Both were dangerously good-looking.
As Atticus set a box on the table, he spotted her in the kitchen, noted the tools Sawyer’d left all over the stairway, and grinned. “Hey, Mallory. Got him working for you now?”
“He came in to get out of the rain.” She smiled back. “And then he couldn’t stand watching someone else work while he sat around.”
“Hi, Mallory.” Short and redheaded, Gin opened the box and set out sandwiches. Her voice held a soft Southern accent as she motioned to the food. “We have more than enough food. Take a break and join us.”
Mallory shook her head. Although she and Ware were getting along at the moment, she wouldn’t rile him by forcing him to actually associate with her. “I’d love to join you”—which wasn’t a lie, since Gin and Atticus were both nice—“but I have to check on my crew in town. We’re almost finished with Sarah Larson’s sunroom.”
“Sarah showed me what you’ve done already, and it’s gorgeous.” Gin opened a Diet Coke. “I’m trying to talk Atticus into one.”
Compliments on her work. Nothing could brighten a day faster. Mallory beamed. “Thank you. Sarah and I had fun designing the room—and in spite of the mess, she already considers it her afternoon refuge.”
“I noticed.” Gin smiled. “What’s next on your slate?” Her interest in everyone and everything was just one reason the counselor was so popular in Bear Flat.
Even with no wish to change, Mallory did admire people who were so sociable. “Lisa Holder wants to expand her kitchen into a country style with room for a big table.”
Gin nodded. “I can see why. Her kids are old enough to sit at a table, and a formal dining room is just not her, is it?”
“No.” Mallory grinned. “She said it’s so stuffy it makes her think of her mother-in-law every time they eat in there.” Everyone knew how relieved Lisa had been when her fussy in-laws moved to Arizona. “I’ll take down a wall and create one big kitchen/dining area, change the appliances around to make them more usable, put in glass-fronted cupboards, and bigger windows.” Mallory smiled, envisioning the area as it would be. “It’ll be cheerful and friendly and big enough for family meals.”
“You really do love your work, don’t you,” Gin murmured.
“Absolutely.”
Feeling Sawyer’s gaze on her, Mallory finished packing her tools. Rising, she smiled at Gin and Atticus. “It was nice seeing you two.” She nodded at Ware.
Out on the porch, she closed the door behind her and stopped. The rain had picked up, pounding down on the small covered porch, and her rain gear was in her truck. Bad planning on her part.
Under her feet, the sagging boards of the porch creaked—and whined.
Since when did wood whine? After another second, she heard the sound again.
She shook her head, opened the door…and hoped Ware had a heart under all his attitude. His aura said he did, after all. “Ware, you have a problem.”
She’d forgotten there were two Wares inside. Both brothers stepped out, crowding the tiny porch.
Sawyer frowned. “More dry rot?”
“Nothing so easy. Listen.”
The men stilled. Listened.
Nothing.
Sawyer shook his head. “I don’t—”
Whine.
He stiffened. “An animal?”
“Dog, I’d say. A coyote wouldn’t make a sound.” Mallory pointed down. “Under your porch.” Unable to keep from grinning, she opened her toolbox and handed him a flashlight.
He jumped off the porch, glanced at the mud, and let out an exasperated grunt. To his credit, he didn’t hesitate before kneeling in the pouring rain and shining the light under the porch. “Well, you’re a fucking mess.” He made a clicking noise. “C’mere, little guy. Let’s get you warm and dry.”
Mallory bit her lip as she listened to him…because his low crooning voice sounded the same as when they’d been in bed. To her everlasting annoyance, her insides went all melty.
Sawyer shined the light over the dog again. Hell, it wasn’t even a dog—it was a puppy. The dumbass had managed to wedge itself into a chink in the foundation. One more repair to schedule or other critters would end up under the cabin.
Gently, he shoved the pup back so he could ease its legs forward first. Reminded him of foaling and calving days back on the Idaho ranch. “There you go, pup. Easy now.”
A squeak of pain ripped his heart right in two. A second later, he had it loose, and the mutt was trying to burrow into his stomach. “All right, we’re out of here.”
Holding the squirming, chilled body against his ribs, he edged backward until he was out from under the porch.
Staying dry under the overhang, his brother grinned. “Look at you. Seems like you spent most of your youth soaked and covered in mud.”
“We both did, asshole.” Despite Sawyer’s token scowl, the memories were sweet. Maybe some of his worst moments had happened on their ranch—but the best ones outweighed them. “Gotta say, being covered in mud was more fun when I was ten.”
Gripping the pup around its bony ribs, he held it out for a good look. The dog had a sturdy build despite the lack of meat. Its fur was too dirty to determine the color, although seemed to be flecked white and gray. Its legs and cheeks were a lighter shade. Floppy black ears. Almost looked like a German shepherd, but shepherd pups were bigger. “Reminds me of the cattle dogs our neighbor used to raise.”
Atticus nodded. “I’d say yeah.”
“Aw,” Gin said. “Even with the mud, he’s awfully cute.”
Here was a soft heart. Perfect. Sawyer smiled at her. “You like puppies, right?”
Att snorted. “Gin, we best get going, or we’ll be late. Before you ask, bro, we already have a dog. Besides, you could use a mouser”—he eyed the pup—“when it gets bigger than a minute.”
“You’re a lot of help.” It’d been a forlorn hope anyway. Sawyer tucked the pup back against his chest. “Thanks for the food, you two. It’s appreciated.”
“You’re very welcome. Although a deli sandwich can’t compare to the homemade housewarming gift Mallory brought over when I moved in with Atticus.” Gin smiled at the contractor. “I’ve tried to make the rosemary-cheddar loaf and can’t come close to yours.”
A housewarming gift? Sawyer stiffened. Oh, hell. Talk about being hit with a stupid stick—he’d been completely wrong about Mallory’s reasons for bringing him food.
Mallory smiled at Gin. “If you want, come over, and we can make some together.”
“You’re on.” Gin followed Att off the porch, splashing through the puddles to the truck.
Mallory turned to Sawyer and held her hand out.
“All right.” Pleased, he started to hand her the pup.
She took a step back. “No, Ware. My flashlight—not the dog.”
“You’re female. Females always like puppies.”
She snorted. “I do like puppies. My cat, however, says they’re annoying.”
“You have a cat?”
“Mmmhmm. Which is why this little guy is all yours.”
Sawyer looked down. The puppy had snuggled down in the bend of his elbow, setting a tiny muzzle onto his forearm. One muddy picture of contentment. “Well, damn.”
What the hell was he going to do with a dog? “I don’t have any shit for dogs, and by the time I get him dry and—”
“I have a half-bag of puppy chow in my storage room. It’ll hold you over until you can drive to town tomorrow.”
Sawyer blew out a breath. “I’d appreciate it. Why does a cat owner have puppy food?”
“Because of strays like him. People see a pretty farmhouse or two and dump their unwanted pets…whereupon their pets end up as dinner for the coyotes, hawks, and foxes. Since some make it to my house, I keep food on hand.” She turned away. “You two dry off, and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Before he could speak, she was trotting toward her pickup.
Mallory was one nice woman.
While she fetched supplies, Sawyer gave the pup a warm bath in the sink. It’d been a long while, but he knew the basics. Like mud was bad.
By the time he’d finished toweling the pup off, Mallory was back. After she had filled a small dish with water, another dish got wetted-down kibble. “I’d guess it”—a quick look had her revising—“he is a bit over eight weeks, so at least he’s weaned.”
“And starving.” With an odd satisfaction, Sawyer watched the puppy dig into the food with tiny snuffling noises.
Now dry, the gray and white fur was fluffing out. Chest, legs, and cheeks were tan. Black nose. Black mask around his eyes. Its ear-tips flopped over. “Looks like an Australian cattle dog. Or mostly.”
He rubbed the small head with one finger and got a tail wag. Friendly guy. Far too fucking trusting.
“He’ll be a fine dog for this place,” Mallory said.
“Or yours.”
“Sorry, no. Besides, I don’t have any stock for him to tend—and he’ll want to work when he gets bigger.” The woman smiled down at the mutt. Her brown hair was darkened to almost black from the rain, making her eyes even greener. Her wet shirt clung to her small breasts and revealed how her lean waist widened into a gorgeous round ass.
She was drenched and not saying a word of complaint. She’d brought him supplies—and hadn’t let him push her into taking a puppy. Generous. Helpful. And not a wimp.
Dammit, he didn’t want to like her.
And no matter how fucking awkward, he owed her an apology. “I’m sorry about the soup and bread.”
Her eyes cooled. “Not a problem. My gramma was Slavic and deemed it an obligation to offer a new neighbor the traditional bread and salt. I hadn’t considered how a gift might be construed.”
“Funny what we absorb from our family.” For one thing, his English teacher mother had taught him enough to realize the little carpenter had a hell of a vocabulary.
“Isn’t it, though?” Hers had obviously left her with a talent of bowing out quickly. “I’m glad you have a pet, but remember—construction sites are deadly for animals. The crew will be here early tomorrow morning to finish up the roof.”
“Understood.”
She walked out the door, closing it firmly behind her.
“Well, mutt.” Sawyer stroked two fingers down the bony back. “Looks like it’s just you and me, kid.”
Adoring eyes stared up at him.
Odd how something so little could change the entire atmosphere of a room.
Chapter Ten
‡
With a few reusable grocery bags under his arm, Morgan Masterson crossed the street in Bear Flat. Damn Wyatt anyway. With his brother gone to some damn place in Africa, the guide work and household chores kept piling higher and deeper. Good thing the grocery store was open on Sundays.
Morgan scowled. It wasn’t the workload that torqued his jaw. No, the house—what Pa had called the “clan” home—was too empty. Wyatt would be gone until late winter. Although Cousin Kallie still worked as a guide, she was married and living with her husband, Jake Hunt. Virgil’d brought Summer to live in the house, but they’d only been married a year and were still playing kissy-face. Made Morgan feel like a spinster aunt.
And lonely. He and Wyatt had been together more often than he’d realized.
As he stepped up onto the boardwalk, he nodded politely to a man leaving the grocery store with a plastic sack in one hand.
The guy stopped. “Morgan Masterson?”
“That would be me.” Morgan looked the stranger over. A muscular six-two, an inch taller than Morgan. Close-cropped brown hair. Clean-shaven. The tan and sun lines said he spent time outside. A battered straw cowboy hat, dirt-stained jeans, ripped T-shirt, and work boots said he worked for a living. “What can I do for you?”
The guy stuck his hand out. “Sawyer Ware. I bought the property just down the mountain from yours.”
The new neighbor, huh. Remembering the gossip, Morgan shook hands, not quite certain what he thought. Ware had tried to protect women during a prison break, but he’d been in prison in the first place for driving after drinking…with a fatality. Then again, Atticus had mentioned his bro had PTSD.
Be all that as it may, the man was Atticus’s brother, and Atticus was a friend. “I saw you’re fixing the place up. You’ve got a job on your hands.”
“Yeah. I’m looking to bring in horses to lease out—or rent—for guide businesses that don’t want the hassle of maintaining and training their own stock.” He paused, obviously hoping for an expression of interest from Morgan.
“Sorry, the guy who makes those decisions for our business isn’t around. And won’t be around until late winter.” Anger sparked in Morgan’s gut. Their business was at a standstill…because Wyatt had taken his ass off to the other side of the world to find himself or whatever.
Sundays could be so satisfying. Mallory had cleaned her house, done laundry, and started a beef roast in the slow cooker. Ready to make a loaf of bread, she’d run into a problem—not enough flour.
Thus, this trip to Bear Flat.
After parking her pickup near the realty office, she strolled down Main Street toward the grocery store.
“Hi, Mallory!” a child called as he came up behind her and raced past toward a car and his mother, Lisa.
Mallory laughed and waved at Lisa, who had her other two children stowed safely in car seats.
Lisa waved back and motioned her last stray into the car.
Smiling, Mallory looked to see who else was in town…and froze.
Across the street, in front of the grocery, Sawyer Ware was talking with Morgan Masterson.
Darn it, she didn’t want her day spoiled by Ware’s attitude. Nevertheless, if she wanted to make bread, she had to buy flour.
Oh, get over yourself, Mallory.
Ware would greet her politely. She’d ask about the pup and be told it was fine, and that would be that. Just because her pulse increased every time she saw him, and her heart ached at his indifference, didn’t mean she couldn’t function. Her attraction to him was just…temporary. When she was old and gray, she probably wouldn’t even remember his name.
She snorted. Plato said, “The worst of all deceptions is self-deception.” So…fine. She’d probably never forget him, not in a million years.
It didn’t mean she couldn’t avoid him now.
In front of the bank, Mrs. Reed was sweeping around a half-barrel planter of orange and yellow nasturtiums. During the tourist season, the elderly woman and another shopkeeper kept the town’s hanging planters and barrels filled with vibrant blooms. “Hello, Mallory. How is the lemon geranium doing for you?”
“Beautifully. I love the scent.” Pleased with the diversion, Mallory leaned against a post. Maybe Ware would move on soon. “When I divide my sunset daylilies, would you like some?”
“I don’t have anywhere to put them; however, Frances said she needed something bright for a sunny corner.”
“Perfect.” Frances ran a small bed-and-breakfast just off Main. “The daylilies will be happy there.”
Another gardener who conversed with her plants, Mrs. Reed gave her an understanding nod. “They will, indeed. It’s a cheerful place.”
Mallory saw Morgan disappear into the grocery store. Maybe Sawyer would head away now. She turned back to Mrs. Reed. “I was wondering if—”
“Hey, old fart.”
The sneering voice came from across the street, and Mallory turned.
In front of the hardware store, three gang members circled Verne like coyotes around weak prey. Over seventy years old, the skinny, half-bald logger was never sober, yet was a complete sweetheart.
“Oh, no.” Mallory’s hands closed into fists.
“Smells worse’n a skunk,” one gangbanger yelled.
Another taunted, “What a fucking loser.”
Swaying, Verne looked at the three men in confusion.
The biggest punk had a swastika tattoo on his s
hiny shaved scalp, which suggested the men were Aryan Hammers. One man was heavy with greasy black hair and a long beard. The third had a buzz cut and piercings everywhere—along his lower lip, curving around his ears, and studding his cheeks and eyebrows.
The bearded one shoved Verne from behind.
The old man staggered forward and hit the hardware store’s display rack of tools. He’d barely managed to regain his balance when the man with piercings shoved him.
Mrs. Reed was close to tears. “We have to stop this.”
“Yes. We do.” Mallory started forward.
The yells had drawn Sawyer’s attention, and after dropping his sack on a bench, he stalked toward the gangbangers. In the quiet afternoon, his smooth voice came clearly across the street. “Leave the old guy alone. He’s not up to your weight class.”
Mallory’s heart skipped a beat. Many men would rescue women in trouble, like he had with her and Zoe. But to step in to save an old alcoholic?
Did the damn man have to keep proving he was a hero?
He was also way outnumbered.
She stared across the street, praying the gang would heed his advice.
Instead, the one with piercings made kissy noises at Sawyer. “Blow me, pussy.”
“What the fuck? I know you, asshole.” Moving toward Sawyer, the huge skinhead elbowed Verne out of his way.
The elderly logger hit the boardwalk and groaned in pain.
Uncaring, the skinhead stared at Sawyer. “You’re the one in the papers—You fucking bastard, you and your brother killed Aryan Hammers.” He grabbed a hatchet from the rack of tools outside the store.
“What the hell is going on?” Empty-handed, Morgan stomped out of the store.
Ware snapped, “Stay out of this, Masterson.”
“Like hell.” Morgan lined up beside Sawyer and scowled at the Neo-Nazis. “Get the fuck out of here.”
Jeering, the gang spread out. The enormous skinhead and the man with piercings headed straight for Sawyer.
“No, no, no.” Mallory frantically punched 911 and pushed the phone into Mrs. Reed’s hand. “Tell the dispatcher where to send the cops.”
Master of Solitude (Mountain Masters & Dark Haven Book 8) Page 8
