by Lia Riley
Marigold pointed to the wall. “Blue plate specials are listed on the board. The usual. Meatloaf. Chicken fried steak. Baked mac and cheese.”
“Is the vegetable soup homemade?”
“No.”
“I’ll stick with the coffee thanks.”
Marigold’s smile was scarier than most people’s frowns. Archer remembered her giving him that face on the playground once, right before kicking him in the balls.
“Think we’ll take the check, Goldie.” He’d lost his appetite for once. If he didn’t get Edie out soon, Marigold would grind her through a sausage maker.
“You’re not from around here.” Marigold didn’t phrase it as a question.
“I’m not.” That’s all Edie offered in reply.
Archer looked back and forth, trapped between two generals on the cusp of battle.
“In fact, who needs a check? It’s coffee. Keep the change.” He slapped a ten on the table and slid from the booth, grabbing Edie’s hand. The over-seventy bridge group glanced from their game at the corner table. “Let’s get you to The Dales.”
“The Dales?” Marigold glowered at Edie with open suspicion. “That’s a pretty hotsy-totsy address.”
“Mmmm.” Edie replied in a noncommittal tone, but Archer felt her shaking.
“Word to the wise,” he said once they reached his truck. “If you’re planning on sticking around Brightwater, don’t get on Marigold Flint’s bad side.”
Edie shook her head. “She’s a bully who doesn’t care about service or the quality of her food. Is that really the only bakery in town?”
“There’s one at the Save-U-More but that’s about it. Brightwater’s not big.”
“But people here deserve nice things.”
“I guess we’re all . . . used to the way things are.”
“Well, I’m not.” Edie slammed back in her seat, her stare lingering on the “For Rent” sign across the street—the cozy, old red-bricked building was where the old five-and-dime used to be.
“You look like you’re getting an idea,” he said.
She glanced over with a private smile. “It’s strange, but once I start to look, it’s as if the possibilities are everywhere.”
A sharp ache spread through his chest.
Funny, he had the exact same feeling.
Chapter Seven
“QUINCY!” EDEN FLUNG herself against her older cousin the moment he opened The Dales’ ornately carved front door. She wasn’t a hugger by nature, but seeing a familiar face after the last bewildering day threatened to overwhelm her. She’d sent him a tongue in cheek text after leaving the bakery. Heat the kettle. I’m popping around for a cup of Earl Grey.
Are you in Brightwater? Quincy’s response hadn’t come until Archer steered through the elaborate gates and drove up the winding hedge-trimmed drive.
“Oh, okay, that’s the way. Good-oh.” Quincy gave her an awkward shoulder pat. None of the formal Bankcrofts were big on body contact or emotional displays. Mother’s idea of affection had been an air kiss. “It’s been a long time,” he said. He’d grown up bouncing between North America and England and his soft, ambiguous accent reflected a man who’d lived many places.
“Over five years.” She pulled back with a rueful expression. “I’m sorry to appear unannounced like this.”
“Pish posh.” Quincy adjusted his fitted sleeve. Apparently, her cousin used his time in Brightwater to kick back and relax, there was no other explanation for why he’d be dressed in a black cotton Onesies in the middle of the day . . . or ever. But then Quincy always had had a daring fashion streak. He never minded wearing contrasting prints, or black with brown, and there was that one Easter brunch when he arrived in a monochromatic pink suit.
“Come inside and I’ll have Giles fix you a cup of tea—oh . . . why hello there, Mr. Rugged Handsome.” Her cousin perked up, noticing Archer standing at a discrete distance, his hands thrust into the pockets of well-worn jeans that did an exceptional job of emphasizing all the right places. It was impossible not to draw your eyes toward his zipper, the way the denim cupped the bulge—
Stop! Warning! Danger—restricted area.
“Quincy, let me introduce you to my friend, Archer Cock. I mean Kane, definitely Kane . . . not . . . what I just said.” Eden faltered, trying and desperately failing to ignore Cowboy’s sudden boyish grin.
Was he a friend? Maybe, yes. But she’d never had a friend cause invisible sparks to heat her skin while raking a lingering stare down her legs.
“A pleasure.” Quincy skimmed over her mortifying faux pas as if it had never happened. God love the man. “There are quite a few Kanes in this valley, are there not?”
Archer set his hat back. “About a hundred, give or take who is coming in or checking out.”
Quincy gestured to the open door. “Any friend of Eden’s is welcome here. Are you a tea drinker perchance?”
Archer’s gaze traveled over the three-story mansion, four-car garage, and the Italianate fountain. A former summer home of a gold baron, the ostentation contrasted with the stark landscape.
“Thanks, but I should be getting on. Hey, before I go, Freckles, I’ve got something you need.” Archer turned and jogged toward his truck.
A corner of Quincy’s mouth twitched upward. “Freckles?” he murmured. The amused glint in his eyes revealed he hadn’t missed her Cock-Kane tongue slip. His shoulders shook with restrained laughter. “I’ll bet he has what you need.”
“We met in Vegas,” she replied shakily. “It’s a long story.”
“Give me all the gory details,” he whispered back. “I’ve seen this one around town. He’s got a face you don’t soon forget.”
No. But right now she had enough to figure out without mooning around about a hunky, shiver-inducing cowboy.
Archer loped back across the circular driveway, her wedding dress flung over one shoulder. “You don’t want to forget this.”
She did actually. She wanted to forget all about her failed wedding. If it weren’t for Reggie’s big mouth and utter lack of tact, she’d be en route to Cabo San Lucas for a weeklong honeymoon at an exclusive Mexican spa, and being played for the biggest fool in the hemisphere.
The fact she was Eden Bankcroft-Kew in Brightwater, California, felt much better, but still not quite right.
Who was she really?
But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she murmured, “Thank you,” cradling the gown as if it were an unwelcome corpse.
Archer clapped his hands together, rocking on his heels. “Well, guess I better get moving.”
“Yes, you have dinner plans.” She’d be sorry to see him go. It had been reassuring to know he was close these last twenty-four hours. They couldn’t have less in common, but she felt safe in his presence, comfortable in a way she never had before.
He issued a matter-of-fact shrug. “Grandma will sharpen the carving knife if I’m late.”
“Then I won’t keep you.” She hefted the dress to one arm and stuck out her hand. “Goodbye for now.”
He took it carefully, as if he didn’t want to let go, but maybe that’s because she gripped him back, suddenly unable to release him. Brightwater wasn’t big. She’d see him around, even from a distance. As dangerous as he was to her sanity, there was no denying he had a friendly face, and she’d need one during the uncertain days ahead.
“You take care now, Freckles.” Despite his insistence on using that aggravating nickname, there was no denying his smile was beautiful, if she could call it that, which she never would, at least to his face. But privately, he sported the best, most perfect, most beautiful mouth she’d ever seen on a man.
“I will.” Her own smile faded as slowly, centimeter by centimeter, she allowed his strong hand to release from her own. Little jolts of electricity shot between them. She was halfway surprised her hair didn’t stand on end.
Was that hesitation? No. He probably wondered why her eyelid twitched.
God.
&n
bsp; “Quincy, good meeting you, man. Take care of this little troublemaker.” The broad planes of his handsome face relaxed, the opposite of the clenching occurring in her stomach. And when his mouth tipped in a slight curve? Yeah, there was more clenching, this time of the between-the-legs variety.
Stop. She begged her body. Please. I’ll feed you peanut butter chocolate ice cream for a year. I’ll throw in bags of Doritos and hot Cheetos. Just settle down and play nice.
“Do come by anytime. A friend of, ahem, Edie’s”—Quincy gave her a look that said we’re discussing this the moment his truck is out of sight—“is a friend of mine.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
“You might want to see this.” Quincy handed over his smart phone once Archer started the engine. “It came in over the wire moments before I received your text.”
“Runaway Bride? Heiress Eden Bankcroft-Kew jilts long-time family friend.”
“Already?” Eden slumped her shoulders at the sight of the tabloid article. So Reggie wanted to play hardball. He knew how she valued her privacy and must relish stripping it from her. “We need to have a serious talk.”
“For what it’s worth, Reggie has no idea where you are,” Quincy said gently. As the head of Bankcroft Media, one of the most powerful media companies in the nation, he’d no doubt have sound advice on maintaining a low profile.
“He rang me last night,” her cousin continued. “Claimed you got cold feet and left him high and dry. He wanted to know if I’d heard from you. I said no but must admit, I had people start looking. You did an excellent job covering your tracks.”
“I got lucky finding help.” She gave Archer’s departing truck a grateful look.
“Well, you’ve got more help now. That’s what family’s for, is it not?” In his Onesies, Quincy didn’t appear like an Arthurian knight, but he was a hero in his own way, like the cowboy driving off.
What a fool she’d been. Marrying Reggie because she was afraid of being alone. She did have extended family, and now, in Archer, a friend, at least of sorts.
She sniffled, frustration threatening to spill over. Don’t cry. Not yet, there’s too much to be done. Keep a stiff upper lip. “I’m not going to hide,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I’ve done nothing wrong. But I want—I want a fresh start, and without the expectation of being a Bankcroft-Kew. In fact, I’d . . . I’d like to change my name.” How sweet it felt, saying the idea. The same way it did when she announced wanting to open a bakery. Who knew saying what you wanted could taste so delicious?
“Change your name? To what?” Her cousin frowned. For all his open-mindedness, the Bankcrofts had a firm sense of tradition.
“I’m not sure yet. I’ll have to think on it.”
“What about your life back in Manhattan?” he pressed.
“What life?” Eden didn’t mean the words to sound as harsh as they did. “Sorry,” she tempered, placing a hand over her forehead. “It’s been a long twenty-four hours. But honestly, my life was simple. I volunteered at a well-staffed animal shelter, baked, ran, and supported a few charitable organizations. Since college, the majority of my time has been devoted to caring for my mother. I think it’s long past time to do something entirely for myself.”
“As long as you don’t make any rash decisions,” Quincy said.
She met his look of consternation with a small smile. That’s exactly what she wanted to do.
“Archer calls you Edie?” With Quincy’s accent it sounded more like needy. Which she wasn’t, even if she rubbed her thighs together.
“Yes. I kind of like it, at least it’s better than his other nickname for me, Freckles.” Did he dole out pet names to all the women?
“You like him.”
A horn honked in the distance. Archer must be leaving the property, turning onto the road.
“He was the right guy at the wrong time.” She tilted her head back and let the mountain wind caress her face. “Not to change the subject, but to change the subject, how do you like the sound of Edie Banks?”
“For what?”
“That’s what I’ll go by while here in Brightwater. A new name. A new me.”
Chapter Eight
ARCHER PARKED BY the barn at Hidden Rock Ranch and gazed up at the clouds moseying across the sky. Freckles planned to stick around Brightwater and he couldn’t wipe the resulting grin from his face. The thought “that’s not a woman you say goodbye to” popped in his head as clearly as if he’d spoken the words out loud. Maybe it was the voice of reason, the one that for too long had been drowned out by a louder one that said, “Shut up and let’s get people laughing.”
“What are you over there smirking about?” Grandma closed her garden gate, clutching a trowel and leveling a suspicious look. She was never one to beat around the bush.
“Can’t a man be happy?” Archer jumped from his truck and slammed the door. Hold on, that wasn’t suspicion on her face, but anger. His good mood ran for cover. What had he screwed up now?
“I’ve got no problem with a man being happy, but I draw the line at perverts.” She dragged her turquoise bifocals to the end of her pointed nose, a sure sign she bordered on ballistic.
Archer pulled up short, his neck muscles tensing. “Who’re you calling a pervert?” Yeah, sure, he enjoyed a full-range of extra-curricular bedroom-related activities, but his eighty-year-old grandmother didn’t know about any of that, did she?
Jesus, did she?
Hopefully not, otherwise, he might need to figure out how to invent a memory-erasing serum and slip it into the Lipton tea she sipped religiously before bed, the one laced liberally with brandy even though everyone pretended not to notice.
“Archer James Kane, I should be on the phone with your older brother right now, ordering him to arrest you for indecent acts and public exposure.” She raised her garden trowel in a threatening manner. Leave it to Grandma to figure out how to make a tiny shovel look as threatening as the axe Michael Meyers lugged around in Halloween.
“Hey now,” he said in the same slow, easy tones he’d use with an angry bull, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m innocent.”
“Methinks the cowboy doth protest too much. That’s to paraphrase Shakespeare. Ever heard of him?”
“Hold up. I’m literate, more or less, never skip the sports page.” Here’s hoping his grin masked the annoyance burning through his chest. He didn’t read much, only an occasional spy or adventure paperback, but who was Grandma to judge? He and Sawyer discovered her stash of naughty books last December in a box innocuously labeled “Christmas Decorations.” Turned out she had a thing for Fabio, and he could never unsee that.
“There are stories in this town about you that make my hair curl, but to engage in fellatio on Main Street, I’m shocked. Shocked to the core.”
An innate sense of self-preservation choked down his nervous laugh. This was about earlier today, in the truck, with Edie. “Grandma, settle down before you give yourself a turn. Now, I’m not sure what you think you saw but . . .”
“A red-haired woman’s head in your lap at the traffic light.”
Jesus Christ and a bag of chips. Grandma had glimpsed Freckles. With her recognizably molten hair, Grandma would never forget.
Not unless he tried something totally uncharacteristic. He needed to tell the truth, no bullshit, just the facts, straight up. “I can explain.”
“All right.” She folded her arms, mouth set in a disapproving line. “Let’s hear you talk yourself out of this one.”
“I met somebody.”
“A woman who by all accounts is as depraved as yourself. Congratulations. ”
“No, she’s nice, Grandma. Smart, funny, and pretty—”
“Where’s she from?” The question sounded deceptively simple but was as dangerous as a cornered rattler. Grandma didn’t take kindly to newcomers moving into the valley.
“She’s from back east,” he said after a long moment. “But—”
“A city?”
This wasn’t going to go down well. “New York, I think.”
“You think?” Grandma shook her head. “If the head on the top of your neck received half as much the attention as the one between your legs, you’d win a Nobel Prize.”
Archer closed his eyes and prayed for strength. Please let Grandma talking about what was between his legs be a bad dream, a nightmare that he’d wake from as soon as—
“Are you listening to a word I said?”
I’m trying my damndest not to. “Listen, what you think you saw, is just that, what you think you saw. But the eyes can play tricks and you need to believe me, I wasn’t doing anything that I shouldn’t be doing.”
“Trust you? Ha, says the boy who tells me he’s at church when he’s really in Vegas. Francine Higsby cashiers over at the pharmacy and told me all about the condoms you purchased before leaving town. Your whoopee-making makes me sick.”
Damn Francine, damn Grandma, and, truth be told, damn himself for being the kind of guy that Edie wasn’t going to trust an inch, let alone a mile, once she got wind of his reputation. A good girl like her would run screaming in the opposite direction.
“The reason I pushed her into my lap was to hide her from you,” he snapped, pushed to the brink.
“Hide her?”
“She’s funny, sassy, smart, sophisticated, beautiful, and I didn’t want you seeing her with me and jumping to conclusions. I know I have a history, but that’s for me to overcome. It’s time for me to wise up and get more serious about things.”
Grandma gave him a long searching look. Had he struck a chord at last?
She broke into slow, exaggerated clapping. Looked like the answer was a strong negative.
“Say what you like about me, but I’m not going to stand here and let you tear into her.”
“You like this woman?” she said.
“I have only just met her, but yeah, I do. A lot.”
“Then do her a favor and leave her alone. What do you have to offer? A steady job? No, you show off for city folk who want to live out their cowboy fantasies for a few days. Do you have a house? No, you sleep in the spare room above the barn like an animal.”
