Sage Creek

by Jill Gregory

  “Gran, I just need some more time. Another month or two.”

  Or twenty.

  “In the meantime,” she told Martha and Dorothy, before either of them could argue further, “please don’t give my phone number to anyone. Not until I say so. And right now, I’m sorry, but I have to leave.”

  She jumped to her feet, startling Tidbit, who also scrambled up and gazed at her worriedly. “I’m due to meet Mia at the Double Cross to plan Lissie’s shower,” she explained.

  “Well, then. We’ll simply need to table this discussion for another day, won’t we?” Gran smiled ruefully at her friends.

  “Just remember,” she told Sophie, “that when you’re ready, we have a list. And there are others on it, besides John and Roger. Good men, every one of ’em. Only the best for my granddaughter.”

  Great, just what I need. Bippity, Boppity, and Boo in charge of my love life.

  After brushing a hasty kiss on her grandmother’s cheek, Sophie rattled off good-byes to Martha and Dorothy, then shot a short, speaking glance in her mother’s direction and made a run for it.

  Tidbit trotted at her heels as she made a beeline for the front hall.

  “No, Tid, you can’t come this time. Stay here,” she told him distractedly, tugging her leather jacket from the closet, grabbing her handbag, and yanking open the door. Then she let out a muffled scream at the sight of the man standing on the porch.

  Tidbit barked maniacally, dashing forward, ready to defend Sophie and the house with his life.

  “Stay, Tidbit! Down!” Sophie ordered automatically, staring at the man standing before her, not quite able to accept he was there.

  His shoulders were hunched against the wind, his right hand lifted, poised to knock. He took a step back, because of either her or the dog, she couldn’t tell which. She only knew he looked every bit as startled as she felt.

  “Mr. . . . Hartigan? What . . . are you doing here?”

  “Taking matters into my own hands.”

  Her former geometry teacher stood five foot ten. He was still as wiry and tough-looking as a seasoned ranch hand, but his hair was streaked with gray now, and one clump of it fell over his brow as he regarded her warily from deep-set brown eyes that had always reminded her of dried-out plum pits. There were crow’s feet at the corners of them, and deep lines scored his forehead.

  But there was something in his stern, caustic face she’d never seen before when he’d lectured in class, handed her back a paper with a big red F scrawled across it, or told her that no, she could not retake the test.

  He looked nervous. As nervous as she’d felt every day in his classroom.

  “There’s something you need to know, Sophie. If no one else is going to tell you, well, uh, I will.” Doug Hartigan cleared his throat. He looked past her into the living room and then spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by everyone in the house.

  “Your mother and I are dating. Each other,” he clarified quickly. “And that’s not all.”

  Through the shock that slammed her, Sophie was aware that his Adam’s apple was quivering. Mr. Hartigan took a deep breath and swallowed hard.

  “We’re not just dating. We’ve fallen in love.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sophie had no memory of driving into town. During the entire stretch of time she’d steered the Blazer over rough country roads, her mind was spinning.

  Her mother. And Mr. Hartigan.

  Brain freeze set in every time she tried to imagine it. She had no idea how the two of them had gotten together or even how long it had been going on—this dating business—and hopefully it was no more than that, despite what Doug Hartigan had said.

  She hadn’t waited around to discuss it with him or with her mother.

  She’d simply stepped aside to admit her former teacher into the house, taken one good look back at her mother’s flushed, distressed face, and fled, shell-shocked, toward the Blazer.

  Now she found herself cruising at a snail’s pace down Main Street, passing Roy’s Diner, the Cuttin’ Loose salon, and Benson’s Drugstore.

  Her stomach was roiling as she turned first right and then left toward the Double Cross Bar and Grill, parking in the gravel lot in back.

  She could hear Johnny Cash’s “I Walk the Line” blasting from the jukebox. Waves of energy pulsed outward through the crowded lot.

  The Double Cross would be jam-packed. She needed it to be. Despite her earlier reluctance, she now needed to escape her own thoughts, to be surrounded, engulfed by people and noise and chatter—enough to crowd out the image of her former geometry teacher walking into her house.

  Mr. Hartigan had tormented Sophie for an entire year of high school. She’d hated him, hated her life that entire year. All because of him.

  She hadn’t been able to master geometry, she just hadn’t. Not that she hadn’t tried. Every night her mind twisted around the problems, trying to make sense of them.

  Hartigan, though, had never cut her any slack or given her an inch for trying. Even all the extra credit she labored over, trying to boost her grade, only earned her a pathetic D.

  Which was at least better than an F.

  Her father had expected straight As from both Sophie and Wes in every subject. But even Hoot had finally learned to just grit his teeth over geometry and accept less than he wanted.

  Despite the tutor her mother had hired, Sophie could never wrap her head around isosceles triangles and supplementary angles and vortexes.

  And Doug Hartigan had seemed to take personal affront at her confusion. Hoot had finally been forced to accept that she simply could do no better in that particular subject, but he growled like a grizzly if she didn’t ace every other course.

  She leaned her forehead against the Blazer’s steering wheel as she realized that now the conversation she’d overheard while on the porch swing made sense.

  It was him. Pressuring her mother to tell her about their—what was it? A relationship? An affair? The very idea made her queasy. But her mother had kept silent. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell Sophie what was going on.

  And why was that?

  Because she knew I’d want to barf, Sophie thought. Or else, she has her own doubts about him.

  Diana McPhee was a smart woman. She’d already lived with one difficult man. What could she possibly see in a stern, gloomy geometry teacher who’d serially threatened to flunk her own daughter?

  Switching off the ignition, Sophie stared blindly out at the star-studded vastness of the Montana sky.

  Gran knew Mom was dating Mr. Hartigan. Did everyone else in town know too?

  Everyone except her?

  She slammed the door of the Blazer and headed toward the Double Cross with long, quick, angry strides.

  Rafe lined up his cue stick and considered his angle shot.

  He ignored his cousin Decker’s open skepticism that he’d make the difficult shot, and focused on the eight ball and the invisible line he saw in his head, the one going straight into the pocket.

  Eyes narrowed, he leaned in, took the shot. The eight ball glided across the table and sank. Smooth as wind on water.

  “Damn it. That makes three in a row. Man, are you having a helluva night.” Decker tossed back a swig of beer. “I need a break. Let’s grab some food.”

  “You always were a sore loser.” Rafe grinned as he handed off his cue to a short guy in a checked shirt waiting for a turn at the table.

  The Double Cross Bar and Grill was crowded tonight, its low-lit, cavernous space and long curving mahogany bar teeming with people and noise. A few dozen tourists were mixed in with the locals, enjoying the chance to rub elbows with real Montana cowboys.

  Laughter, conversation, and heated discussions simmered in nearly every corner. Waitresses in tight red shirts, jeans, and high-heeled red cowboy boots raced back and forth with trays loaded with rib eye steaks, burgers, pizzas, and drink refills as Martina McBride’s “This One’s for the Girls” blared and couples danc
ed, arms wrapped around each other as they gyrated their way around the square wooden dance floor.

  As Rafe and Decker worked their way toward the dark booths in the rear, he noticed a commotion at the table closest to the double doors.

  Some ranch hands were engaged in a heated argument. He recognized the lean man with dishwater blond hair who seemed to be at the center of the shouting match.

  Buck Crenshaw.

  It figures, Rafe thought, his eyes narrowing on the cowboy. He’d hired Crenshaw part-time a year ago to fill in for a few weeks when Rowdy Jones, one of his wranglers, had been laid up with pneumonia. He’d needed an extra pair of hands, and Crenshaw, new to town, had been looking for work.

  But Rafe had fired him less than a week later. It hadn’t taken long to see that Buck Crenshaw was no good with horses. In Rafe’s estimation he was probably no good period. He was rough and abrupt, always in a hurry—just his scent spooked the horses—the dogs too. Rafe had picked up on that right away.

  Crenshaw had been careless as well. The last straw came when Rafe made his rounds and checked the barns one snowy December night to find Crenshaw had failed to repair a loose floorboard in one of the barns and had left a push broom lying across the aisle of another. Keeping the aisles free of clutter and all repairs in order were cardinal rules for horse-barn safety. He’d had no choice but to fire the man when he showed up for work the next morning.

  Since then, Crenshaw had worked for two other outfits that Rafe knew of. Neither job had lasted more than a few months.

  Since he was sitting with a bunch of hands from the Hanging W, Rafe guessed he must have recently landed there.

  But not for long, based on the way all the other wranglers seemed to be glaring at him.

  “Holy crap, look what just walked in all alone,” Decker muttered, coming to a dead halt as they wound their way toward the booths. “I swear, if I wasn’t a happily married man—”

  Rafe followed his glance. A few feet ahead, a tall, long-legged beauty in a leather jacket, jeans, and boots had just swept into the Double Cross. She was gorgeous, a knockout, her rich tumble of caramel hair tousled by the wind, her walk swift and graceful, like she knew exactly what she wanted and where she was going.

  Only she didn’t.

  She paused five feet inside the door and scanned the booths, obviously hunting for someone.

  A lucky someone.

  And it was then that Rafe realized with a thud of shock who she was. Not a supermodel or Hollywood actress from one of the fancy mountain homes celebrities were building all the hell over Montana. No, she was his kid sister’s pesky best friend. Sophie McPhee.

  All grown up.

  And how.

  He recognized the perfect oval shape of her face, the wide-set eyes, and the delicate nose. The coltish gate he remembered from that young girl was now a graceful, lusciously female stride.

  “Hey, isn’t that Lissie’s friend—Sophie? Sophie McPhee?” Deck recognized her a fraction of a second after Rafe did. “Heard she was back in town. Divorced.” He dug an elbow into Rafe’s ribs. “That means she’s available. You should go for it, you lucky dog.”

  He and Deck were actually angling toward her as they slipped into a slim opening in the crowd. Sophie was moving too, edging deeper into the cavernous room—at the exact moment one of the Hanging W ranch hands—Wade Holden—shot to his feet, fists clenched, with Crenshaw doing the same. Crenshaw surged up from the table so violently he sent his chair tumbling backward.

  In an instant, he and Holden were charging at each other, their fists swinging. Crenshaw slugged Holden in the jaw and sent him spinning on a path that led straight toward Sophie McPhee.

  Rafe leaped without thinking, jumping between them. He took the brunt of the collision, which barely seemed to touch him as he shoved the off-balance wrangler aside.

  Rounding on Buck Crenshaw, Rafe’s gaze was flinty in the dimly lit glow of the bar. “You and Holden want to fight, take it outside, Crenshaw. Now.”

  “You heard the man.” Deck was right beside him, ready to rumble. “Get out.”

  “I don’t take no orders from you—either one of you.” Crenshaw’s brown eyes locked on Rafe. “Not anymore.”

  The fool’s drunk. Rafe recognized the boozy braggadocio and overbright glare in Crenshaw’s stare. He was swaying slightly on his feet and looked like he wanted nothing more than to hurl himself in uncontrolled fury straight at Rafe.

  “Bad move, buddy. Don’t even think about it,” Rafe warned quietly. He had four inches and twenty pounds on the man—Crenshaw would have to be as drunk as a skunk to even consider taking him on.

  “Get the hell out of here while you can still walk. Don’t make me toss you out that door myself.” His voice was low, meant for Crenshaw only, but his face was as hard and unflinching as iron.

  “Best not to force him to say it again,” Decker drawled.

  Crenshaw wavered. Fear warred in his eyes with drunken pride. Suddenly Big Billy Watkins, the owner and bartender of the Double Cross, strode up, 225 pounds of muscle, fat, whiskers, and wild mustang tattoos.

  “You heard ’em, Crenshaw. You too, Holden,” he boomed with a glance at the ranch hand Rafe had shoved aside, who was just now staggering to his feet. “I want the both of you outta my place. Now.”

  Wade Holden headed for the door, head down. But Crenshaw glared like a bull from Rafe to Decker to Big Billy, and suddenly seemed to slink into himself.

  His shoulders hunched and his chin shot out.

  “Even the beer here tastes like crap anyway,” he muttered, and veered around Deck to push his way through the double doors.

  Sophie let out her breath. She’d jumped back after Rafe intercepted the man who’d been tumbling right at her. She’d watched the entire confrontation while glued in place, her heart stuck in her throat.

  All around her, the spectators let out their collective breath. Big Billy sauntered back toward the bar, the crowd parting to let him through.

  People returned to the enjoyment of their steaks and pizzas and beers, and the chatter in the room surged, drowning the tension. A cowboy wearing a black shirt punched in a Waylon Jennings song on the jukebox.

  There was, if anything, an extra buzz in the air as the music and the excitement of the almost-fistfight circled through the place, but Sophie’s attention was focused completely on Rafe Tanner.

  He’d come out of nowhere. Protected her from getting knocked down, perhaps seriously hurt. She still felt shaken, thinking about what could have happened.

  “You all right, Sophie?”

  “I’m fine. He never touched me. I . . .” She couldn’t help the tiny shiver of reaction that swept over her now that it was over. “Thank you.”

  It was a miracle she got the words out without stammering. Rafe Tanner could have that effect on a woman.

  He was standing so close to her she could see the black irises of his midnight blue eyes, the solid outline of his jaw. In his charcoal T-shirt and jeans, with a sexy bit of five o’clock shadow across his chin, he was enough to make a woman swoon.

  How was it possible he could look even sexier now than the last time she’d seen him when she was a fifteenyear-old in shorts and a tank top, shocking the hell out of him by kissing him in his pickup truck?

  The intervening years had hardened him. An aura of toughness clung to his muscular six-foot-three-inch frame. But there was something more than sinewy strength and magnetism now. A quiet maturity. Confidence. Very different from the cocky recklessness of the boy she’d daydreamed about night and day when she was twelve.

  The next moment she noticed that his mouth—oh, God, that firm, sensual mouth—was curved upward in a hint of a smile.

  And what was so amusing? As embarrassment swept through her, she wondered if he was remembering the last time he’d come to her rescue? That day on Squirrel Road. That stupid kiss.

  She felt heat rush into her cheeks and hoped she wasn’t blushing. Her chin lifted. “I don
’t usually need rescuing these days,” she said tightly.

  Rafe’s smile widened. Now it reached his eyes. Damn it. He remembered. Or if he didn’t, she’d just reminded him.

  “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time,” Rafe said, his voice easy. “We’d better move out of the way before we get trampled.”

  He snagged her arm, and a jolt of electricity quivered through her skin where his hand touched it. He eased her back a few steps as a family of tourists barreled past them.

  “Nothing like a little excitement to welcome you back to town, Sophie,” Deck said heartily beside them.

  She hadn’t even noticed Lissie’s cousin before now, but once he spoke, she immediately recognized him.

  “I wouldn’t exactly call what just happened a welcome,” she replied with a rueful smile.

  So he gets a smile, I get nothing. Rafe was partly amused and partly irritated. He heard Deck say something about going on ahead to hunt up a booth, but he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze or his attention away from Sophie McPhee long enough to respond.

  The annoying little pest had transformed into a gorgeously sexy woman. Beneath the leather jacket, she was wearing a silky coral tank top and low-cut jeans. Rafe had to quell an impulse to stare at her breasts and those enticingly rounded hips. The top of her head didn’t even reach his chin, but her face was upturned to his and he felt himself getting lost in smoky natural beauty, the tilt of a shapely nose, the glimmer of cool green eyes. He’d have bet a dozen of his best quarter horses that the strands of her honey-colored hair would feel like a silken river flowing through his fingers.

  Good thing he’d given up his old ways, dedicated himself these days to being Ivy’s father. Because for the life of him, at the moment, his mind was a blank and he couldn’t come up with a single smooth, funny, seductively charming thing to say to her.

  “Ivy told me about her shopping trip today,” he heard himself saying. Lame. “She said you were a big help.”

  “Not really. Ivy didn’t need any help, she knew exactly what she wanted.”