by Stacy Gail
“That’s n-not n-normal c-c-cold.” Her teeth chattered so hard it was a wonder those ice-blue eyes of hers didn’t rattle right out of their sockets. “I know w-what n-normal cold is, and th-that’s n-not it.”
“Welcome to Montana. Not that you actually planned on coming here, but now that you are, you’re getting a big-ass dose of it.” Twisting around, he reached into the back seat and brought a bundle forward to plop it in her lap. “Put this on, then get your hands up by the vents. I want to make sure your fingers stay nice and frostbite-free.”
Clumsily she huddled into the red and black-checked hunter’s jacket. He saw her wince at the coldness of the jacket’s inner lining, but she didn’t offer up a peep of complaint. “W-Where’d you g-get this?”
“It’s always smart to keep extra coats and blankets in the car in case something happens and you find yourself stranded. Buckle up and get your hands into the warm air,” he went on once she’d settled into the jacket that swallowed up her smaller frame. Again she didn’t complain about the oversized fit of the jacket as she followed his instructions, and it had him studying her curiously. If it had been Lorette sitting there, she would’ve already bitched him out nine ways to Sunday, then worked up some of those ever-present crocodile tears to make him feel like shit if he’d so much as said boo to her. God, he hated fucking tears. There was no defense against them if a woman was bound and determined to wield them like battle axes.
Then he shook his head. Why the hell was he thinking of his ex now, of all times? Two years ago Lorette had dropped herself out of his life, along with a huge portion of his family. They were gone, long gone, and he was more than happy for them to stay that way. He was an idiot for wasting another second thinking about any of them, especially Lorette the Weeper.
The tips of Mia’s fingers edged out of the jacket’s cuffs, and she held them up to the vents like it was a warm, crackling fire. Her sigh of relief was audible, and just about the sexiest thing he’d heard in a long while.
“Better?”
She glanced over the edge of the collar at him as though startled he was still there. “Yes, thank you.”
Her polite response was off-the-charts adorable, and he had to shake his head at it as he put the truck into gear. “Next stop in Mia’s continuing adventures—the airport Hilton.”
“Just think,” she muttered into the collar. “I could have gotten a good night’s sleep if I’d just been allowed to go my own way. I’d be asleep right now, safe and warm in a bed just a few yards from where we’d been forced to land.”
“I know, Red.” Turning on all the lights his truck had to help see through the storm, Quinn paused to glance at her and couldn’t help but feel a stirring of sympathy at the exhaustion hovering around her pale eyes. “I probably would’ve decked that flight attendant when the captain said you were going back to where you’d wanted to be in the first place. I thought you were going to.”
That made her fine russet-colored brows draw together. “How did you know I was upset with that crazy Gulag flight attendant? You were right there to block me almost before I’d even moved.”
Gulag. Nice. “You kidding? You’re the easiest damn read I’ve ever laid eyes on. One second you’re being all sweetness and light as Dan and Rainbow talked about their respective B and Bs—”
“Rainbow?” A smile bloomed at that, startling him with its wholehearted brilliance. She smiled with everything she had—her mouth, her cheeks, her eyes, and suddenly the truck’s interior felt a hell of a lot warmer than it did a second ago. “The owner of Huckleberry Waters Bed and Breakfast is named Rainbow?”
“Excellent memory.” He studied her another moment as she dealt him one surprise after another. First a million-watt smile that knocked him on his ass, then a sharp attention to detail that he never would have expected from someone teetering on the edge of exhaustion. If she liked football and basketball, he might be talked into thinking she was perfect. “One second you’re being cute as hell, smiling at them, and the next it’s like someone hit your homicidal maniac button.”
She snorted. “I don’t have a homicidal maniac button.”
“Trust me, you do. You might not think you’re a redhead, but you are.” Gently he eased his foot down on the gas pedal. Snow crunched under the chain-wrapped tires, and they were on their way, heading at five miles per hour for where he thought the exit to the school’s parking lot might be. “And you’ve got the temper to match.”
“Just because I wanted to punch her lights out doesn’t mean I’ve got a bad temper.”
Shit, she had a knack for making him smile. “Did you really just say that?”
“Traveling for twenty-four hours straight would put anyone in a pissy mood. And for the record, I still think that witch deserved a good, old-fashioned ass-kicking.”
“What you handed her was way cooler than an ass-kicking. I thought she was going to pee her panties as you took her apart piece by piece.”
“I’ve had enough of people soiling themselves out of fear for one lifetime, thanks.”
He laughed under his breath, then tried to remember when the hell he’d laughed last. Two years ago at least, before he’d found out who his real family and friends were. “After the travel nightmare you’ve been through, you need to be spoiled in a big way.”
Her sigh was almost pained as she stared blankly out at the blinding snow caught in the truck’s headlights. “I won’t argue with that.”
“Is there really a Montana code 303-whatever?”
“45-5-303, and yes, there is. When I was hauled back to the rest of the passengers, I was so furious at being held against my will I looked it up. My true medium has always been search engines.”
“So I take it you’re a lawyer when you’re not dropping out of stormy skies and into my backyard?”
“I wanted to be, and that’s the plan for the very near-future. But for the moment I’m a professional stager for my aunt’s realty company in Chicago.”
That made him frown. “Those are two seriously diverse career paths you’ve got going on. Don’t really see how one has anything to do with the other.”
“Basically it comes down to money,” she said, and she did it such a wistful air he had to make himself not look at her as he tried to stay on a road he couldn’t see. “My fiancée went through law school first, you see. Jackson’s education funds dried up two years shy of graduation. After we talked the situation over, we decided that since I had a fabulously paying part-time job that needed to be expanded to fulltime and he didn’t, I dropped out and supported him while he finished up. He graduated, passed the Bar and has found a great job in Seattle. So, now it’s my turn to finish getting my degree.” Her fingers abandoned the vents to grip her purse on her lap so tightly he heard the leather creak, and for a second she looked like she had a need to bust into the kind of tears he absolutely loathed.
And of course, there was that whole other thing—the mention of a fiancée.
That was unexpected.
“So…let me get this straight. Your guy couldn’t pay for his dream of becoming a lawyer. So instead of getting a job to pay for his dream like any real man, he talked it over with you, came to the conclusion that you should be the one to quit your dream of becoming a lawyer, so that you could pay for his. Am I hearing that right?”
“I find your interpretation of the matter unnecessarily harsh.”
“So I am hearing it right.”
“I had an opportunity to make some great money in order to help the man I love. When you genuinely love someone, you’re driven to give them everything, especially their dreams.”
“Yeah, exactly. And when you genuinely love someone, the last thing you do is take away everything from them, especially their dreams. See the difference?”
She gave him the same look she’d given the Gulag flight attendant right before she’d gone off like Mt. Vesuvius. “We’re not going to talk about this anymore, Boom.”
That startled him s
o much he almost steered into a ditch. “Boom?”
“That was the first word you said after I got a good look at you. Considering that you haven’t gotten around to introducing yourself like I did with you, you’re now stuck with the name Boom. Find a way to cope.”
“I like it. It’s way better than Quinn.”
“Quinn what?”
“Kingfisher. You can call me Quinn if you want, but I kinda like Boom. It’s catchy.”
“Kingfisher? Quinn Kingfisher, the back-to-back MVP of the Montana State High School Basketball Championships eleven and twelve years ago?”
“Shit.” The truck swerved a little as he darted a shocked look at her, and the truck slowed to a near-stop. “How the hell could you possibly know that?”
“I was stuck in your old high school gym for nine hours with nothing to do but read banners and look at trophy cases. It’s like you said,” she added with a self-conscious shrug while he continued to stare at her, “I have a great memory, especially for the written word. It’s just something I’ve always been able to do—remember things I’ve read.”
“Shit,” he said again, this time in growing admiration. “That’s a pretty kick-ass talent to have, especially if you’re going to be a lawyer.”
“Jackson didn’t like it.” Her delicate little nose wrinkled as if she smelled something bad, and again her fingers tightened on her purse hard enough to make the leather protest. “He said it was like cheating.”
“Jackson can go fuck himself,” he said before giving it a thought. But even if he had, he’d still say the same thing. “He was probably jealous that he didn’t have that cool little trick up his sleeve.”
She made an oddly distressed sound before she turned in her seat to look at him fully. “I’m curious about Brody and Weston Kingfisher. They were on the championship banner for your freshman year, but they were gone after that. Are they your older brothers? And twins, I’m assuming? And there was someone named Dev, before your time. But he was on the football team, according to a roster I read in a trophy case.”
He shook his head, still staring more at her than at the road, which was fine since they were only going about three miles an hour. “Brody’s my brother who I don’t talk to anymore, and West and Dev are my cousins, who I also don’t talk to anymore. You seriously remember all their names?”
“Pretty much, but I think anyone would remember the name Kingfisher. It’s not like Smith or Jones.” She shot him a careful glance from over the top of the coat’s collar. “You don’t talk to your own family?”
“That was their choice. Now it’s mine too.” His focus swerved back to the whiteness ahead of them, and he tried his damnedest not to focus on the bitter churning that started in his gut every time his family came to mind. “You’re going to make one hell of a lawyer someday, Red. If your dick of a boyfriend ever allows that to happen, that is. Let me guess. Your grades were always better than his, weren’t they?”
Her gasp was audible. “He’s not a dick and he’s not my boyfriend. Jackson Hackler is my fiancée.”
“I didn’t see any ring on your finger.” So what if that statement revealed he’d looked? He wasn’t shy. “Did you lose it?”
“Jackson and I planned to go ring-shopping once he landed a job. Now that he has, I’m sure it’ll be one of the first things we do when I get to Seattle.” While she spoke, her fingers dug into her purse so hard he wouldn’t have been surprised if she tore it in two.
“Uh-huh. Tell me, did he propose before or after he ran out of money and decided to use you to get what he wanted?”
“Before, and you’ve got it all wrong.” With a brittle indrawn breath she ducked her head into the coat, turtle-style. “I’m not talking about this anymore.”
“Just as well. I think we’ve got a problem up ahead.”
“What?” Alarmed, she popped her head back out while Quinn leaned forward to frown through the windshield at the flashing lights up ahead—red and blue and lots of yellow and white. “The people ahead of us? Do you think…?”
“Easy, Red. No freak-outs until we find out what’s up.” Slowing to a standstill, Quinn reached over and curled his hand around hers, lacing her fingers through his. She didn’t pull away, much to his surprise, instead holding on for dear life as he pressed the button to lower his window as a dark figure emerged from the blizzard.
“Damn, Quinn.” A rough, older man’s voice came through the screaming wind, and Quinn had to strain to hear the bundled-up policeman as he bent his balaclava-covered face to the crack in the window. “About time you showed up. I was thinking I’d have to send out a search party for you and the passenger you’re transporting.”
“Orry, is that you?” Quinn squinted through the snow pelting him through the window gap. “What the hell’s going on?”
“This storm’s got everything all fucked up from start to finish, son. They’re closing down Highway 2 in and out of Whitefish, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”
Beside him, Mia emitted a sound that suggested she might have been stabbed. “What?”
Orry’s eyes—the only part exposed by the balaclava—moved to her, and the sympathy there told the story. “I’m sorry, ma’am. We were hoping we could get all you airplane folks out to your destination, but in addition to these complete white-out conditions, we’ve also had a minor avalanche spill across the road. No one was hurt and I just heard over the radio that your fellow passengers managed to make it through, but until the storm ends and we can see what the situation is, this road has to be closed until further notice.”
Chapter Three
The Diner Bell, a small shotgun-style diner on Honey Pot’s Main Street was almost empty when Mia stumbled through the heavy door decorated with twinkle lights and a cardboard cutout of Santa. She stopped just inside, staring at the twin rows of tan and cream-colored booths separated by a narrow aisle. That aisle led to a fifties-style counter, and a kitchen beyond that could be seen through the heat-lamp dotted pass-through. Glittery red and green garland twined along the ceiling line and around the pass-through, and paper snowflakes, clearly made by children with their names scrawled in crayon in the centers, hung from above.
Mia took this all in, and her dazed brain wondered very clearly if she’d somehow managed to go back in time. Bing Crosby crooned about dreaming of a White Christmas, and a flashy pink and white Mylar tree stood next to a couple of coat racks by the door.
What the hell was she doing here? This wasn’t Seattle. The rest of her life depended on getting to Seattle and Jackson. She had to get there. She didn’t have time to be in some cute little hole-in-the-wall called The Diner Bell, a place that may or may not be an existing paradox in this universe’s time continuum.
Didn’t anyone understand she had to get to Seattle?
Hands clamped over her upper arms still covered in Quinn’s red and black hunter’s jacket, steering her toward one of the booths. She went without resistance, plodding one foot in front of the other before being stopped, bodily placed onto the booth’s bench and slid over to the snow-filled window.
Forget about Seattle. Even the meager hope of seeing a shower and a bed, of simply being able to relax, had been snuffed out. With Seattle, Jackson, settling the rest of her life and even a damn bed now out of her reach, she now had no plan. With nothing to work toward, her internal engine—already running on fumes—stalled right the hell out.
She was done.
“You need food.” Some kind of movement happened in front of her on the table but she didn’t bother to focus on it. She could barely keep her eyes open and really, what did it matter? Her travel nightmare had no end. “Mia, look at the menu. You’ve only had crackers and water for twenty-four hours. Prisoners of war eat better than that. Come on now, what do you want?”
“A bed.” At this point even a couch or a park bench would be nice. But if she went for a park bench in this weather she’d be dead in an hour. “What time is it? Wait, no. What day is it?”
An arm came around her shoulders. Only then did it register that Quinn had sat down beside her. “After seven on Saturday morning. Sun’s coming up.”
She wasn’t sure how he could tell that, since outside still looked pitch black to her. “I left my apartment in Chicago at five-thirty Friday morning, local time. What’s the time difference between Chicago and… where are we again?”
“Honey Pot, Montana, and there’s an hour’s difference. Don’t think about it, you’ll just get more turned around and confused.” He kept his arm firmly around her shoulders as he scooped up the menu he’d placed in front of her and stuffed it behind the napkin dispenser. “Fuck it. You’re getting a waffle and a double order of bacon, orange juice and coffee. Want anything else?”
“A bed.”
“I know, baby.” To her shock she felt his mouth brush her temple, and it momentarily lifted the fog for her to note how the long length of his thigh was pressed against hers. For a man, he really had some great legs. If it weren’t for all the bulky coats between them, she’d be able to fully drink in his wonderful body heat… “Food first. Bed second.”
She made a noncommittal sound, her brain still lingering on how good his leg felt next to hers. “Do you think they’d let me sleep here if I asked? I don’t think they’re going to do any business today, not in a storm like this.”
“You kidding? This is just a little blow to us Montanans. In another hour or two, this place’ll be packed, but that won’t matter to you because you’re going to be snoozing away in a big, soft bed under a mountain of blankets, with a nice, quiet fire crackling away nearby.”
“Oh.” She wanted that so bad it brought tears to her eyes. “Where? Let’s go there now.”
“After you eat. Then, since neither of us has any choice at this point, I’ll take you home so you can zonk out there.” He lifted his free hand to an older woman behind the counter, who headed toward them immediately.
