but she'd been fooling herself. The reality was better than her memory—and her memory had been pretty spectacular.

He sat relaxed in the white chair, the blue mug held loosely in one hand, his right ankle resting on the knee of his bent left leg. His black hair gleamed in the sunlight, his tanned skin dark against the stark white of a
Western shirt that fastened with black pearl snaps down the front. His long sleeves were rolled up to reveal the powerful muscles of his forearms, the shirttails tucked into the belted waistband of faded jeans that faithfully hugged the heavy muscles of his thighs.

He looked wholly male sitting in the feminine white wicker chair with its floral rose cushions. And yet, he seemed totally relaxed and comfortable.

No wonder the women in Indian Springs gossip about him,
Cynthia thought.
Just looking at him is better than eating a gallon of toffee-caramel ice cream.

“To be honest, I'm not sure I can tell you.”

“Hmm?” She scrambled blankly for a second, trying to remember what she'd asked him. Then memory kicked in. Oh, yes, she'd wondered how it felt to be home. “Really? Why not?”

“Sometimes it's as if I left town only yesterday and other times, I feel like a stranger.” He shrugged. “Hard to explain.”

“I've felt like that a few times since I've been home,” she told him. The pull of sexual tension eased a fraction as sympathy for their shared experience flooded her.

“Yeah?” He lifted an eyebrow, waiting expectantly.

“When I feel as if I left only yesterday it's usually when I'm doing something I loved as a child.” She pointed at the flower beds along the picket fence. “Like raking the flower beds. I used to do that every spring, summer and fall with my Uncle Nicholas and the memory is still so clear that for a moment yesterday, I was disoriented. I actually felt a little dizzy and unbalanced for a few seconds.”

“That's it, exactly,” he agreed. “Although I haven't
felt dizzy—nothing physical, just the odd moment of feeling as if I'm caught in a time warp.” He eyed her quizzically. “How long since you were home last?”

“I visited my uncle about four months ago but I was here only for a few days.” Cynthia let her gaze move slowly over the porch and the sunlit yard beyond. “Everything was covered in snow then,” she said with a sigh. “And Nicholas was drawing up sketches for the flower beds. He wanted to put in a perennial border along the fence between our yard and Mrs. Riley's next door. He had seed catalogs stacked on the dining room table.”

“What happened?”

“He was sitting in his chair in the living room and apparently had a massive heart attack. The doctors told me he probably never knew what was happening.”

“That's not a bad way to go,” Zach commented, his voice gentle.

“Yes, he had ninety-two wonderful years of living and he was healthy, active and happy right up until the end.” Cynthia realized her eyes were damp. She brushed her fingertips over her lashes before looking back at him. “What about your father?”

“He had lung cancer,” Zach told her, the gentleness gone from his features and replaced by an odd lack of expression. “Apparently, he was ill for some time.”

“And no one let you know?” Cynthia asked, surprised. Once again, a feeling of kinship filled her.

“I didn't keep in touch after I left the Triple C,” he told her. “I doubt anyone knew how to contact me—or any of my brothers.”

“I'm sorry.” Sympathy had her instinctively leaning forward.

“Don't be,” he told her. “We weren't exactly the perfect family. In fact—” his mouth twisted with derision “—I'd say we're pretty much the poster family for dysfunction.”

Cynthia frowned. “I'm sorry, I didn't mean to dredge up bad memories.” She'd heard her mother, neighbors and school friends gossip about Joseph Coulter's drinking and his sons' wild ways, but the details had always been vague.

“You didn't.” He shook his head. “That's all water under the bridge. Over and done with.” He sat forward, both feet on the floor, his forearms propped on his thighs and hands cradling the blue coffee mug. “But my family and their history at the Triple C does have something to do with the reason I came here this morning.”

“What's that?” Puzzled, she searched his features but couldn't read a trace of sadness or regret for his father's passing.

“You told me you have experience in managing boutique hotels.”

“That's true.”
Although,
she thought wryly,
my career is pretty much at a standstill at the moment.

“I'm renovating and reopening the Coulter Lodge. I'd like you to come to work for me.”

Cynthia was speechless. A job offer was the last thing she'd had on her mind when she'd seen him striding up her sidewalk.

“I'm at the planning stage, but speed is crucial,” he went on. “I need someone who understands the business and can come on board immediately. Are you interested?”

“I'm always interested in job offers,” Cynthia said,
trying to consider all the aspects. “But I can't give you an answer until I know more about it.”

“Makes sense.” He nodded as if approving. “Since you grew up in Indian Springs, I'm assuming you know a bit about the Coulter Lodge but I'll start with a brief history. The Lodge was my mother's idea. Dad was an expert fly fisherman—some said he was gifted—and he loved to hunt quail and pheasant. He had so many friends visiting to join him that Mom told him he should open a business. So he did. She designed the Lodge, he had it built and hired a crew to run it.

“During the ten or so years it was open, guests came from around the world to take fly-fishing lessons from Dad and go hunting with their friends.” Zach paused to take a drink of coffee. “When my mother died, Dad closed up the Lodge, and that was twenty-three years ago. It remained sealed until last week when Cade and I went in.”

He fell silent, the clipped words and brief sentences delivered in an unemotional tone as if he were reading the history of strangers from a book page. Once again, however, his eyes were alive with emotions.

“What did you find inside?” Cynthia prompted, enthralled by the bare-bones story and the human tragedy behind it that she suspected went much deeper.

“Lots of dust, cobwebs, water damage upstairs,” he told her. “The bones of the structure are solid, but it's going to take a lot of work before it can be reopened.”

“Are all the furnishings ruined?”

He shook his head. “Not everything. A few of the bedsteads and antique oak dressers, washstands, etcetera, are fine. But nearly all of the furniture will have to
be replaced because of damage from the mice, raccoons and water. And all of the mattresses, drapes, bedding and any upholstered furniture will have to be tossed out.”

“It must have been eerie,” she mused, “walking into a building that's been sealed for so long.”

“It was a little odd,” he confirmed, but the inflection was back in his voice and a small smile lifted the corner of his mouth.

Cynthia drew her attention away from the curve of his lips and tried to focus on the details of his job offer. “You said you want a manager on board immediately, but clearly it's going to be some time before there's a hotel to run. What short-term duties would the position have?”

“My goal is to have the Lodge open, filled to capacity and generating income as soon as possible. I've hired a crew and we'll start tearing out drywall day after tomorrow but I need a person who's knowledgeable about the business immediately. Someone who can handle the details of finding and hiring an advertising firm, choosing and replacing the necessary furnishings—generally overseeing the entire operation.”

“What salary are you offering?”

The dollar figure he named stunned Cynthia, although she'd braced herself not to react. It was more than twice what her last job had paid and in addition, she wouldn't have to leave Nicholas's house. The surge of elation was tempered with caution, however. Before she allowed herself to become involved, she needed to know the ground rules.

“However, until the hotel is open and generates
income, you'd need to be willing to be creative about compensation. Because although I have a venture capitalist funding the project, the capital outlay for the building renovation alone is going to be huge.”

“The salary is certainly competitive,” she said calmly. “I'm not averse to a creative compensation package if the terms are right. And the job sounds like a challenge, which is always a plus for me. But…” She drew a breath. “I'm going to be blunt with you, Zach. I may be misreading the situation, but I sense a personal…something…between us. Am I wrong?”