Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8)

by Cherise Sinclair

  Although the contractor’s cheeks darkened, he didn’t back down.

  “I see. Well, email me the estimate, and I’ll let you know.” Tamping down anger, Sawyer held out his hand.

  After a hesitation, Burns shook his hand politely.

  As the contractor drove away, Sawyer sighed and hoped to hell the other guy worked out.

  *

  Late in the afternoon, Mallory turned off Kestrel Mountain Road onto Whiskey Creek Lane—her own road. Earlier, her answering service had relayed the request for an estimate. It’d been a shock to hear the property across the road had been sold. Then again, the owner lived—had lived—in Los Angeles, and the real estate listing had been out of Modesto rather than local.

  Once again, she was behind on the news. She rolled her eyes at the teasing Gramps would have dealt out. A total extrovert, he’d never understood her lack of interest in gossip.

  These days, she did try to pay attention to the news, but hey, she’d been busting ass over the past few weeks to add a new room to the Conleys’ house before their new baby arrived. Then she’d scored a contract with a property management firm to upgrade the rental houses vacated by the prison staff.

  So…she had a new neighbor—Mr. Ware. Had Atticus Ware or one of his relatives bought the property? She hoped the new owner wasn’t another city guy. Gramps hadn’t liked selling to the CEO and had complained loudly. “The land was meant to be worked, to have horses. Cattle. It’s wasted on some city dude who just wants to build himself a fancy house.”

  According to the answering service, this new owner wanted work done on the stable. A stable meant horses. Gramps would be pleased…wherever he was.

  She’d be pleased, too. On summer evenings, she and Gramma had sat on the porch swing, watching the horses in the meadow. The new foals would bounce and race across the green grass. In the far pastures, cattle would graze quietly. Those were treasured, peaceful evenings.

  Halfway down the gravel road, she turned left into the driveway and studied the buildings with an eye to repairs.

  Yes, the stable had been neglected. A new roof would be required, for sure, from shingles and possibly right down to the rafters. Door frame, possibly. If the roof leaked, the floored areas, like the tack room, might have rotted through.

  She parked and headed for the small cabin. The log building was in poor shape, although the white and red rose bushes bracketing the decrepit porch added a note of brightness. Her first summer here, Dodger, the old cowhand who’d lived in the cabin, had given her riding lessons. The roses had been her return gift. He’d thought she was crazy…and she’d learned not everyone loved the same things. Rather than giving plants, she’d learned to bake him the cakes and cookies he loved.

  Dodger had died while she’d been in college…and Gramps had sold the property soon after.

  Shaking off the bittersweet memories, she moved up the path.

  The door to the cabin opened, and a man stepped out and came down the steps.

  No. Oh no.

  Her one-night stand.

  Sawyer.

  Seriously? She glanced up at the heavens. Karma—seriously? Surely she hadn’t done anything bad enough to justify this humiliation. For Pete’s sake, she was still raw from his rejection in the feed store two days ago.

  She frowned as everything came together. Sawyer Ware.

  Oh, hiss and spit, this was Atticus’s brother who’d been a prisoner and was stabbed trying to prevent a prison escape and was later given an early release by the governor. She’d heard he’d stayed with Atticus after his release…which was why he’d been on the road the night Zoe was attacked. And why he had the scar on his side.

  Note to self: Pay more attention to gossip.

  She lifted her chin and walked up to the porch.

  His brows drew together. “Mallory.” His tone was unwelcoming, but at least he remembered her name.

  At least, he’d been polite enough to get her name. She could be polite, too. “Sawyer Ware?” Maybe he wasn’t the owner?

  Unfortunately, he nodded.

  “My answering service said you needed some construction work done.”

  His eyebrows lifted. His gaze flicked to her truck with the McCabe Construction logo, then to her attire—boots, jeans, work shirt. Her clipboard. He hadn’t known McCabe Construction was her company.

  Did he think she was visiting in hopes of turning a one-night stand into two?

  She didn’t let the insult change her expression.

  After a second, he held out his hand. “I take it you’re Mal McCabe.”

  “Correct.” His hand was as callused and strong as she remembered. He was as careful with his strength as she remembered.

  Having a good memory could really suck. “You want work done on the stable?”

  “Right. And the cabin. Let me run down what I have in mind. For the bid, I’d like separate estimates for each building, breaking down the materials, labor, and time.”

  He was obviously a man who knew his own mind and what he wanted. Although it still hurt to remember how it had felt kissing him, being under him—being with him, she liked how he’d put his potent sexuality away.

  If she got the job, it appeared he could keep things professional.

  If he couldn’t, she sure could.

  An hour later, as Sawyer waited for Mallory to finish examining the breaker box, he was still cursing the fates—and his own libido—which had set up this goat-fuck. Smart men didn’t screw where they worked. Unfortunately, he had, and she was his only choice for a contractor. He already knew Larry Burns didn’t want the job.

  Well, Atticus had said both general contractors were good ones. Sawyer’d checked, and neither business had a history of disputes with clients or subcontractors.

  Even better, Mallory—Mal—was obviously not interested in going for seconds. If anything, she downplayed her femininity. Work boots and jeans. A button-down shirt with her company logo—although, yeah, the blue somehow highlighted her green eyes. No makeup. Hair in a thick brown braid down her back. She wore a heavy tool belt. She wasn’t trying to hide her figure, but the foremost impression was of strength and competence.

  He liked her knowledge and attention to detail. She’d gotten right down in the dirt and then gone up in the rafters, checking for dry rot. In the cabin, she’d pointed out his idea of taking down a wall would mess with a load-bearing beam and had suggested alternatives.

  Leaving the breaker box, Mallory walked over. “All right, I have enough information. Give me a day to play with the numbers, and I’ll have an estimate for you.”

  “That works.” He liked the way her attitude was all business…and couldn’t help remembering when she was all sweetly submissive. Not going there, Ware.

  At her pickup, he politely opened the door for her. “Do you have an idea when you’d be able to start?”

  Her eyes narrowed, and she stared over his head as she thought. “My roofers can start right away, which is good, since it’s not long until the fall rains and snows arrive. The rest of my crew is working on other sites. Offhand, it’ll be a couple of weeks before everyone is here.”

  Reasonable. He wouldn’t trust a contractor who had no work to do. “Good. I look forward to seeing your estimate.”

  She merely nodded.

  Sawyer watched as the woman pulled left out of his drive and drove to the end of the road. After a right turn into her S-shaped drive, she headed uphill to her house on the south side of the mountain valley. Part of her wrap-around porch faced his land. The kitchen windows would look over the length of the valley toward the main road. He’d bet it had a nice view.

  He studied the location for another minute. Toward the west, the rear of the house must overlook the tree-lined creek. Another nice view.

  His cabin sat at the lowest part of the valley, close enough to the creek he could hear the musical babbling at night. And his windows looked out over the wealth of meadowland. All his.

  Walking into h
is house, he glanced around. A couple of days earlier, his furniture had been delivered from the storage unit. He didn’t have much, but over the years, he’d acquired a few pieces he liked. The black leather couch and two armchairs were damned comfortable and sturdy enough for his size. His heavy oak coffee table didn’t groan when he put his feet up.

  Although the king-size four-poster strained the limits of his bedroom, it accommodated his height…and his needs when he brought home a woman who enjoyed bondage.

  His lips twitched as he glanced in the direction of his new neighbor. Having tasted her and heard the high sweet noises she made when she came, it’d been fucking difficult today to keep his behavior professional and…indifferent.

  He had to appreciate how well she’d done the same. No innuendos. If she was dismayed at having to deal with a man she’d fucked, she hadn’t let it show. He had to respect her for that.

  With luck, it would work out. He’d do his part and keep his distance.

  Chapter Eight

  ‡

  A week later, Mallory climbed the ladder to the stable roof where her roofing team was working. The underlayment was in place. Russell was scooping trash into the dumpster, while Randy’d started on the shingles. “Looking good, guys.”

  They gave her mock salutes. The Booth twins were in their mid-twenties, city boys who’d fallen in love with the mountains. They weren’t social enough to make good guides or work in the tourist service industries, but construction suited them to a T.

  The other three in her crew were working on a remodel in town, and she’d stop by there later. She did a quick check of the stable interior and saw the electrician had updated the wiring. Excellent. A glance at her schedule showed she had a couple of hours free, so she headed into the cabin.

  As she worked on the trim for the newly installed and enlarged kitchen window, she breathed in the scent of the pasture grasses. She should savor every minute of the last warm weather; winter was coming all too soon.

  Through the window, she could see the Mastersons’ horses grazing in their south pasture. Two geldings watched Ware repairing a broken slat in the fence.

  Mallory shook her head. The man was far too watchable. When she’d arrived this morning, he’d been tearing down the dining room wall. His sweat-soaked tank top had clung to his pumped-up muscles…and her mouth had gone dry.

  Foolish me.

  Honestly, she didn’t want to notice his sexy body. He’d hired her as a contractor. He was a client—nothing more, nothing less—and he’d get her best work, no matter their history. Firmly steering her thoughts back to construction, she walked out to her truck to get more nails.

  Returning, she glanced around, trying to see what the place would look like when finished. The front of the cabin held the great room. The dining area and kitchen made up the back. In the very center, a staircase led to the bedroom loft.

  She grinned. Talk about no privacy. With the bedroom overlooking the great room, this was definitely a one-person house.

  The logs and chinking, as well as the roof beams, were exposed. Here and there, the rough plank floor was covered with heavy brown, black, and white area rugs in Native American designs. The heavy living room furniture looked solid and comfortable; however, there wasn’t much else. No comfy pillows or throws. One lamp with a burled wood base sat on a lonely end table. Hooks beside the back door held a black felt cowboy hat and a jacket, and the kitchen was bare bones.

  Then again, the man had just moved in…which made him a new neighbor.

  Mallory grimaced. Gramma had been stringent about neighborly duties—like offering the bread and salt of welcome to newcomers. Under the silent weight of the ghostly decree, Mallory had baked last night. This morning, she’d left a loaf of rosemary bread, sea salt, and a container of her homemade soup in Sawyer’s kitchen.

  She needed to tell him it was there.

  A couple of hours later, as she was cleaning her work area, Ware came in the back door and into the kitchen.

  “Looks like the roofing is going well.” His straw cowboy hat darkened his hard features and turned his blue eyes to indigo. Dirt and sweat streaked his face and muscular arms. Filling a glass of water, he drank it down, his Adam’s apple moving up and down in his tanned neck.

  She’d kissed that neck and nibbled along his jaw… Don’t go there. “Yes. It looks as if the rains will hold off long enough to finish.”

  Noticing the loaf of bread on the counter, he glanced at her.

  “I, ah, made bread and soup last night. I brought you some.” As his face darkened, she added, “It’s pretty good. I—”

  His gaze filled with irritation, and his aura darkened. “Thanks, McCabe. But no.” Without another word, he stalked out of the house.

  Dismayed, she stared after him.

  Well, his meaning was certainly clear. He was a client and nothing else. Drawing a line was his prerogative, but she’d assumed they could be friendly. He was her nearest neighbor, for heaven’s sake.

  Although Gramma’s ghost would be appalled, there would be no more neighborly gestures. Because right now, it rather felt as if he’d kicked her.

  Back working on the fence, Sawyer saw Mallory drive down the road. Probably checking on her other job site in town.

  He had to admit the woman worked hard and had no problem getting her hands dirty. This morning, she’d been up with the Booth brothers on the stable roof, then turned her hand to some excellent finish work on his new kitchen window.

  He winced as he thought of his behavior a few minutes ago. He’d been damn rude. But, hell, she’d brought him homemade food—as a girlfriend would do.

  She wasn’t his fucking girlfriend.

  Justified or not, he felt as if he’d kicked a puppy.

  Dammit, he didn’t want to be friends. She’d had her fun with him; now playtime was done and over. He sure didn’t want her running over to his place every time she felt like scratching an itch.

  Best to make his boundaries clear…especially since he’d liked fucking her so much he couldn’t get her out of his head. He had to keep his damn distance.

  His focus needed to be on his mission—patrolling Bear Flat at night, staking out the Aryan Hammers’ house, and trailing the gang members. Midweek, he’d stopped a mugging, knocked the gangbanger unconscious, and left before the police arrived. In loose clothing and with a ball cap pulled down, he doubted the two elderly tourists could ID him—but they’d looked damned determined to make sure the skinhead went to jail.

  One Hammer down.

  Two nights ago, he’d caught four of the fuckers breaking into the feed store and, unfortunately, decided he couldn’t take them all. He’d kicked over a garbage can, and the noise had sent them running. His jaw set. Next time, he’d take the risk and go after them.

  Because one of these days, they’d go after Atticus again. Or they might hurt someone else. Women were fair game to those bastards, and the pretty contractor had job sites all over town. She worked late. Sometimes alone. If they went after her…

  As the wood splintered around the screw, he realized what he was doing. Yeah, his mind wasn’t on the work at all. He needed to break for lunch anyway.

  As he walked back into the house, trying to remember if he had any food left in the fridge, his stomach let him know he was an idiot for turning down home-cooked food.

  Growling at himself, he grabbed a frozen dinner out of the freezer, ripped the top off, and set it in the microwave. When he tossed the cardboard into the trashcan under the sink, he stared.

  In the garbage, along with coffee grounds and trash, were a small loaf of bread and a plastic container of soup.

  Yeah. He was an asshole.

  Chapter Nine

  ‡

  After Ware had drawn his line in the sand, Mallory did her best to stay out of his way, and another week passed with no altercations.

  With luck, today would be no different. Mallory concentrated on finishing the installation of the new butcher-
block countertop in the kitchen.

  An early fall thunderstorm had forced Ware inside, and he was repairing the staircase railing. The man was good with his hands. No surprise. His aura indicated he’d endeavor to achieve competence with anything he attempted.

  In an effort to keep her distance, she’d plugged her iPod into her portable speaker and turned the music up loud enough to discourage conversation. She didn’t want to talk with him, since she might forget the discomfiting fact that he didn’t like her.

  At least, having made his opinion of neighborly gestures quite clear, he seemed willing to accept her as a fellow workman.

  She had to remind herself his choices were his prerogative.

  Hers were her own, too, and oddly enough, she still liked the man. Although he had the manners of a drenched cat when annoyed, he was otherwise polite. Her crew enjoyed his company. He didn’t shy from work, kept his home tidy, and had paid his first invoice immediately.

  In the fireplace, an early fire had died down to coals, leaving the room warm. Between the hammering of the rain and the haunting music of Celtic Woman, the cabin was a cozy place. Although Ware didn’t talk, he wasn’t on edge either, and they worked on their separate tasks in a pleasant silence.

  The sound of a vehicle in the driveway drew her attention, and she moved to look out the great room window. “Not one of my guys.”

  Ware grunted and rose. As he stepped out the front door onto the decrepit porch—which Mallory planned to shore up, whether or not he asked—cool, moist air whipped into the house.

  “Hey, bro,” a man called. “Gin wanted to see how the renovations are coming. We brought you some lunch, too.”

  It was Atticus, Sawyer’s brother, with his girlfriend, Gin.

  As Atticus and Sawyer followed Gin into the house, Mallory saw how much the brothers resembled each other. Tall, well-built, brown hair, blue eyes—and yet, quite different. Sawyer’s eyes were a pure dark blue. Atticus’s held a tint of gray, and he was slightly taller and leaner, Sawyer more heavily muscled. Sawyer was clean-shaven with very short hair; Atticus had a mustache, trim beard, and collar-length hair.