Winsor, Linda (4 page)

Deanna
had to admit, Shep was right about at least one thing: a shower. Aided by the
two aspirin she found in her purse, it worked wonders for her disposition. Or
maybe it was the clothes he had aired out in the dryer. Shep had nearly scared
her witless when he'd knocked on the bathroom door and asked if she wanted them
washed.

With
a towel wrapped tightly about her, Deanna had edged the slacks and blouse
through the crack of the door. "Sorry, dry clean only For what I paid for
them, they should be
self
-cleaning!"

A
circuit overload had delayed her from drying her hair until the clothes had
been fluffed in the dryer. As she waited for the lights to come back on after
the fuse blew, Shep mumbled something about a step-above knob and tube wiring
and meaning to upgrade someday. He must have thrown in one of those fragrant
fabric softener sheets though, for she felt almost like new when she stepped
out of the bathroom nearly an hour later.

Her
stomach growled at the tantalizing scent of the steaks cooking on the barbecue
grill on the back porch. She peeked through the screen door. "Anything I
can do?"

"Nope."
Shep took the scrumptious-looking meat off the grate. "Do you like your
steaks warmed or more done?"

"Pink."
Everyone had his or her own interpretation of rare, medium, and well done.

"Then
take this one inside while I give this other one another lick or two on the
coals."

"Sure
thing."

A
pitcher of tea—the real thing with bags suspended from the lift top—stood ready
on the table. The red Formica tabletop had been set for two with a pair of
matching glasses from a fast-food promotion and mismatched stainless ware.
Deanna put Shep's steak next to a glass of tea that he had half consumed. As
good as the grilled meat smelled, raw or not, she could have torn into it like
a hungry dog, but helped herself instead to another pretzel stick. Since the
steak had been frozen an hour earlier, it couldn't be much more than
warmed
as
he'd described it.

A
few minutes later, her benefactor joined her. Not only was her steak on the
platter, but so were four ears of corn wrapped in foil that had been roasted on
the coals.

"Worry
a critter too much and it'll toughen up on you," he warned, nodding at the
beef he set in front of her. "But see if that meets city specs
anyway."

Deanna
made a small incision and smiled. "Done to perfection...and none too
soon." She chuckled as her tummy growled again.

She
watched Shep retrieve baked potatoes from the microwave and juggle them to the
table, tossing one on each plate with a boyish grin. Then, wiping his hands on
his shirt, he took the seat opposite her.

"Mind
if I say grace, Deanna?"

"Not
at all. I am so thankful for this food."

She
bowed her head as he began. "Lord, we don't pretend to know Your purpose
all the time, but we thank You that You've provided for us one more day May
this food nourish our bodies as You nourish our souls. Amen."

"Amen,"
Deanna echoed, struck by the individual rendition of thanksgiving. But then,
everything she'd seen about her host so far was original. C. R. had been such a
stereotype, but she'd been too blinded by his sweet drawl and attention to
notice. Deanna banished the thought before she lost her appetite. She needed
all the nourishment she could get, for both body
and
spirit.

"So
how'd this place get the name Hopewell?" She helped herself to a shameful
dollop of block butter on her potato. Real tea, the familiar dinnerware and
Formica table, block butter—it was like stepping back in time, except no one
like Shep Jones ever sat across from Deanna at her grandmothers Formica table.

"It
was a mining town until the small vein of gold beneath it ran out. I guess a
lot of folks had high hopes that it would last longer. My uncle Dan always said
he 'well hoped' it might amount to a ranch some day." Shep topped off his
glass of tea. "That man could make a horse do anything he wanted."

The
genuine admiration playing beneath Shep's long, lazy lashes was for his Uncle
Dan, but it still made her heart do a somersault. Those lashes would be
dangerous if he intended to flirt.

"He
taught me a lot about animals, horses especially. People round these parts paid
top dollar for any Hopewell horse. I'm hoping to keep that reputation."

"So
this was a horse ranch then?" Deanna dug into the food on her plate rather
than risk being drawn into the unfamiliar territory of his eyes. She needed to
eat. Then she needed to think about her next move. The last thing she needed
was the same kind of distraction that got her in this predicament to begin
with—that of a man wielding a winsome Western charm.

"And
will be again someday," Shep replied with a wistful look. "Not that
we don't enjoy hunting," he admitted. "I guess I just inherited my
uncle's love of horses as well as his ranch."

"You
weren't raised here?"

He
shook his head. "I was a military brat. My folks moved all over till they
divorced. I went to school in D.C. where Mom moved and visited Dad at whatever
base he was stationed. But I spent every summer here with my dad's brother and
his wife."

"So
that's you in the picture on the mantel?"

"Yep."
He leveled a thoughtful look at her across the lazy Susan in the middle of the
table for what seemed an interminable time before picking up the conversation.
"After Uncle Dan died, his horses ran wild for two years. That sorrel that
ran you off the road? I've been trying to round him up for nearly three months.
He's an elusive son of a prairie biscuit."

"Is
that how long you've been here?" Deanna nodded toward the boxes that
prompted her observation.

"I
guess I ought to finish unpacking one of these days," he admitted with a
sheepish grin.

Deanna's
toes curled under in the confines of her shoes.

"But
enough about me. What kind of work brings you out to Big Sky from the Big
Apple?"

She
clenched her toes even tighter at the change in conversation. How much did she
dare tell? "I managed an advertising campaign for a Great Falls company,
and they offered me a position in their marketing department. I'm just out here
checking it out before I do anything definite."

"What's
the company's name?"

"Image
International."

Shep
scowled. "Never heard of it."

That
was because it was in New York. Amtron Enterprises had lured her away to Great
Falls—or rather, its suave CEO had after Deanna had put together a sweeping
advertising campaign for his company. "That's because we promote our
clients' services and products, not our own."

"Hmm."
It was an innocuous sound, but it might as well have been a full interrogation
as Shep contemplated her. Clearly his curiosity wasn't satisfied.

Deanna
scraped the remains of her baked potato, avoiding his eyes. "So what are
we going to do about my car?" The sooner she was away from Shep, the
better. She didn't know exactly why, she just felt like a worm on a hot brick
around him. Maybe it was the guilt his forthright manner made her feel. He
harbored a fugitive, even though she was innocent. The irony that a shave and a
bath had changed her perception of her rescuer from a serial killer to a knight
in shining armor did not escape her.

"Actually,
while you were in the shower, I radioed Charlie Long to pick your car up and
take it to his garage for damage assessment. He's the mechanic I told you about
earlier."

Deanna
nodded. That was good, so why did she feel like someone was pulling the carpet
out from under feet?

"The
way the crushed fender had flattened your right front tire, I don't think you
can drive it." Her reservation must have shown, for he added, "But if
you want me to drive you into Buffalo Butte after supper, I'll do it. A trip to
Great Falls is out of the question at this hour."

"Actually,
I am a bit strapped for cash. So if you don't mind, I'll take you up on your
offer of lodging tonight."

There
it was again, that flicker of suspicion. Or was it concern?

"Is
there anyone you need to get in touch with? Someone expecting you home
maybe?"

"No,
I..." Deanna thought quickly It was better that he not know she had a
place in the city because he may insist on taking her there—the last place she
wanted to be at the moment. "I was staying with business associates in the
city. Tomorrow I can call when we check on the car... not that they're
expecting me back until after the weekend. They knew I was checking out the
area."

Or
at least pretend to call them. The idea turned in her stomach. She was sinking
in a mire of lies and couldn't seem to escape them. It went against everything
she'd been raised to be, but for now, she had no choice.

"Well,
I can tell you repairing that fancy car of yours won't be a cheap fix, but
Charlie will give us the best price."

"I've
had a struggle making the insurance premiums to start with, fender bender or
not."

So
how do you happen to be driving a snazzy imported sports car if you're strapped
for cash?
Was
that the question behind the curious appraisal fixed on her and he was too much
of a gentleman to ask?

"But
since I chased the red into your path, I feel kind of responsible, even if you
were on my property."

"The
car's not new, believe me. I was just in the right place at the right
time." Okay, that much
was
true. "And the bank owns more of it
than I do."

Another
truth. Deanna had never been the kind to fall for any kind of scam, but when
she did, she went all the way—losing her head and a good job, going into debt
for a "new" pre-owned car because it looked hot, and ending up with a
silver-tongued swindler.

Beginning
to feel like she was on the receiving end of a twenty questions game, Deanna
resisted the urge to squirm in her chair. After all, the guy deserved to know a
little about the stranger he was taking into his home... just not everything.
She gathered her napkin from her lap and made a show of dabbing at her lips,
her attention wandering beyond Shep to the cabinet bulkhead. A small,
embroidered plaque hung there, its background yellowed with age. The words,
nonetheless, were clear: Father Knows Best. The stitched image of an open Bible
implied which
Father.

"But
maybe we can work something out, since you can see I'm not exactly rolling in
the green stuff either."

Thank
You, Lord!
Even
though she didn't exactly deserve God's attention, given her lack of the same
to Him, maybe He was listening after all. Regardless, she was grateful.

"Though
I don't know how long a fellow can afford to feed you," Shep added with an
impish glance at her plate.

"Well,
since you feel
that
way," she rallied, buoyed to her feet both
spiritually and physically. "I guess I'd better try to earn my supper and
do the dishes."

"Deal.
The soap's under the sink. I'll take out the scraps for the barn cat and check
on Ticker... unless you need me for something else."

Deanna
wanted to say, "No thanks, you've scrambled my thoughts enough as it
is." Instead, she called out above the rattle of the dishes in the sink.
"Go ahead. Just pretend I'm not here."

"I
doubt I can do that."

Startled
by his comment, she glanced over her shoulder to see him half in and half out
of the screen door, staring at her in unabashed appreciation. Heat crept up
from the open collar of her blouse as those brown eyes of his suspended her
pulse and breath for an electric moment. Then, with a mischievous wink, she was
released.

"Nope,
it's not every day a man has someone to do his dishes."

***

Shep
ducked out of the door, letting it slam behind him. The smile that had grazed
his lips faded as he strode across the dirt yard down the narrow street toward
the livery stable. He hardly paid any attention to the yellow tabby that fell
in step with him, eager for the food scraps he'd gathered up in a napkin while
clearing the table. He shook them out as he walked along, but his thoughts spun
like a load in Aunt Sue's old washer, around the woman he'd left in his
kitchen, kicking up enough ruckus to make his head hurt.

What
was wrong with that picture besides the obvious— svelte silk and linen in a
gingham setting? Salon-manicured nails in dishwater? Lost in the case of Deanna
Manetti, Shep slowed as he approached the butcher shed.

Startling
Shep from his introspection, Ticker emerged from the shed and bolted the door
behind him. "Yep, I smell it too."

"What's
that?"

"Trouble,
with a big
T.
I was just comin' to check on you," his longtime
friend and partner informed him.

"Not
like that I hope," Shep snorted, as the man pulled off his apron and
wadded part of it into his back pocket. "You already scared the daylights
out of her." Twenty years Shep's senior, Ticker had helped Uncle Dan ever
since Shep was a kid. Part Indian and part mule, his uncle used to say of his
friend and employee.