“We are. You’re going to take on the sticky wicket family law cases and I’m going to handle boring estate matters.” He’d pretended to frame a sign in the air. “How does the Law Offices of Zabrinski and Zabrinski sound? I’ll even give you top billing.”
“Wow. Thanks,” she’d said with a dry chuckle. Even at the lowest point of her treatment, Austen had been able to make her laugh.
“I’ll call a realtor and start looking for a place as soon as I get back from Helena. Or you could ask Paul. He’s got his ear to the Marietta market.”
That was yesterday. This morning Austen planned to fly the family plane to Helena to finalize the sale of his townhouse and move his furniture into the small apartment he’d rented near the Capitol. After a great deal of discussion with Mia, their parents and Serena, Austen had agreed he’d miss the stimulation and sense of accomplishment he got from working in the political arena if he gave up politics completely to become a rancher.
Serena had suggested a compromise. Half the month he’d work at home on the Flying Z or at Serena’s alpaca ranch next door and the other half he’d don a suit and lend his experience to causes he believed in as a political consultant. Since some glad-handing/deal-making could only be done in person, he’d fly to Helena whenever he was needed. Hence, the need for an apartment in town.
Mia was happy to see her twin’s life falling into place. And as tempting as it was to let their old competitiveness drive her career decision, she couldn’t do that this time. Her kids needed a mother who could be there for them. A regular, nine-to-five practice would give her that stability. While Mia never pictured herself as a family practice lawyer, her divorce opened her eyes to challenges facing those brave, compassionate gladiators who stepped into the messy, emotionally crucifying battlefield that came with breaking a marriage into two distinct and very separate entities.
She knew law. She knew how to win cases. She didn’t kid herself that family law was going to be easy. And, while no one had ever called her altruistic, she’d always secretly harbored a desire to get out of the high profile circus in the DA’s office and do some good on a humbler, more case-by-case level. When she and Ed bought the lot by the river to build their retirement getaway, she’d even floated the idea of doing volunteer work. “I could help fellow seniors avoid scam artists and greedy family members. You could help them figure out estate matters.”
“Or we could sit with our feet up on the deck railing and drink wine,” Ed had countered. “That’s what retirement is supposed to be, Mia. Retiring.”
As she slowed to turn on East River to head toward her land, she let out a deep, bottom-of-her-soul sigh. Two people as different as she and Ed had no business being married. She’d fallen for Ed the moment Austen introduced them, but in hindsight she couldn’t say what triggered their instant—and mutual—lust. By the time she understood lust wasn’t enough to sustain a relationship, they had two kids, a Labradoodle and a gigantic mortgage.
“Never again,” she murmured under her breath.
She was free for the first time in fourteen years. She was in charge of her life. And her first order of business was evicting the vagrant who was camping on her land. She’d spotted a tent near the water’s edge a few weeks ago, but she’d been so busy during the move the matter had slipped through the cheesecloth in her chemo brain. She wasn’t current on land use laws in Montana, but she’d heard horror stories from Edward about clients who couldn’t evict renters because they’d acquired rights simply by squatting on the rightful owner’s property.
Mia didn’t know anything about this guy. She’d heard rumors he was a nature photographer just passing through. Someone else told her he spoke French. Her future sister-in-law’s mother called him a lost soul.
Mia didn’t give a flying fig about this stranger’s soul—lost or otherwise. She just wanted him off her land. She was soooo done with men taking things from her.
“Look out, Mr. Squatter,” she murmured, stepping on the gas. “Here comes your worst nightmare.”
*
Dew. Dirt. River sounds.
Mornings don’t get much better this, Ryker Bensen thought, enjoying a few last seconds of peace before opening his eyes. Everything would pretty much go downhill from this point on, so why not savor every blessed second?
And every second he was alive was a gift. He knew that, now, and didn’t take anything for granted. One minute you could be riding a bike on a country road in rural France, your pregnant girlfriend a few yards ahead of you, laughing and flirting, not a care in the world, and the next you could be holding her head, pleading with her not to die. “Stay, Colette. Stay. For me. Please. Please, baby, stay.”
But the car that hit her was going too fast. The young driver too preoccupied with her own life to care that she’d just killed the most perfect woman in the world.
In Ryker’s world, anyway.
So, Ryker said, “Fuck it. I’m done.”
At twenty-nine, he quit. Canceled all his upcoming photography assignments. Backed out of the house he and Colette were in the process of buying. Since he had no legal claim on his beautiful, not-quite bride—she hadn’t wanted to walk down the aisle pregnant so they’d postponed the wedding until after the baby was born, he’d had no say in her burial. Her family had descended—a language barrier and cultural chasm too broad for even love to bridge. They took Colette and he took off. He’d lost money on the house. A lot of money, but he didn’t care. Money was the least of his worries.
Sleep. Grief. Despondency. Those had been his focus for the past eleven months—and he’d become pretty good at all three.
He’d kept his favorite camera—because it was an extension of his soul—and flew home to Pittsburgh. He’d paid a friend of Colette’s to oversee the transport of their “stuff”—items too precious and painful to look at. Everything was shipped at great cost to a storage unit he’d rented years before in his hometown. Big Al’s Transport and Storage was probably into him for six figures by now.
What is it about stuff that makes letting go of it so damn hard? He’d asked himself that question many times over the past months but still had no answer.
He much preferred the simplicity of his current lifestyle. A duffle full of clothes—enough to cover four seasons because someone told him there were four seasons of grief. A backpack to safely tote his camera, water bottle and supply of healthy snacks. Add a coffee mill, a French press and a wine opener and what more did one need?
A bike.
He’d bought a good one once he stepped off the train in Montana—his ultimate destination.
Why Montana? Because when his father was alive, nearly every summer, Dad would pack up his two sons for a month-long camping trip. They’d pitch their tent on a pristine piece of land Martin Bensen had bought with his first big financial coup.
“Buy dirt, boys. Any time you have any extra money invest in good old Mother Earth—and never let go,” Dad had preached.
The Marietta River dissected the ten-acre parcel of gently undulating land. The rich black loam of its floodplain always made the best campsite—unless fierce summer storms or an early melt caused the water to spill over its banks. When his father suffered a massive heart attack and died during Ryker’s senior year of high school, the land went into the Flynn and Ryker Bensen Trust. Ryker would come into his inheritance on his thirtieth birthday, a few weeks from now.
“This ten-acre parcel can be split,” Martin had written in his will, “but only if both boys agree to the sale.”
Ryker had no intention of selling, but his brother, Flynn—a firefighter with the National Park Service—was less sentimental. They’d discussed what to do with the land when Ryker stayed with Flynn last winter. “I have good memories of fishing and camping with you and Dad in Montana, Ryker, but Marietta is a helluva long way from Kentucky. I can’t see myself building a summer home there. Summers are fire season, remember?”
When Ryker left Kentucky to begin his sojourn north and
west, he’d agreed to start the process of creating two parcels out of the lot as soon as he turned thirty and gained control of his share of the trust. With his birthday on the horizon, Ryker had emailed his stepfather, Howard Margolis, a few weeks ago, asking about protocol. Howard, a real-estate developer and broker, had promised to get back to him.
But he hadn’t.
“Damn it, Howard,” Ryker muttered, sitting up. “Now, I have to call you.”
He stretched and let out a big sigh, shivering as the morning chill hit his sleeping-bag-warmed skin.
Unfortunately, calling Howard was no simple task. The man carried, but rarely answered, a cell phone and he claimed not to know how to retrieve messages. So, in order to leave a voicemail, Ryker had to call the house phone, which meant a fifty-fifty chance Mom or one of Ryker’s annoying stepsiblings would pick up.
Ryker supposed deep down he still loved his mother—in some elemental, connected-in-the-womb sort of way, but in nearly every other way he would rather get run over by a wildebeest than talk to Elizabeth Bensen Margolis.
He got up, quickly pulling on yoga pants and the long-sleeve wool sweater he kept handy. Mornings and evenings had turned chilly. His sleeping bag would keep him warm down to negative-forty degrees. He had no intention of living in a tent by the time winter settled in. He’d never experienced a Montana winter, but he’d heard plenty of horror stories.
As much as he loved nature and living close to the ground, he appreciated a few creature comforts—like running water and indoor plumbing. Thankfully, he’d found some nearby hot springs that he visited daily and twice a week he treated himself to a massage at Crystal Valley spa…until yesterday when his credit card was denied.
Ryker assumed there was a glitch in the system, but he planned to call his bank today. He’d paid cash for his Crystal Valley bill, which brought him down to his last few bucks. At times like this, he hated not having a computer with Wi-Fi at his fingertips. His cheap burner phone didn’t support a signal half the time and he’d completely given up trying to use it for email. Luckily, the Marietta Library’s computers worked quite well. He even felt comfortable using the system to do what little online bill paying he needed.
He’d purchased extra storage space in the Cloud, which he used to back up his photographs. Not that he’d had that many to save prior to last week. He hadn’t even picked up his camera for a month until Jamie and Tegan MacCreadie invited him to a cattle drive, moving their herd from Blue Rock Mountain ranch to the BRM low hills and the MacCreadie ranch which adjoined it on the Gallatin Range side of the valley.
Instinct and years of experience told him he’d managed to get some decent shots. He couldn’t wait to tweak them today on the library’s computer. The system wasn’t as up-to-date and streamlined as the one he’d had in France, but he could do the basics. Even if the end result was crap, he knew his “photo mojo” was back. The cattle drive had jump-started some of the old juices. He might even call his agent in a day or two to see if there was a market for western shots with rugged, real-life cowboys.
He took his time straightening his space—a habit born from years of travel across four continents. When you were paid to catch the money shot, you kept your crap at the ready-to-hop-a-flight position. He grabbed his yoga mat and unzipped the tent flap, bracing for the bright morning light.
He tossed the mat lengthwise in front of his door so it didn’t fall outside the green tarp he used to keep his inner sanctum halfway clean. He’d done yoga for ten years and rarely started his day without a few asanas. But first, he struck a match to light his camp stove and put the kettle on to boil.
“Coffee in the morning and a good bottle of wine with dinner is key to a healthy, happy life,” Colette often said.
Lately, wine had become more important than coffee, but that was about to change. If he had to put his finger on the exact cause behind his epiphany, Ryker would point to his visit to the Arts and Craft Exhibit at the Big Marietta Fair. He’d walked the entire grounds twice before slipping into the large air-conditioned hall. He’d ambled past quilts and needlework, paintings of all kinds, and finally, photography.
A few of the matted photos showed real talent. One, an image of a grizzled old cowboy lighting a smoke, drew him into the story so completely, he could almost taste the acrid smoke on his tongue. His hand had reached for his camera. A reflex. A knee-jerk reaction.
A few weeks later, he’d been invited to join the round-up. The process had felt good—muscle memory coming back after too long away from exercise. Now, he couldn’t wait to edit the photos he’d taken. This afternoon. He preferred to work at the library when he knew his friend Louise Jenkins would be on duty.
Louise welcomed him even if his clothes were a bit grubby or he needed a shave. She didn’t pass judgment—unlike some of the other patrons.
He shook off the memory and stepped onto the mat. Breathing deeply, he looked toward the mountains in the distance and tried to center his focus inward from there. Each deep breath pulled in fresh air and energy. His chest expanded as his lungs filled to capacity. He exhaled fully, touched his hands flat to the mat and kicked his feet out to plank. He’d done the sun salute so many times each step was ingrained in his unconscious. Each motion took him deeper until he reached the place where external sounds—the birds squawking, the river babbling, car doors slamming—became white noise.
He’d just arched his back in upward dog when a voice said, “How much longer will this take?”
A woman’s voice. An impatient, unhappy voice.
Ryker opened his eyes and looked straight into one of the prettiest sets of eyes he’d ever seen. Big Sky Montana blue. Wide, delicious ovals with a hint of exotic in her smoky brows and dark lashes. The expression in these beautiful eyes was all business.
She was not from the Welcome Wagon—or the county sheriff’s department, either. Her skin-tight black workout pants, vivid turquoise and black top and sloppy hoodie with the name of some gym imprinted on both sleeves—told him she wasn’t there on a professional call of any sort.
“Let me finish my sun salutes. I’m almost done.” He wasn’t. He’d just started, but the determined set of her jaw told him she wasn’t going away until she said her piece. “Unless you’d care to join me. I’m not a certified yoga instructor, but I’ve led classes on three continents. Not to brag, but when you’ve traveled as much as I have, you can always find interested souls eager to try something new.”
Her expression turned skeptical. She couldn’t figure him out, he realized. Ryker liked that.
“No, thank you. I’ll wait.”
He knew that tone. She wasn’t a good waiter.
He stepped his right foot forward in a lunge, his right arm extended in warrior pose.
She tensed visibly, her hands curling into fists.
His heart melted a little. She would stand her ground and fight, he realized—despite the fact she was half his size. He liked feisty. Hell, he adored feisty. Feisty was fun, unpredictable, exciting, sexy.
Sexy.
He felt his male anatomy stir to life.
Oh, shit.
He quickly switched sides to face the opposite direction. It was morning. He was a man. A man who hadn’t been with a woman in a very long time.
He gazed at the river, trying to remember how cold the water had been yesterday when he jumped in to bathe. Icy. Frigid. Ball shriveling.
He glanced down.
Better.
“Are you okay?”
Damn. The beautiful eyes saw too much.
He gave up on yoga and walked to his makeshift kitchen area. “Fine. I need coffee. You?”
“Coffee,” she repeated, as if the word had been spoken in Swahili.
He grabbed the boutique roast he’d picked up in Bozeman. “French roast. I can grind a few extra beans if you’d like to try it.”
Her jaw dropped, drawing attention to her equally beautiful lips. The bottom lip was full and lush. The way she brutalized tha
t poor bottom lip with her teeth should have been against the law.
“You grind your own beans?” She enunciated each word with a slight pause between.
“Yes, I do,” he answered just as succinctly. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He picked up the antique coffee grinder he’d found in a little thrift shop in Livingston, added his usual measure—and a tablespoon extra, then walked to the opposite side of the little camp table so she could watch him stir the handle. The aroma released by the beans made his mouth water.
One glance at her said she was swallowing extra saliva, too. Her nostrils flared and her nose wriggled.
Damn. She’s cute.
No. Pretty.
No. Beautiful.
He was so focused on defining her looks he lost track of the grinder and the little handle whacked his neglectful fingers. “Ouch.” He brought his knuckle to his lips and sucked on the sting.
Her chuckle made him frown.
“That never happens. You distracted me.”
“I’m just standing here. I didn’t do anything. Just like a man to blame somebody else for his mistake.”
A telling comment, he thought. He covered the handle with his palm to stop the grinding action, then picked up the French press—one of the few things he’d brought with him from France.
With the kind of care he’d learned in the darkroom, he shook the grounds into the base, added the heated water and fixed the top, plunger fully extended. While the coffee brewed, he decided to get introductions out of the way.
“My name is Ryker Bensen,” he said, taking a step toward her, arm extended.
Her body posture tensed again, but she didn’t run. “Mia Zabrinski.” She crossed her arms defensively below her chest. “I’m here—”
Montana Darling (Big Sky Mavericks Book 3) Page 2
