Bitterroot Queen

by Jove Belle

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgment

  Other Books by Jove Belle

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Also from Dirt Road Books

  Coming Soon from Dirt Road Books

  Newsletter Page

  Jove Belle

  BITTERROOT

  QUEEN

  A Bitterroot Novel

  Copyright © 2017, Jove Belle

  Dirt Road Books, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including recording, printouts, information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead or to business establishments or events is coincidental.

  Cover photos ©konradbak and ©boscorelli

  Cover design by Jove Belle

  Cover image content used for illustrative purposes only. Person depicted in the cover image is a model.

  ISBN 978-1-947253-08-7

  For Tara, who still loves me all these years later.

  Acknowledgment

  A few years ago, I signed up to be a part of a fundraising auction for the Golden Crown Literary Society. The winner of the auction, SJ Baker, provided the names of the main characters, Sam and Olly, a bit of the background story, and a lot of brainstorming time. Three years later, Bitterroot Queen is finally done. My sincere thanks to SJ for supporting a fabulous organization and for being patient with my creative process. I hope you love this book as much as I do.

  Other Books by Jove Belle

  Archer Securities (The Law Game Series—Book Two)

  The Job

  Love and Devotion

  Uncommon Romance

  Indelible

  Chaps

  Split the Aces

  Edge of Darkness

  Chapter One

  By the time Olly hefted her duffle into the back of her Scout, the morning sun had burned off the last of the cool night air. All her gear was stowed in her vehicle, and Rampart, her border collie mix, lay on his side in the grass, panting. She wiped beads of sweat from her forehead and mentally reviewed her checklist. Packing had gone quickly, but it always paid to pause a moment. She’d learned that lesson years ago, after leaving behind an old photo of her grandmother and, on another occasion, her favorite pocketknife.

  Her hair hung loose around her shoulders and drifted into her face with a gust of dry, hot air. It was long and thick and didn’t get along well with the wind. She pulled a green and white snapback trucker cap from her back pocket and jammed it on her head, John Deere logo to the front. Not pretty, but totally functional.

  A sales rep had given it to her a few months back when she’d been waiting tables at a roadside diner just outside of Hastings. As per her usual, she had flirted a little too much to boost her tips, and this guy thought a piece of farmer swag was a seductive gift that would surely lure her into his bed. She’d taken the hat and rejected the rest of the offer.

  The next day, she’d hit the road. She’d gone from middle-of-nowhere Nebraska to middle-of-nowhere Arizona. Both were comforting in their own ways. Nebraska, with the rows of corn growing tall and straight for miles and miles was a stark contrast to Arizona, with the burnt umber plateaus jutting up amid the long expanses of dry desert. She respected the scraggly juniper and mesquite that grew in defiance of the sun and lack of rain.

  Now, though, she’d been in Arizona longer than she’d planned. The heat rolling off the desert and the kindness of Mrs. Vernon, her employer and landlady in one, had combined to lull her into staying just one more day until weeks had passed. Today, though, she was moving on.

  “You sure you can’t stay?” Mrs. Vernon placed one hand gently on Olly’s elbow. She spoke as though she’d cast Olly in the role of family rather than the short-time boarder she really was. And, because Olly had been taught to be suspicious of others, to question their motives, and to look for a hidden meaning in every gesture, the assumed intimacy made her wary. It seemed, however, that Mrs. Vernon was guileless, without any intentions beyond kindness. Of course, even after a lifetime of studying her own mother, Olly still couldn’t tell when she was running a con or when she was sincere.

  Mrs. Vernon, however, was a sweet woman who’d planned to spend her retirement years rocking on her porch and baking cookies for her grandchildren. Her only daughter had moved across the country before giving her any grandchildren, and she had never added a porch to the front of her house, as she’d always wanted. Simple dreams that never came true.

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She patted Mrs. Vernon’s hand. She had stayed for almost eight weeks, six more than she had originally intended. It never took Olly long to suss out if she was in the right place or not. And this one, just like the stops before, wasn’t right. Despite lingering, the quiet voice in the back of her mind got louder over time until she had no choice but to act. When she ignored that voice, it eventually transformed into thick bands of panic that constricted her chest. Wanderlust was in her blood, mapped into her genetic code, and it left her with only two choices—move or perish.

  Logically, Olly knew she wouldn’t actually die if she stayed in one place. Not physically. But her soul was another matter. It would wither away and leave her a shell of her true self.

  She adjusted her trucker cap and reminded herself to relax. It didn’t stop the clenching of her jaw or the bunching of her muscle beneath Mrs. Vernon’s hand. No matter how grandmotherly Mrs. Vernon wanted to be, Olly couldn’t be her surrogate grandchild any longer.

  Mrs. Vernon patted her arm. “I understand, dear.”

  “You do?”

  “Young people. Your feet have to move.”

  She nodded. At twenty-five, society gave her leeway. Travelling the road seemed an understandable rite of passage, one that should be sated before she reached a certain age. Would Mrs. Vernon grant her the same kindness if she were twenty years older?

  “I suppose you could be right,” Olly agreed, because it was the easiest thing to say. The notion that she’d eventually settle was romantic and sweet and mimicked the stories her grandmother had shared with her late at night about people who found the missing pieces of their hearts, along with their true homes. Olly didn’t know of anyone who’d actually done that, though, so it fell more into the category of wishful thinking than life goal.

  “I wish you would have let me repair this shirt.” Mrs. Vernon looked at the ragged edges where Olly had torn the sleeves off at the shoulder.

  “It’s fine.” The shirt, a men’s denim with shiny pearl snaps down the front, was too hot for the summer heat in southern Arizona. She’d bought it at a second-hand store a few weeks ago with plans to remove the sleeves. Before she’d gotten around to it, she’d snagged it on a nail and the fabr
ic had torn. Mrs. Vernon had watched with horror as Olly ripped both sleeves off.

  Frankly, the shirt amused her as much as it frustrated Mrs. Vernon. She liked the implication of the jagged lines and the strands hanging down, as though the shirt, along with the rest of her, just couldn’t quite follow the rules.

  “All right, dear. You have my number.” That morning Mrs. Vernon had written out her name, address, and phone number on a piece of lined notebook paper. It’d taken much longer than it would have if she’d asked Olly to write the words for her, but she had insisted on doing it herself, curling her fingers, gnarled and misshapen with age and arthritis, around a monogrammed pen that she pushed and pulled until her name and information appeared in slanted, imperfect cursive. Then she had folded it once, carefully, and given it to Olly.

  “Right here.” Olly nodded and patted her breast pocket. She glanced at the time on her phone, then at the street.

  Mrs. Vernon lived in a charming neighborhood that had that vibe of superiority and uniformity of post-World War II home construction—tiny by modern standards, but also sturdier, and more solid. The street in front of her house was only three blocks long and it ended abruptly two houses down. At the T intersection, a left turn would take her deeper into the neighborhood. A right turn would deliver her to the highway and out of town.

  That was the road Olly longed for. She liked it best when the road was long and empty, nothing but smooth blacktop and yellow lines, and she could see for miles.

  Mrs. Vernon had told her proudly that she loved her tiny little road. There was rarely any traffic and the neighborhood children were safe to play in their yards. And if they wanted to fool around in the middle of the street—a game of catch or maybe soccer—nobody bothered them. Olly could see how that would be an appealing selling point for some. For her, however, it stifled. She hated knowing the end of the road was close enough to reach on foot.

  “Here, take this. I don’t want you to go hungry.” Mrs. Vernon handed her a paper grocery bag with the top rolled over as if it were a lunch bag. She had carried it carefully down the steps in front of her house earlier with Rampart at her side, nervously alternating his focus between her and Olly, who had noticed the bag earlier, but hadn’t asked about it. She’d been more focused on checking her tire pressure and oil level.

  She took the bag, but couldn’t think of anything to say. It was probably filled with cookies that Olly shouldn’t eat. Too much sugar gave her the jitters and made it hard to focus. She reached across to set it on the passenger seat, and then gave Mrs. Vernon a one-armed hug, careful not to squeeze too tight. She felt fragile in her embrace, her skin leathery and unnaturally soft at the same time. It was a little awkward. Olly was a little too stiff and Mrs. Vernon held on a little too long, but she was glad she did it. Mrs. Vernon had made many accommodations on her behalf, so it was only fair to return the consideration.

  “Well...um...thanks. You know, for everything.” She scratched the back of her head, pulling her hair loose in places and knocking her hat slightly askew. Instinctively, she straightened it.

  “Of course, dear.” Mrs. Vernon tilted her head back to get a better look at her face. She shaded her eyes from the sun with her hand. “Remember what I said.”

  “I will.” Olly hopped into the driver’s seat and turned the key in the ignition. The engine caught and rumbled to life in a way that only a 1960s-era eight-cylinder could. The tension in her chest and limbs eased with the vibration of the motor. Rampart climbed into the back seat.

  “You always have a place here. Come back any time.” Mrs. Vernon looked like she was going to touch Olly again. Instead, she reached into the back and gave Rampart a firm pat on the head. He rested his chin on the edge of the frame and nudged her hand when she stopped.

  “Thank you for everything,” Olly said.

  “I won’t keep you any longer.” Mrs. Vernon offered her a smile, then turned back toward her house.

  Olly called goodbye as she pulled away from the curb. Rampart curled into a circle in the back seat and made a contented noise that was almost a sigh. She slipped her dark aviator glasses on and pushed play on her mp3 player. It was already cued to her favorite driving mix, and Drowning Pool took over the speakers. The rhythmic drone of power chords was loud enough to drown out the rumble of her engine, and Olly tapped the steering wheel lightly as she turned out of the neighborhood. A quick stop for gas, and she’d be on the road.

  Chapter Two

  After spending the past two days travelling, Sam Marconi was ready to stretch her legs. And possibly sell her car. Or set it on fire and roll it off a cliff. Whichever came first.

  “Please tell me we’re almost there.” Beth, her daughter, lifted one side of her earphones just enough to hear the answer. Faint strains of angry metal bled out from the Monster DNA headphones Sam had given her when she turned fifteen, and the look on Beth’s face said she was also ready to climb out the window and start walking in the opposite direction. She was still pissed about moving and had spent the majority of the trip listening to music and not saying anything. For Sam, it had made the drive from Las Vegas feel even longer than the time they’d actually spent on the road.

  She checked the GPS on her phone. Seven more miles. She patted Beth on the leg and smiled sympathetically. “Almost. Just a few more minutes.”

  Beth dropped her headphones back into place and returned her attention to her sketch pad. She added a few lines with her pencil, then smudged it with her thumb to soften the mark. Sam couldn’t see it well enough to know what she was drawing, but if the past two days were anything to go by, it was probably another portrait of her boyfriend. That she really shouldn’t have at her age, but that was a fight Sam had given up on with her.

  It felt strange, after dreaming about this for so long, to think about actually arriving. Their new home was close enough that she’d be able to see it within the time it took for two songs to play. After she’d signed the closing documents via proxy, the realtor had sent the keys via certified mail, and now she was the proud owner of a small roadside motel in Bitterroot, Idaho.

  Most of the drive up through Nevada and Utah had been the dry desert landscape she’d grown to hate while living in Vegas. That had continued into southern Idaho, but now they were squarely in the middle of the Bitter-root Mountains. The passing scenery alternated from tall evergreens to jagged outcroppings of rock, and the air was so clear it made her lightheaded. She was used to the smoke-laden, recycled air of the resort casino where she’d worked for the better part of fifteen years. Cracking her window here was way better than an hour at an oxygen bar on the strip.

  Bitterroot was everything Vegas was not. It was an unassuming community that promised nothing, yet delivered quality. Vegas was all flash and bang. That city promised everything in bold marquee lights, but delivered very little.

  She’d discovered Bitterroot when her friend Karen had moved here to work at the women’s correctional facility just outside of town. She had visited for the first time when Beth was five. The quieter pace and the absence of neon had soothed her in a way she hadn’t expected, so she began saving. The older Beth got, the more pressing the need to leave Vegas became. The city was on the verge of swallowing her daughter whole, and if Beth fell into the rabbit hole of Vegas’s darker side, she might never get her back.

  “I still don’t understand why I couldn’t stay in Vegas.” Beth was at the age where she knew everything except that she was too young to really know anything.

  The first fifty or so times Beth had asked if she could stay, Sam had answered patiently. Now, however, Beth’s refusal to listen just made her tired. She knew the answer, she just didn’t like it.

  “We’ve talked about this.”

  “But it’s not too late. Denmar’s mom said I could stay with them,” Beth said bitterly. “He’ll pay for my bus ticket home and everything.”

  Sam gritted her teeth at the mention of Beth’s boyfriend—she was only fifteen, for chrissak
es—and glanced at her. She saw herself in Beth’s auburn hair and light brown eyes. Sam’s teenage years, unlike Beth’s, had consisted of smoking some pot and reading novels on the banned book list. She’d never rebelled so hard against anything as Beth did against her very safe, very privileged middle-class upbringing. But it was her fault, too, working long hours at the casino so they could be comfortable. She had sacrificed time she should have been spending with Beth, and now she was trying to be a more involved parent after Beth’s boundaries had already been set. She had no idea how to negotiate a truce.

  Despite knowing it would only start another argument, Sam’s gaze drifted to the bottom edge of the tattoo that peeked out from Beth’s sleeve.

  Beth covered the image with her hand and glared at her.

  “Like I’d ever trust that woman to take care of you.” Sam regretted the words before they were fully formed. She and Beth had reached an impasse where neither of them heard the other one anymore, and she had no idea how to fix it.

  “When are you going to understand that it’s my life, not yours?”

  “I do understand. But fifteen isn’t adult, no matter how streetwise you think you are. And I’m your mother, so I’m trying to do what’s right and give us both a life where we can make better decisions. I can’t just watch you destroy the life you’ve just begun.” Sam had said it all before, but the words never seemed to penetrate. Someday, Beth would mature enough to realize that any adult who would authorize a fifteen-year-old to get a tattoo—as Denmar’s mom had done for her—was not a good influence.

  “Why do you hate me so much?” Beth brusquely pushed tears out of her eyes.

  Sam’s heart nearly broke at that. “I don’t, honey. You have no idea how much I love you. I can’t even quantify it.”

  “Whatever.” Beth turned to face the window and shoved her headphones back over her ears.