by Stacy Finz
“Who’s stopping you? In fact, I’ll follow you out to your shed.” Follow? Al led the way, doing a thorough search of the wood shop’s small bathroom, nosing around in Colin’s toolboxes and generally making himself right at home. “Where you working these days?”
“I’m building a house on the other side of town for the two women who own the Ponderosa.”
“How is that place? I keep meaning to eat there.”
“It’s good.” Colin said it out of loyalty to Sophie and Mariah, but he’d prefer Al not eat there. In fact, he’d rather Al get the hell out of Dodge and go back to Quincy, where he came from, before he stirred up a whole lot of crap Colin didn’t need stirring.
“How come you’re not working today?” Al asked, continuing to snoop through Colin’s workspace.
“I did. But we let out early on account of the crew having to finish another job.”
“It’s a good job?” More Al code for: Is the work legitimate? Are there permits? No under-the-table pay? No illegal substances on site?
“It’s all good, Al.” God, he resented these questions.
Al gazed up at the cathedral ceiling. “How you doing with the phobias?”
“Great,” Colin lied.
“You seeing that therapist?”
“I did. But I don’t like her.”
“Why not?” Al asked.
“Because she judges me.”
Al shook his head. “You do know that’s part of your demophobia, right? Feelings of inferiority. Make another appointment.”
He sat in one of Colin’s rockers and tested the feel of it. “How much does something like this go for?”
“Two hundred fifty. But for you, five hundred.”
Al laughed. “How’s everything else going?”
“Fine and dandy.” Now get the hell out.
“What about your social life? How’s that going?”
What social life? He couldn’t even accept a dinner offer from a neighbor. A smoking hot neighbor. “Terrific.”
Al wasn’t fooled. “Work on it, Colin.” He stood up and paced the workshop, stopping every once in a while to admire a piece of furniture. Colin was surprised he didn’t take every piece apart. “It’s important to be part of the community. To have friends—upstanding friends.”
Yup, he’d get right on that as soon as Al left.
But unfortunately Al wasn’t leaving. He was still talking. “You seeing anyone?” he asked.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake, Al. Of course I’m not seeing anyone. I can’t step foot in a goddamn movie theater. How am I supposed to date?” Not to mention that the kind of woman he’d want to date, wouldn’t want anything to do with him.
Al let out a sigh. “Look what you’ve accomplished here. Give yourself a little credit, Colin.” This from the man who just moments ago had had his head down Colin’s toilet tank, looking for contraband.
“On another note, how’s that new police chief working out?” Al asked, and Colin froze.
The last thing Colin needed was Al making waves for him in this town. In the three years he’d lived here, he’d gotten along with the people just fine. He’d even made a few nice acquaintances. The police chief’s wife being one of them. “Why?”
“Just curious. I remember last year he shot that meth dealer in his wife’s inn. Weren’t you the guy who found the lab in the basement?”
“Yeah.” Colin had been helping to restore the Lumber Baron, which at the time had been so neglected that it should’ve been condemned, when he found a cache of chemicals and cooking equipment. Given his history, he’d seriously considered walking away and not telling anyone, knowing that it could come back to him. But he blew the whistle anyway, worried that someone might get hurt. Or worse: blown to bits. Rhys Shepard, the police chief, wound up killing the dealer during a hostage situation.
“So you get along with him okay?” Al asked, watching Colin closely.
“We’re fine. Why the third degree, Al? I’ve been behaving.”
“Just want to make sure you’re staying out of trouble and maintaining good relations with the local law. It’s my job to babysit your ass.”
“The chief’s father just died,” Colin blurted, not knowing why he’d felt the need to throw that into the mix. It wasn’t like it had anything to do with Al.
But the old man’s death had hit Colin hard. Shep Shepard used to drop by the house sometimes, mostly because his Alzheimer’s made him loopy and he’d get lost. On those occasions, he’d confuse Colin for Rhys. Colin supposed that watching a guy lose his mind had helped him put his own issues in perspective. Because of the demophobia, he hadn’t been able to attend the old man’s funeral.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Al reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a small urine container, and nudged his head in the direction of the john. “Before I go, I’ll need a sample. And, Colin, leave the door open, please.”
Harlee suspected that Desmond Hopper IV was too good to be true. And he was.
In his online dating profile, he boasted of being rich, successful, and single. Unfortunately, he’d failed to mention that his business was in Chapter 11, there were two liens against his Pacific Heights Edwardian, and the bank was foreclosing on his wine country pied-à-terre. For all intents and purposes, Desmond was broke.
And while Harlee’s client might be able to fall in love with a poor man, she sure as hell wasn’t looking for a married one.
The jerk also had a wife.
Apparently Mrs. Hopper was home—probably avoiding calls from collection agencies—while her douche-bag husband was trolling online dating sites.
Desmond was definitely a no-go, Harlee told herself as she quickly finished filling out a background report and emailed it to Frances Guthrie. The woman had become DataDate’s best client.
Frances would surely be disappointed, having had high hopes for this one. But Frances paid Harlee to leave no stone unturned, and that’s exactly what she’d done.
She turned off the computer and went downstairs. Luckily, her propane was getting delivered today. It had only taken three days of badgering for the Reno company to finally get off its butt. And good old Brad had offered to pay for it, since he’d been the last to use the cabin and hadn’t gotten the tank refilled.
In the meantime, she’d made do with Colin’s space heater, the fireplace, sponge baths, and a free shampoo from Darla. She’d also ordered two cords of firewood, which were coming tomorrow—just in time for her mother’s weekend visit.
Things were shaping up at DataDate central. She’d spent the morning cleaning the cabin until it shined and had even gotten two new clients. To celebrate, she and Darla were having lunch at the Ponderosa. On her way out, she grabbed a coat, hat, and gloves. The temperature had dropped enough that Harlee wouldn’t be surprised to see snow.
Fifteen minutes later she pulled into the square, found a place to park, and made her way inside the Western-style saloon and restaurant. The place had been completely made over since the last time she’d been there. Lots of red pleather banquettes, dark paneled walls, and Victorian light sconces. Kitschy, but fun.
Darla sat in a booth in the back of the dining room and waved her over. “Hey.”
“Hi.” Harlee air-kissed her, hung her coat and hat on the wall rack, and grabbed the other bench. “It is so cold.”
“Yet look how cute you look.”
Okay, maybe the Kate Spade dress and the four-hundred-dollar boots were a little overkill for Nugget, not to mention that the weather called for down and fleece. But she didn’t want to look like the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man at her first ladies’ lunch.
“You too,” she told Darla, who had ditched the hairpiece in exchange for clip-on hair extensions. Magenta.
“See that guy over there, sitting at the bar?” Harlee whispered in Darla’s ear. “He keeps staring at you.”
“I see three guys sitting at the bar,” Darla said.
Harlee thought two of them were gorgeous. But i
t was the third—a cop with big ears—who was doing all the goggling. She nudged her chin at the uniform. “Him. What do you think?”
“Why?” Darla asked.
“He seems interested.”
“Well, he’s not.”
“How do you know? Do you know him?” Harlee asked, because it was obvious that she did.
“His name’s Wyatt and he’s an asswipe. Although I’m pretty sure he’s a single asswipe, just in case you’re interested for yourself.”
“Why would I be interested in a guy who’s clearly interested in you?”
“Because I don’t want him,” Darla said adamantly—too adamantly, if you asked Harlee—then opened her menu, feigning indifference.
Harlee arched a brow, knowing that there was definitely something going on here. “Okay.” She held up her hands in surrender.
“So you’re interested?” Darla asked, trying to sneak a peek at Big Ears, who was looking right back.
“No.” Harlee would’ve laughed if Darla hadn’t look so relieved. “I don’t know how long I’ll be here, so a man’s the last thing I need. All my energy has to go into finding another newspaper job.”
She leaned over the table to confide in Darla that she’d left San Francisco with a bit of a debt problem.
“How bad?” Darla asked, turning her gaze from Wyatt to eye Harlee’s clothes. “Like collection agency bad?”
Harlee nodded her head. “It’s a sickness. Just like some people are addicted to crack, I’m addicted to department stores.”
Then there’d been the swanky Marina studio she hadn’t been able to afford, all those pricey restaurant meals, and a hefty car payment. San Francisco was an expensive city and her friends—software designers, venture capitalists, and lawyers—had deep pockets. On her pathetic reporter’s salary it hadn’t been easy keeping up with the Joneses. And she’d gotten into a lot of trouble trying. Now it was time to pay the piper—part of the reason she’d been forced to move to Nugget.
“My cards are maxed out and I only have a thousand dollars in my checking account,” she continued, deciding on the French dip with a side salad.
“What about DataDate?” Darla asked. “You just got two new clients.”
“Business is picking up. But it’s still not enough. Thank God for free rent, or I’d be living with my parents.” As much as she loved them, moving back into her childhood bedroom would’ve been the cherry on top of her failure sundae.
A woman with a cloud of dark hair and soulful eyes came to take their orders. “Hey, Darla. How’s business at the barbershop?”
“Good. Really good. You should come in sometime for a service. Mariah, this is Harlee Roberts. She’s new in town, lives in her family’s cabin up on Grizzly Peak. Harlee, Mariah and her partner, Sophie, own the Ponderosa.”
“Nice to meet you, Mariah.”
“You live next door to Colin,” Mariah said, refilling their water glasses. “We love Colin.”
“He’s great,” Harlee said, and changed her mind about the French dip, getting a Cobb salad instead.
When Mariah left, Harlee whispered, “Liar.” Darla had confided during Harlee’s shampoo that business was deader than road kill. The men still came to get trims and shaves from Owen, but most of the women in town already had stylists in either Reno or Quincy.
“What am I supposed to say? ‘No one wants me to cut their hair’?”
“It’s not that, Darla. You just need more time to get established. You’ll see.”
“Whatever,” Darla said, and Harlee understood that she was just frustrated. “I didn’t know you lived near Colin.”
“You know Colin?” For some reason that surprised Harlee, who’d pegged Colin for the town hermit, although she knew he had a lot of construction jobs in addition to making furniture.
“It’s a small town. Everyone knows everyone.”
“Do you think he’s weird?” Harlee asked, lowering her voice.
Darla vacillated. “Mm, maybe a little. More like quiet. And at least he doesn’t stare at my chest, like that one.” She pointed at Wyatt, who had turned around in his stool and was sure enough blatantly watching Darla.
“The one you’re so hot for me to like?”
“Hey, pickings are slim around here.”
“What’s the deal with the other two?” Harlee motioned toward the bar, her inner reporter kicking in.
“The one in the hat is Clay McCreedy. He’s the heartthrob of Nugget, owns a huge cattle ranch up the road, has two sons, and is engaged to a famous cookbook author. The other one is Nugget Police Chief Rhys Shepard. He’s absolutely dreamy, sweet as can be, and is married to Maddy Shepard, owner of the Lumber Baron Inn. Together, they’re like the cutest couple in town. It would make you sick, if she wasn’t so sweet. And pregnant too. My dad’s always bitching about her inn and how it’s turning the place into Lake Tahoe, but secretly I think he’s madly in love with her.”
Someone other than Mariah brought their food, and Harlee dug in, starved. Darla took a big bite of her tri-tip sandwich.
“I have to say, the inn rocks,” Harlee said between bites. “I haven’t seen the inside, but the outside makes the square.”
“They’re doing high teas on the weekends. It was Emily Mathews’s idea. She’s the cookbook author engaged to Clay. You should take your mom. The inside is like seriously killer. Colin did the carpentry.”
“Really?” Now Harlee was even more curious to see the inn’s interior. “That’s a great idea. You want to join us?”
“Sure. Why not?” Darla shrugged. “It’s not like anyone’s busting down my door for a cut and color.”
“They will,” Harlee assured her, wondering if perhaps Darla’s unconventional getup might be scaring people off. Admittedly, she’d been thrown by it at first, but Darla was a good person.
“Hey,” Darla said, “you want to take yoga with me? Pam, across the square at the dance studio, holds classes.”
“Is it expensive?”
“I don’t know. But how expensive can it be?” Darla pushed her plate of fries closer to Harlee so they could share. “After lunch we could go over and check.”
And here Harlee thought that she’d be bored living in Nugget. It would be a lie to say that she’d stopped fantasizing that the phone would ring with Jerry on the line. “Legs, the paper made a big mistake. We need you back. Stat!” Or better yet, the New York Times. “What were those idiots thinking? Come work for us in our San Francisco bureau. We’ll pay you twice what you were making at the Call.”
Then she’d get her old apartment back—the one she couldn’t afford. And life would return to the way it used to be.
“Shit,” Darla cried.
“What?” Harlee nearly jumped out of her seat.
“Wyatt’s coming over here. Do something, quick.”
Chapter 4
On his way down Grizzly Peak, Colin passed a truck filled with firewood. He figured it must be for Harlee. The delivery couldn’t come any sooner, because the weather service was predicting snow next week and it would be damned cold over the weekend.
At least she seemed to be getting into the swing of living in Nugget. He’d noticed her propane had been delivered the day before. Not that he was spying. And she hadn’t called him for help—or for the use of his shower—since he lent her the wood and space heater. That was five days ago. Not that he was counting.
During the week, he and the crew had gotten Sophie and Mariah’s new house pretty well buttoned up for the pending storm. After the rough framing had been completed, they’d applied plywood sheathing to the exterior walls and roof, which would hopefully keep out the snow. Today he planned to start installing windows and doors before knocking off for the weekend.
It would be a light crew, so he’d be able to breathe. When he pulled up to the site, he spied Sophie and Mariah’s Volvo parked off to the side. Sophie, who was due in December and getting bigger by the day, waved as he hopped out of his truck.
; “It’s looking good.” She walked over to join him.
Unlike the log homes and Victorians that were popular in the area, Sophie and Mariah had decided to go with a single-level contemporary plan that boasted vaulted ceilings, angular windows, and courtyards that took advantage of the Sierra and Feather River views. Colin really liked the way it was shaping up.
“Yep. We’ve made good headway thanks to the weather,” he said.
Mariah strolled over, shielding her eyes to block the sun. “Nice day. Still doesn’t feel like snow.”
“It does to me,” Colin said, zipping his down jacket. “You decide on your appliances yet?”
Pat Donnelly, the contractor on the project, liked fixtures and appliances to be ordered well in advance. Being the top contractor in this part of the Sierra, he was spread thin and got ornery when he had to wait on late shipments.
“We’re pretty set on the Wolf range. But we’re at an impasse on the fridge and dishwasher,” Sophie said, flicking her head at Mariah and rolling her eyes.
“Don’t look at me,” Colin said. “I’m not getting in the middle.”
The women laughed and Mariah said, “Hey, I met your new neighbor yesterday at the Ponderosa. Harlee, right?”
“Yeah,” Colin said. They waited for him to say more, but what more was there to say other than she was gorgeous, had a screaming body, and was so far out of his league he had a better chance pitching for the Giants than getting the attention of someone like Harlee Roberts.
“Well, what’s she like?” Sophie prodded.
“Nice.”
“What does she do for a living?” Sophie pressed, clearly frustrated at Colin’s reticence.
But he didn’t want to dish. So he shrugged one shoulder and threw her a crumb. “I think she said she used to be a reporter for the San Francisco Call.”
Sophie looked impressed. “What’s she doing now?”
“I honestly don’t know. Maybe she’s writing a book.” Why else would she move here? Although he got the impression that her coming to Nugget was pretty last minute.
“How old is she?”
