"Well, maybe I was," he confessed as he stood; his potbelly pushed at the front of his bloody apron. "But that woman talks so much, she makes my head hurt." He untied his apron and tossed it on the worktable. "I just can't take a woman who talks too much. That's one thing I liked about your grandmother. She didn't talk just to hear her own voice."
Which wasn't entirely true. Melba had loved to gossip as much as anyone else in town. And it had taken Kate less than two weeks to discover that Gospel included gossip in their daily diet like it was a fifth member of the food groups. Meat. Vegetable. Bread. Dairy. All served alongside a healthy portion of "Vonda's youngest was caught smokin' behind the school."
"What about the woman who works for the sheriff? She seems nice and doesn't talk as much as Ada."
"That's Hazel." Stanley picked up the packages of T-bones, and Kate followed as he carried them through the store to the display case. The worn wood floor still creaked in the places Kate remembered as a child. The same Thanks for Shopping Here sign still hung above the door, and candy and gum were still sold on the first aisle. These days, though, the penny candy was ten cents and the owner's steps were slower, his shoulders more hunched, and his hands were gnarled.
"Hazel's an okay gal," her grandfather said as they stopped at the open refrigerated case. "But she isn't your grandmother."
The meat case had three decks and was split into four sections: chicken, beef, pork, and prepackaged, which her grandfather always called the "hanging meat." In Kate's sick mind, "hanging meat" had an entirely different connotation. She was from Vegas, where you could find Mr. Hanging Meat "dancing" at the Olympic Gardens five nights a week.
"Have you thought about retiring, Grandpa?" Kate asked as she straightened packages of Ballpark Franks. The subject had been on her mind, and she'd been waiting for the right moment to bring it up. "You should be having fun and taking it easy instead of cutting meat until your hands swell."
He shrugged one shoulder. "Your grandma and me used to talk about retiring. We were going to buy one of those motor homes and travel the country. Your mother's been nagging me about it, too, but I can't do it just yet."
"You could sleep as late as you wanted and not have to worry about getting Mrs. Hansen's lamb chops exactly an inch thick or running out of lettuce."
"I like providing the perfect cuts for people. I'm still good at it, and if I didn't have someplace to go every morning, I might never leave my bed."
Sadness tugged at Kate's heart, and together she and Stanley returned to the back room, where her grandfather showed her how to load the pricing gun with a roll of stickers. Every item got a sticker, even if the price was clearly marked by the manufacturer. She'd pointed out the redundancy, but he was too set in his ways to change. His dreams for the future had died with Kate's grandmother, and he hadn't replaced them.
The bell above the front door rang. "You go this time," Kate said through a smile. "It's probably another one of your women coming to flirt with you."
"I don't want women flirting with me," Stanley grumbled as he walked out of the room.
Want the attention or not, Stanley Caldwell was bachelor number one with the senior women in Gospel. Maybe it was time for him to stop hiding from his life. Maybe she could help him let go of old dreams and create new ones.
Kate opened a case of beets with a box knife and picked up the pricing gun. She'd never really been much of a dreamer. She was a doer. Instead of dreams, she had full-blown fantasies. But, as she'd learned recently, her fantasies were better left safely guarded in her mind, where they couldn't be crushed by rejection.
She was probably the only woman in history to be turned down in a bar, and she hadn't been able to work up a good fantasy in her head for two weeks now. No more badass biker dude tying her to the back of his hog. No more fantasy men at all. Not only had the jerk in Sun Valley humiliated her but he'd also killed her fantasy life.
She stuck a test sticker on the box flap, then went to work on the first row of cans. From the speakers bolted to the walk-in freezer, Tom Jones belted out a crappy rendition of "Honky Tonk Woman," which Kate figured was an abomination on so many different levels. One of which was that, at the moment, a song about a honky-tonk woman taking a man "upstairs for a ride" was her least favorite topic on the planet.
"Katie, come here," her grandfather called out to her.
Not since the twelfth grade, she thought as she finished putting stickers on the last row of cans, when her boyfriend had asked someone else to the prom, had Kate suffered such a mortifying blow to her self-esteem. She was long over it now, and she would get over what had happened in Sun Valley, too. At the moment, though, her only consolation was that she'd never have to lay eyes on the jerk from the Duchin Lounge again.
She moved from the back room toward her grandfather, who stood at the end of a produce bin talking to a man with his back to Kate. He wore a blue ski parka with black on the long sleeves. He held a half gallon of milk in one hand, and a box of granola was stuck under one arm. Messed brown hair brushed the collar of his coat, and he was taller than her grandfather's six-two height. He tipped his head back and laughed at something her grandfather said, then he turned, and his laughter died. Across the too short distance, his deep green gaze met hers, even more brilliant in the light of day. His brows lowered, and within the perfect frame of his Fu Manchu, his lips parted.
Kate's footsteps faltered and stopped. Everything within her seemed to stop, too. Except for her blood, which drained from her head and made her ears buzz. Her chest got tight, and just like the first time she'd seen him, she wondered if thinking about the man had conjured him up. Only this time, there were no warm tingles. No urge to flip her hair. Just that funny feeling in her head like she might faint.
At the moment, Kate wished she would just faint dead away and wake up somewhere, but she just wasn't that lucky. And while she stood there wishing she could faint, she was sure he was recalling every detail of the night she'd propositioned him. The night he'd made his rejection of her look like the easiest thing he'd ever done.
"This is Rob Sutter. He owns the sporting goods store where the old pharmacy used to be. Rob, this is my only granddaughter, Katie Hamilton. I don't believe you've met." That's what her grandfather was saying, but over the buzz in Kate's ears, and Tom Jones growling about the Honky Tonk Woman, she heard something else. Don't take it personal, but I don't fuck women I meet in bars, shot through her brain like a thousand pin pricks. The silence between them seemed to stretch forever as she waited for him to inform her grandfather that they had already met. To tell him his granddaughter was a drunk and a slut. The pricing gun fell from her hand and hit the floor with a thud.
He glanced across his shoulder at Stanley. "No. We haven't met," he said. When he returned his attention to Kate, the surprise she'd seen on his face was gone, replaced by a curious smile that turned up the corners of his mouth. "It's nice to meet you, Katie."
"It's Kate," she managed past the constriction in her chest. "Only my grandfather calls me Katie."
He stepped toward her and bent to pick up the pricing gun. The overhead light filtered through the hair on the top of his head and picked out the gold. The rasp of his jacket sleeve filled the silence between them. "How long have you been in town?" he asked, his voice as deep and smooth as she remembered, only this time it didn't pour through her like hot buttered rum.
He knew how long she'd been in town. What was he up to? "A couple of weeks."
"Then we just missed each other. I've been on a ski trip with my buddies the last couple of weeks."
She knew that, of course. And he knew that she knew it, too. But if he wanted to pretend they'd never met, that was more than fine with her. She looked down at his hand holding the sticker gun toward her. The brand name Arc'teryx was spelled out in white on the Velcro cuff that wrapped around his wrist.
"Thank you," she said as she took the sticker gun from him. The tips of her fingers inadvertently brushed his and she t
ook a step backward, dropping her hand to her side. Her gaze slipped up the zipper closing the front of his coat.
"It's a real surprise to walk in here and see anyone but Stanley working," he said.
She blinked and stared into his green gaze. Nothing. Not a hint of mockery or a flicker of recognition. At first he'd looked surprised. Now nothing, and she couldn't tell if he was pretending or not. Was it possible that he didn't recognize her? No, that was probably just wishful thinking on her part. She'd never been that lucky.
"It's about time he got some help."
"Ah, yes," she murmured, distracted by her thoughts. She'd been drunk. He'd probably been drunk too. Perhaps the surprise she'd seen on his face a few moments ago had been nothing more than surprise at seeing someone besides her grandfather working in the M &S. Lord knew the rest of the town had been shocked to see her.
"She's come to help me out in the store." Stanley moved to stand beside her and patted her shoulder. "She's such a good girl."
Rob Sutter glanced at her grandfather, then slowly he returned his gaze to her. She waited for him to laugh or at least crack a smile. He didn't, and she relaxed a fraction. Maybe this Rob guy was a total boozer. Could she be that lucky? Some men beat their wives and shot up the house. When they woke up in jail, they didn't have a clue why they were incarcerated. They sat with their head in their hands and didn't remember a thing. Being a person who remembered everything, Kate had never believed in alcohol amnesia. Maybe she'd been wrong. Maybe the owner of the sporting goods store had it. Maybe he was a blind drunk.
Perhaps she should feel a bit irritated that she was so utterly forgettable. At the moment all she felt was a glimmer of hope that she'd lucked out and he was a raging alcoholic.
Good girl, my ass. With his free hand, Rob Sutter unzipped his coat and shifted his weight to his left foot. Good girls didn't get wasted and pick up men in bars.
"How long do you plan to stay in Gospel?" he asked. The last time he'd seen her, she'd had her hair down. Smooth and shiny, like liquid fire. He liked it better down.
Color returned to her pale cheeks, and she tilted her head to one side. He could practically read her mind. She was wondering if he remembered her. "As long as my grandfather needs me." She turned her attention to Stanley. "I'm going to finish pricing the beets. If you need anything, holler."
As if Rob could forget her offer to show him her bare butt. As she walked away, Rob's gaze slid down the ponytail that hung below her shoulders, past the tight black shirt to her rounded behind in-black pants. No, he hadn't forgotten her. The image of her within the soft lighting of the Duchin Lounge had stayed with him long after he'd left the bar. That night he'd dreamed of soft auburn hair and eyes the color of rich earth. Of long legs and arms entwined with his. Of sex so intense, so real, that he'd just about climaxed in his sleep. That hadn't happened to him in a long time. A man didn't tend "a to forget a thing like that. At least not right away.
"I really don't need her help," Stanley said, "but it's nice to have her around, just the same."
Rob returned his gaze to the grocery store owner. He wasn't certain, but he thought he detected a light in Stanley's eyes when he spoke of his granddaughter. A little light that he'd never seen there before. He liked Stanley Caldwell, and he respected him, too. "Is she living with you?"
"Yeah. She pampers me, but I try not to get too used to it. She can't stay with me forever. She'll have to get back to her own life one of these days."
Rob grabbed an apple and moved toward the front counter. "Where's home?" he asked. He'd been living in Gospel long enough to know it didn't take much to get a person's life story, whether you were interested in hearing it or not. And in this particular case, he was mildly curious.
"Katie's from Las Vegas," Stanley answered as he moved behind the counter and rang up the milk, granola, and apple.
As Rob dug out his wallet, he wondered if Kate Hamilton was a dancer in one of the casinos. She was certainly tall enough. She had the breasts for those skimpy costumes, too. Back in his hell-raising days, she would have been just the sort of woman he would have gone for. Tall. Built. Easy.
"She's a private investigator," Stanley provided while he placed the box of granola in a plastic bag.
That announcement surprised Rob. Almost as much as when he'd turned around and seen her standing a few feet from him, looking as stunned as he'd felt.
He handed Stanley a ten. "She doesn't look like any investigators I've ever met," he said, and he'd known a few.
"That's what makes her so good," Stanley bragged. "Women talk to her because she's one of them, and men talk to her because we just can't resist a beautiful woman."
Rob had been doing a pretty good job of resisting women for a while now. Beautiful or otherwise. It wasn't easy, never that, but he'd thought he'd gotten over the worst of it. The constant craving-until a certain redhead had propositioned him. Walking away from Kate Hamilton had been one of the hardest things he'd done in a very long time.
He put the bills in his wallet and shoved it in his back pocket.
"Here's the key to your place," Stanley said and shut the cash drawer. "A couple of boxes from UPS came while you were gone. And yesterday, I picked your mail up off the floor for ya."
"You didn't have to do that." Rob took the key to his store and put it back on his key ring. Before he'd left for his ski trip, Stanley had offered to accept freight for him. "I appreciate it, though. I made you something for your trouble." He unzipped the breast pocket on the inside of his jacket and pulled out a fishing fly. "This is a bead-head nymph I tied just before I left. Rainbows can't resist these guys."
Stanley took it and held it up to the light. The ends of his handlebar mustache lifted up. "It's a beauty, but you know I don't fly-fish."
"Not yet," he said and grabbed his bag of groceries. "But I'm planning your intervention." He headed for the door. "See ya, Stanley."
"See ya. Tell your mother I said hello."
"Will do," Rob said and walked from the store.
The midmorning sun bounced off snow banks and blinded him with white, stabbing rays. With his free hand, he dug around in the pocket of his heavy coat for his sunglasses. He shoved the Revos on the bridge of his nose, and instantly the deep blue polarized lenses eliminated the glare.
He'd parked his black HUMMER in the first slot, and he slid easily into the front seat. He didn't care what anyone thought about his HUMMER. Not his mother and certainly not environmentalists. He liked the leg room and the shoulder room too. He didn't feel so huge in the HUMMER. Cramped. Like he took up too much space. He liked the storage capacity and the fact that it plowed through snow and climbed over rocks with grit and spit and enough pure muscle to spare. And yeah, he liked the fact that he could climb over the top of the other cars on the road if he had to.
He fired up the vehicle and reached into the grocery bag to pull out the apple. He took a bite and put the SUV in reverse. From within the M &S, he caught a glimpse of red ponytail and black shirt.
Her name was Kate, and the night he'd walked out of the Duchin Lounge, he never thought he'd see her again. Not in a million years, but here she was, living in Gospel. Stanley Caldwell's granddaughter was working right across the parking lot from Rob, pricing cans and looking better than he remembered-and what he'd remembered had been pretty damn good.
Rob shoved the HUMMER into gear and drove around to the back of his store. She hadn't been pleased to see him. Not that he could blame her. He could have let her down easier that night. A lot easier, but being propositioned had pissed him off. It had reminded him of a time in his life when he would have taken her up on the offer. When he wouldn't have even hesitated before he kissed her mouth and tangled his fingers in her hair. A time when he would have stared into her liquid brown eyes as he had sex with her all night long. A time in his life when women had been within easy reach and he'd never gone without.
Back then, his life had been fast and furious. Full tilt. Balls to the wa
lls. Everything he'd ever expected and could ever want. Yeah, he'd been blindsided and slammed in the corners more times than he could count. He'd made mistakes. Done things he wasn't proud of, but he'd loved his life. Every damn minute of it.
Right up to the second it had been blown all to hell.
Three
Rob opened the back door to Sutter Sports and pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. He took the stairs up to his office and bit into his apple. The sharp crunch joined the sound of his footsteps, and he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. He flipped on the light switch with his elbow and headed toward the open end of the loft, which looked down into the dark store below.
A tandem canoe and nine-foot kayak were suspended from the ceiling beams and cast shadows across a row of mountain bikes. With Sun Valley sixty miles away, and several gun and tackle stores within the city limits of Gospel, Surfer's didn't sell winter sporting goods. Instead he concentrated on summer recreational equipment, and last summer he'd made a nice profit off the rental side of the business.
The temperature in the building was sixty-five and felt warm in comparison to the biting chill outside. He'd lived in every time zone and climate in North America. From Ottawa to Florida, Detroit to Seattle, and several stops in between, Rob Sutter had been there and done that.
He'd always preferred the four distinct seasons of the Northwest. Always enjoyed the radical change in temperature and scenery. Always loved the raw, in-your-face wilderness. And there weren't many places more raw or in-your-face than the Idaho Sawtooths. His mother had lived in Gospel for nine years now. He'd lived here not quite two. It felt like home, more than any other place he'd lived.
Rob turned away and headed for his desk in the middle of the large room. A carton of Diamond-back fly rods and a box of T-shirts with his store's name and logo on the front leaned against his workbench on the far side of the room. His vise and magnifier competed for space with intricate tools, spools of thread, tinsel, and wire.
The Trouble With Valentine's Day Page 3
