Big Sky

by Stacey Coverstone

  He pushed back the Stetson with the tip of his finger and flashed a crooked grin. Electricity shot through her like she’d stuck her finger in a light socket. Damn, he was a fine-looking man. Feeling more relaxed after having made peace with her mother, she felt like flirting—something she hadn’t done in a long time.

  “Taking a cat nap?” she teased, strolling toward him.

  Brett hopped in front of her to open the passenger door of the truck. “To be honest, I didn’t sleep so good last night.” His gaze went to her feet. “Hey, I see you did pack some boots.”

  Noticing he was checking more than her boots out, and not with much subtlety, she said, “They’re old. I found them in my closet.” She eyed the truck with scrapes, chipping paint and a dent in the side. “Do you want to take my car?” she asked. The truck looked like it might be on its last leg. “Will this jalopy even get us to town?”

  “Don’t worry. It’ll get us to Prosperity and back. Its muffler is shot, there’s a hole in the floorboard, and the air conditioner doesn’t work, but I believe Gus the old geezer has a few miles still left in him.”

  “Gus, the old geezer?” She angled her head and chuckled. “This piece of junk has a name?”

  “Yeah. Do you like it?”

  She shrugged. “Truthfully, it’s kind of lame. Which of Will’s ranch hands thought it up?”

  “This one,” he said, jabbing a finger into his chest. “It’s my personal piece of junk.”

  She said, “Oops” and climbed into the passenger seat, which had rips in its upholstery. “Sorry if I offended you. I thought this was a ranch truck.”

  He slammed the door and laughed. “It takes a lot more than dissin’ my pickup to offend me, darlin’.”

  She admired the sight of his carved muscles moving beneath his shirt as he strode around the front of the truck and jumped in. She’d forgotten the way men referred to women in Montana. No one in L.A. had ever called her darlin’. And none of the male models or celebrities she’d worked with over the years could hold a candle to this cowboy when it came to manliness. When he stuck the key in the ignition and turned it, the engine roared. The truck backfired a couple of times.

  “Good Lord,” she cried. “Are you sure you don’t want to take my rental?”

  He smiled and shoved the gear shifter into reverse and backed up. As they passed by the corral, shaking like a washing machine on spin cycle, the wranglers were still standing at the fence. Another cowboy she didn’t recognize was riding a different colt.

  “Don’t they have any other work to do?” she asked. Charlie Keller looked over his shoulder, stared, and then waved when it became apparent he recognized her. She waved back, smiling broadly at the ranch hand she’d known all her life.

  “They’re breaking green ponies,” Brett said as the rattletrap chugged down the lane. “That’s what they’re getting paid to do this afternoon.”

  Taylor lifted the camera to her eye. “Smile, cowboy.” When Brett turned toward her, she snapped his photo.

  “Hey, what are you doing?” he drawled. “I’m not a celebrity.”

  “Obviously, I haven’t always been a celebrity photographer. I used to take pictures all over the ranch, and of the horses and my friends. I was even a wedding photographer before I left for L.A.”

  “You don’t say?”

  “Yeah. I’d tear my hair out if I had to photograph a wedding now.” Taylor hung her arm out the open window and breathed in fresh Montana air as a warm breeze blew her hair around. “So, tell me. I’m dying to know. What’s the story behind this truck? Where did the name Gus the old geezer come from?” She stared at his profile and thought a sculptor couldn’t have done a better job at chiseling his jaw that looked as strong as granite.

  “I’m not sure I’m ready to let you in on that part of my life,” he replied, quickly glancing at her. “It’s not pretty, and we only just met. You might get the wrong opinion of me.”

  “Oh, come on,” she pressed. “I’m a big girl and used to stories of the sordid variety. I live in L.A. Remember? Spill the beans.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If you didn’t want me to ask about the name, you shouldn’t have mentioned it,” she challenged lightheartedly.

  His ocean blue eyes flickered when he slid another glance her direction. “You got me there.”

  He drove through the gate and the truck hit a pothole as soon as they got onto the gravel road, causing Taylor to bounce in the seat. “I’m waiting,” she said, double-checking to make sure her seat belt was fastened tight.

  “Gus is the name of my ex-wife’s husband.”

  Her eyebrow lifted. “Oh, I see.” They had something in common besides the ranch, she thought. This was going to be interesting. “Go on.”

  “I bought this truck four years ago on the day she got remarried. I guess you could say I was both ticked off and feeling sorry for myself at the time. You see, Marci married for money the second time around. I could never give her the material things she wanted when we were together. That’s why she left.”

  “I’m sorry. That was pretty shallow of her, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “You’re right. It took me a while to figure out I wasn’t the one with the problem. At least she finally found what she was looking for.”

  “Which was?”

  “Someone richer than God and not a cowboy. She married up, too. In age, that is. He’s thirty years older.”

  “Wow.” Taylor nodded her head, getting it. “Gus, the old geezer.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I understand the feelings of inadequacy you must have experienced at the time, but why name your truck after her husband?”

  “It was symbolic, I guess. I spent the first couple of years abusing it and running it into the ground, just to feel better.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “I can see the ways in which you accomplished that.”

  “Yep. Poor truck. I used to encourage bored kids in town to key it. I didn’t change the oil. I would kick the tires every once in a while. And I hit all the ruts and holes I could.”

  “Looks like you’re still doing that,” she groaned as one of the tires popped in and out of another furrow in the road.

  “Sorry,” he apologized. “Gus and I have become close, but he’s about ready to go to junkyard heaven. I might actually feel a little sad when I stand there watching him being crushed into a flat metal pancake.”

  She stared until he must have felt her scrutiny. He turned his head and smiled. “Is that sordid enough for you?”

  Taylor’s donkey-like snort burst forth, as she was unable to hold in her laughter. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be impolite, but that’s the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.”

  “You think it’s funny, do you?” He leaned over and gently punched her arm but was still smiling.

  “Yes, I do,” she hiccupped between giggles. “And trust me, Brett. The symbolism is not lost on me.”

  “Oh? Why is that?”

  “Because I have an ex of my own. I wasn’t very creative when we split up, however. All I did was dump his clothes into his car and set the whole mess on fire. You know, like Angela Bassett did in the movie, Waiting to Exhale.”

  The wheels of Brett’s truck came squealing to a halt. The palms of Taylor’s hands smacked the dashboard when she flew forward. He shifted the truck into park and turned his body to face her.

  “You actually set his car on fire?”

  The confounded look on Brett’s face was priceless—like he was debating whether he should give her a pat on the back or push her out of the truck.

  Taylor nodded. “It probably wasn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had,” she confessed, “but it sure did make me feel better for a little while.”

  “Did he press charges?”

  “The creep knew it wouldn’t do any good. In case you’re not aware, my stepfather has a lot of friends in high places.”

  Brett thought about that a mo
ment and then shifted into drive again and Gus the old geezer moved forward with a shudder.

  “Your ex must have really done something to tick you off,” he said.

  “Yep,” she replied, not bothering to explain, and realizing she had already fallen into the habit of speaking like the ranch girl she used to be.

  She was glad Brett had shared the story of his pickup with her. It was refreshing to be around someone who was open and honest, and didn’t take himself so seriously. People with those kinds of qualities were hard to find in L.A.

  The rest of the trip to town was a quiet one, except for the whirring of her shutter as she snapped pictures of the landscape from the window. Taylor’s gaze shifted from side to side as they entered the city limits and Brett drove down Prosperity’s main drag, which to locals was known as uptown.

  When she was in high school, the restored buildings on this road were considered nothing but old, and she and her friends had wished Prosperity had modern stores and a mall. But now, she looked at the town through an adult’s eyes and the eyes of a professional photographer, and she saw architecturally beautiful buildings that represented an integral part of western history. Her pulse accelerated as they passed by her old haunts and she clicked more photos.

  “Do you know the history of Prosperity?” she asked Brett.

  Before he could answer, she gave him the short Wikipedia version of its growth. “In the early 1870s, Prosperity had been nothing but a mining camp when gold and silver was discovered. By the late 1870s, a bustling city had emerged. In 1879, a fire burned down the entire business district. After that, the city council passed a law that required all new buildings to be built from brick or stone. Those are the buildings you see standing today. It’s a unique little town, don’t you—?” Her history lesson stopped when her meandering gaze latched onto a large poster hanging in a store window. “What the hell?” Her head popped further outside the truck window.

  “What is it, Taylor?”

  Her spine went rigid. “Can you please pull over?” she asked, jiggling the inside door handle.

  “Hold on, girl! Let me park before you open the door,” Brett said, sharply turning the steering wheel to pull into a parking space and bumping into the curb.

  Taylor launched out of the truck like a rocket and ran to stand in front of the poster, which publicized one of the candidates running for Prosperity’s Chief Executive Officer. The fake smile and dark eyes of a traitor stared back at her. She heard Brett’s footsteps behind her and smelled his scent when he sidled beside her.

  “It’s that time of year,” he said. “Primary elections will be held in a couple of weeks. I’ve heard the guys talking back at the ranch. This guy is supposedly a real piece of work. I saw him speak once, and my impression was that he’s right up there on the level with snake charmers and car salesmen. You ever heard of him? Clint Sheridan?”

  Taylor swallowed the bile rising in her throat and looked at Brett. “I’ve more than heard of him. I was married to the man.”

  Chapter Nine

  Big as he was, a feather could have knocked Brett over. He stared at the photo of the man on the poster. With what was probably a fifty-dollar haircut, sharp eyes, a strong nose and a perfect smile that had more than likely cost him a fortune, Clint Sheridan was probably considered a catch by most women’s standards. But most of the women Brett had known didn’t have a lick of sense anyway. He didn’t have a college degree, but he was smart enough to recognize a bullshitter when he saw one.

  “This is your ex?” he asked, not understanding why he found it hard to imagine Taylor, a woman he’d just met and barely knew, with this guy who could have walked out of GQ magazine. But he did. He realized she lived in California now, but he still sensed that old saying was true—you can take the girl out of Montana, but you can’t take Montana out of the girl. Okay. He’d twisted the adage to fit, but so what? He still couldn’t picture her with him.

  Taylor nodded but didn’t answer his question. As he perused her profile, Brett became conscious of just how attractive she was. He’d thought she was cute the moment they met, but there was something about the way the light was hitting her face now that brought out her softness. She really was drop-dead gorgeous. Her eyes were the shade of coffee with a drop of cream. Hair loose and wavy and touching her shoulders, it was the color of cinnamon, kissed by sun. The provocative scent of her perfume was about to drive him crazy. And those tight-fitting jeans…well, the slacks she’d had on earlier had not done justice to her perky backside and the shapely legs that now captured his attention. Yes, she was the boss’s daughter, he reminded himself, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look and admire.

  As he watched her stare intently at Clint Sheridan’s face, Brett wondered why they’d divorced and if she was regretting the split and remembering good times they’d shared.

  “I thought that sonofabitch left town,” Taylor complained, clearly answering his question. “I can’t believe he’s running for CEO. People here are idiots if they elect him. I can’t imagine anyone thinking Clint is responsible enough to assure that state and local laws are enforced. He’s nothing but a liar.” She spun away from the poster and began strutting down the sidewalk.

  Brett stepped in beside her, thinking her ex must have, at one time, possessed a few decent qualities that had attracted her into his heart and his bed. But apparently that no longer held true. Smart girl, he thought to himself, remembering how he’d also been stupid when it came to love.

  He’d fallen for Marci and her honey colored hair, big violet eyes, and to-die-for body the moment she handed him a plate of flapjacks and sausage at the volunteer fire department’s pancake breakfast nineteen years ago. He’d been a kid then, only a year out of high school. Like a young fool, his hormones had run roughshod over his brain, and he’d found himself married with a baby a year later.

  All he’d ever known was ranching and being a cowboy, so that’s how he’d earned a living for them. Even though they’d struggled financially, he’d thought theirs was a happy young family. He’d adored his baby girl and done the best he could to provide for her and Marci. Sometimes that meant hunting just to put food on the table. It also meant Marci had to shop at thrift stores, which she complained about, and all of them doing without certain comforts other people took for granted. Still, Brett had been content with their life and thought Marci had been, too.

  Then when Samantha was ten years old, Marci announced she no longer loved him and wanted a divorce. When she told him she was leaving Montana for Arizona and taking Samantha with her, Brett went on a month-long bender and was in such a daze when it came time to sign the divorce papers, he didn’t fight it, or the custody.

  Like a herd of wild mustangs, Marci trampled his heart and had left it battered and bruised for years to come.

  But he’d eventually gotten past the hurt, moved on, and for the past seven years, he’d seen Samantha once a year when she returned to Montana for a month-long visit in the summers. This was the first summer she’d missed. At eighteen, she was free to make her own choices and had asked him if he’d mind her spending the time with her friends since she was preparing to head to college in the fall. Being the good ol’ boy he was, Brett had hidden his disappointment, said he understood, and wished her a fun summer and a great year at college. But he sure was missing his girl.

  “Is Sheridan qualified for the job?” he asked, moving back to the present.

  Taylor’s narrow shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Your guess is as good as mine. His grandfather was CEO back in the eighties. I suppose Clint thinks he can use the family name and ride on his granddad’s coat tails to get elected.”

  Striding like a power walker on speed, Brett asked if she could slow down. “I’m more of a moseying along kind of guy,” he joked. Taylor halted her footsteps and cocked an eyebrow.

  “I don’t mosey, Brett. I live in Los Angeles. I work in an extremely competitive field where deadlines are everything. I drink a lot of espre
sso. I do everything fast there.”

  When she started up again, he grabbed her wrist. “You’re not in L.A. anymore,” he reminded her. “I’m not sure you can even find an espresso machine in this town.”

  Taylor’s annoyed gaze moved from his hand on her wrist to his face and back again. “Will you please let go? Don’t make a scene here on the sidewalk.”

  Aware that she was closer to making a scene than he was, he glanced at some of the people passing by who were staring at them and released her wrist with a flick. Reminded of his ex’s sorry attitude, he muttered, “Excuse me, Miss Young. I sure wouldn’t want to embarrass you in front of your admiring fans.”

  He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at her. It looked like steam was going to blow from her ears any minute. Figuring her change in demeanor probably wasn’t because of anything he’d done or said, he took his own advice and sucked in a deep breath and asked, “What’d that jerk do to you, Taylor?”

  It seemed her own breath was locked deep inside her chest.

  Her gaze met his, and his heart galloped at the intensity radiating in her eyes.

  “He cheated on me,” she replied.

  Brett nodded solemnly. He’d guessed that. “I’m sorry. Men are dogs.” He hoped his joke would help lighten the mood, and it did seem to, because her eyes sparked at his comment and her lips parted in a tentative smile.

  After a moment’s hesitation, she sighed and confessed, “He slept with my sister. There. It’s out. Now you know my big secret.”

  That didn’t come as a big shock either. He’d heard rumors, as Taylor had suspected. “I suppose that’s why you left six years ago.”

  “Yes. It was bad enough that he cheated. But with my own flesh and blood?” She shook her head in disgust. “This is a small town. There was no way I was going to stay here with everyone knowing what they’d done.”