Accidental Hero

by Lauren Nichols

  “So where do you want this tray of sandwiches, gorgeous?”

  Maggie held back a groan as Trent approached her for the fifth time since he made an appearance half an hour ago. She appreciated his help, but the things he chose to do could have been handled by any of the women in attendance. On the other hand, the men working on the roof could have used a hand lugging shingles, and dragging away the old tar paper and nails lying around the church. Not that Trent was dressed for that kind of work.

  Maggie wiped her wet hands on her jeans and raised her voice over the noisy hammering. “It’ll be fine right over there,” she said, pointing to an empty space in the chain of picnic tables. Several yards away, an assortment of salads and desserts, as well as sliced ham, cheese and bakery rolls, stretched deliciously from the first table to the fifth.

  She and Bessie Holsopple had covered the tabletops with the roll of heavy white paper they’d found downstairs in the church’s meeting room, then taped the ends down tightly to keep the wind from tearing them up. They needn’t have bothered. In a land where gusting winds were the norm, today there wasn’t even a hint of a breeze. Ross—and the other men, too, of course—could have used one. The temperature was approaching eighty, and the humidity had been high for days. Where was the rain the weatherperson kept promising?

  “All right, gentlemen,” the reverend announced in his booming voice. “It’s noon—time to eat, drink and thank the Lord for the delicious bounty these kind ladies have provided.”

  There was some light opposition to quitting in the middle of a task, but the reverend overruled the objections. “Come on, you’ve been at it for three hours. Neither God nor I want anyone keeling over from sunstroke.”

  Ross wiped an arm over his damp face and crawled down from the scaffolding again. “At least not until the roofs finished, right, Reverend?”

  Fremont chuckled and shook a finger as Ross took his shirt from a bar on the scaffolding and pulled it on. “Now don’t put words in my mouth, son.”

  When everyone was quiet and assembled, Fremont gave the blessing, then ordered one and all to sit down and fill up—which everyone did. Except Ross. In the middle of the friendly chaos of noisy chatter and platters being passed around, Ross grabbed a ham salad sandwich and walked over to Maggie. He took a plastic tumbler from the stack, then grimly slid it under the dispenser.

  “Is this the iced tea?”

  “Yes.”

  His tone was as cool as hers had been all morning, and Maggie didn’t really blame him. Averting her eyes, she tried to keep her pulse from running away with itself, and pumped tea into his glass. She wished he’d buttoned his shirt. Seeing him standing there with the brim of his hat shading his eyes, and sweat collecting in his chest hair made her think too much...remember too much. Why did he have to look so good? And why did he have to look that good all the time?

  Before she’d finished filling Ross’s glass, Trent grabbed one of his own and shoved it close, nearly knocking over Ross’s drink. “Gee, excuse me,” he said coldly.

  Maggie watched Ross’s amused gaze scan Trent’s irate expression and inappropriate clothing—from his expensive-looking pale-green shirt, string tie and tan slacks, to the mirror polish on his hand-tooled Western boots. The two males were a study in contrast. Trent’s black hair was smooth and stylishly cut, while rivulets of sweat trickled from the thick brown hair at Ross’s temples.

  “Expecting the press, Trent?”

  Trent’s face reddened—as it should have, Maggie thought. Even the women had dressed casually today.

  With a sardonic smile, Ross wandered a few feet away to grab another sandwich from the platter. Trent took the opportunity to move a little closer to Maggie, speaking in a smooth, familiar voice that she realized was meant to be overheard.

  “I really enjoyed our visit on Tuesday night, Maggie. Particularly after your uncle and aunt went inside and we had the porch to ourselves.” He chuckled softly. “I still haven’t figured out why your aunt blew out all the candles and left us in the dark like that.”

  Maggie stared at him, stunned. Trent had heard Lila’s “bothersome moths” excuse, just as she had. He was trying—for Ross’s benefit—to make it sound like more. Maggie flicked an anxious look at Ross to see if he’d heard, but there was no reaction from him. He was eating another sandwich, drinking his iced tea, and—it seemed to Maggie—studying the church roof as though he’d like to get back to it.

  After she’d handed out cans of soft drinks and filled glasses for several more people, Trent spoke again. “I don’t know if I mentioned it the other night, but your aunt Lila’s lemonade is the best I’ve ever tasted. I don’t know anyone who makes it with fresh lemons anymore.”

  Move on to another topic, Maggie wanted to shout. He wasn’t saying anything that wasn’t true, but that low voice of his made the evening sound too cozy. Especially since she’d spent the first part of Tuesday evening at the Daltons’ hot spring. “I’ll be sure to tell her how much you liked it,” she replied evenly.

  “Do that. You know, I had a nice talk with her while we were waiting for you to come home. I think we really hit it off. And that uncle of yours is a great storyteller.”

  Why was her stomach in knots? Why did she even care if Ross heard? She’d been trying for weeks to discourage any more contact with him, hadn’t she? Well, this should do it, her conscience remarked.

  Ambling over to the booth again, Ross extended his glass for a refill, a flat, unreadable expression in his eyes. “I had a pretty fair Tuesday night, too.”

  “No one cares,” Trent replied dryly.

  “Oh, I don’t know about that. Maggie might.”

  Maggie flicked Ross a pleading look as she refilled his glass. But he either didn’t understand, or didn’t care that he was making her uneasy.

  “I worked on my house for a while,” he said offhandedly. “Then it was so nice out, I walked back to the hot spring and went skinny-dipping for a whi—”

  Trent’s features contorted in anger. “As I said before, no one cares. Go tell your smarmy Tuesday-night story to Brenda.” He expelled a disgusted breath. “Never mind, she was probably with you.”

  Maggie’s nerves vibrated like tuning forks. Brenda? Who was Brenda?

  “Actually there was someone with me,” Ross said, smiling. “Someone beautiful, and bright—”

  “Here’s your drink,” Maggie cut in, pushing the glass toward him. “There’s chocolate cake over on the table if you’d like to have a piece.”

  “Did you make it?”

  Red-faced, Trent spoke again. “If you don’t mind, we were having a conversation.”

  Ross shrugged amiably. “Sorry. Don’t let me keep you from it.” Downing his drink, he tossed the plastic tumbler in a trash bin, then walked back to the church to pick up the tar paper and discarded green shingles from the ground. Eventually, other men began trickling back to work, too. It wasn’t long before the staccato hammering and the yells of the men rang through the wooded churchyard again.

  The sun had slipped behind the jagged peaks of the mountains, and the church roof was finished before Maggie had another opportunity to speak to Ross. At that, she’d almost missed him when she’d gone inside to grab her aunt Lila’s cake carrier.

  He was halfway across the parking lot, strolling toward his truck and pulling on his shirt, when Maggie caught up to him.

  “It wasn’t what you thought,” she said falling into step beside him.

  He kept walking. “What wasn’t what I thought?”

  “Trent and me,” Maggie said. “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Yes, you did. He was waiting on the porch for me when I got back from your place that night. I know he hinted that we’d been...well, close...after Uncle Moe and Aunt Lila went inside. But absolutely nothing happened between us.”

  Ross stopped beside his truck and looked down at her. There was a detached expression in his blue eyes as he
buttoned his chambray shirt. The honest odors of hard work and potent male carried to her in the gathering dusk. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

  Maggie’s lips parted but nothing came out. Why was she telling him this? “Ross—”

  “I know nothing happened. If anything was going to happen that night, it would have happened with me.”

  She didn’t know whether to slap his egotistical face or thank him for not thinking she was easy. Although the tone of his voice hadn’t really sounded arrogant. Maggie held back a sigh of frustration. She’d never known anyone who could throw her off balance so often, and with so little effort.

  With a weary shake of her head, she turned away from him, walked the remaining distance to her car, and left.

  The smoke, music and noise level inside Dusty’s Roadhouse that night was staggering, even for a Saturday. Ross sat at the bar nursing his second beer and tried to block out the raucous voices and braying yee-haws from the dance floor. He was trying to remember the title of the old Billy Ray Cyrus song that the band was playing. Oh, yeah...“Achy Breaky Heart.”

  Ticked-off Heart was more like it. He just didn’t know who he was more ticked off at—himself or Maggie. Probably her. She’d started this whole cold-war thing with her ice-maiden routine.

  When she’d come after him with that explanation about her and Campion, he supposed he could’ve been a little warmer. But why get all revved up over her again when it wasn’t going to get him anywhere? Apparently, she felt safer drinking lemonade with Trent Campion than tempting fate with the town hellion.

  Frowning, Ross glanced around the bar. Until he and Brokenstraw hand Ray Pruitt had walked in thirty minutes ago, Ross hadn’t been here in months. But Dusty’s Remington and C. M. Russell prints still hung on the rough wood walls, and the burn marks from a dozen local branding irons still mottled the roadhouse’s rough support posts. Vintage nail kegs and other wild West memorabilia still gathered dust on the high shelf running the perimeter of the room.

  Ross helped himself to some pretzels from the bowl on the mahogany bar, then slid the bowl closer to Ray’s empty stool. When the band played, slick, dressed-in-black Pruitt had to be out on the dance floor, dazzling the ladies.

  Yep. Everything was the same around here.

  Except him.

  A husky female voice murmured near his ear. “Time to shake a leg, cowboy.”

  Ross thanked heaven for the constants in life, and spun his bar stool around. Wearing snug jeans and a fringed, green-satin Western shirt, Brenda Larson slid onto his lap and looped her arms around his neck. Thick red hair tumbled in wild ringlets around her exquisite face and shoulders, framing her green eyes and glossy red lips to perfection.

  This was why he’d come tonight. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, and beautiful Brenda always looked like she’d just crawled out of bed—and couldn’t wait to get back in.

  “Been a while,” she drawled, pushing her soft, full breasts against the front of his shirt. “Miss me?”

  “Like crazy,” he growled, trying to find the “old” Ross as he tugged her even closer. He burrowed into her hair...rubbed his nose along her perfumed neck...waited for her soft sighs and throaty chuckles to make him ready. Dammit, he was through playing games with a prim, standoffish woman who was scared to death to take what she wanted. He slid his hands over the silky back of Brenda’s blouse, remembering the spattering of freckles that dotted her pale shoulders. How ironic that three hours ago he’d been shingling a church roof, and now he was—

  Trying like hell to crank up his libido—and failing.

  Ross’s hands stilled against Brenda’s back. Why hadn’t her heavily sprayed ringlets ever before reminded him of barbwire? And why hadn’t the musky smell of her perfume ever turned him off the way it did tonight?

  “Your hands stopped movin’, sweetheart,” she cooed into his ear. “Maybe we should take this out on the dance floor and get you warmed up a bit.”

  Suddenly, he realized that he could never get that warm. Not for what she’d want afterwards, anyway. “Hey, Bren?”

  “Hmmm?”

  He eased her away from him. “I gotta take off.”

  Brenda’s eyebrows rose, and she blinked as though he’d lost his mind. “What?”

  “How about a rain check for that dance?”

  “A rain check?”

  “Sorry.”

  With a pouty look, she slid off his lap and kissed him lightly, then used her thumb to rub away the traces of her lipstick. “What happened to you, Ross Dalton? You used to be fun.”

  “I used to be a lot of things,” he said, sighing. But he sure as hell wasn’t anymore. Ross pushed his beer away and started for the door. “’Night, Brenda. Tell Ray I’ll see him back at the ranch.”

  There wasn’t a sign of a cloud as he walked out onto Dusty’s moon-drenched deck, then took the short set of steps to the rutted parking lot. The night air was still warm and heavy, but after the smoke inside the bar, it was almost refreshing.

  Tugging his keys from the front pocket of his jeans, he made his way tiredly to his truck. So much for his stud status around here. Why had he ever thought that hazy memories and hangovers were fun? Now he’d wasted the whole damn night when he could have been working on his house, or—something foreign and surprising tightened his heart—

  Or gone looking for Maggie.

  Two days later, on July third, Maggie returned home from work to find a narrow package from her father sitting on the kitchen table. Beside it, the afternoon newspaper lay opened to the second page. A photo of Trent appeared above the church-roofing article.

  Maggie skimmed swiftly past Trent’s broad smile to the blurred form of a lean, shirtless man working some distance behind him. Her pulse leaped, and her heart started to pound. Then abruptly, she closed the paper, forced Ross from her mind, and turned to the package from her father.

  All in all, it hadn’t been a bad day. Farrell was still treating her well and hadn’t enumerated again the dangerous elements of a deputy’s job. But hearing from her dad made a good day better.

  “See the paper?” Lila asked, coming into the kitchen from outside.

  “Yep.” Maggie peeled the packing tape from her package.

  “Bet Trent’s disappointed he only made page two.”

  Maggie glanced up in surprise. “I thought you liked Trent.”

  “He’s okay. I just like other people more. By the way, he phoned today—wanted to take you to the street dance tomorrow.”

  “I know. He called the office, too. I told him no.” But she had promised him a dance, just to get him off the telephone.

  Maggie peeled the brown paper away and laughed. “My goodness. Is he allowed to send stuff like this through the mail?”

  “What is it?”

  “Sparklers. Two boxes—red for me, gold for him.” She faked a look of regret as she glanced over at Lila. “Sorry—none for you and Uncle Moe, but I’m willing to share.”

  Lila chuckled. “Don’t bother. Was there a note?”

  “Nope. Guess he felt the sparklers said it all.” Smiling at the memory that surfaced, Maggie laid the sparklers back on the table. “Mom never liked these things. She was always afraid they’d start a fire, or I’d drop one, pick up the wrong end and burn myself. Not Dad, though. He’s still a big kid about fireworks.”

  “Good thing, too, because he’s way too serious about everything else.” Lila pulled a platter of steaks from the refrigerator and handed them to Maggie. “How about putting these on the grill, honey? We’ll fix your uncle Moe a real cattleman’s supper tonight.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yep. I’m baking potatoes in the oven in the basement to keep it a little cooler up here, and the salad’s almost ready. I just have to add a few tomatoes.”

  “No more shepherd’s pie?”

  Lila chuckled. “After the big stink he made last time? Not for a while.”

  Maggie went out back and fired up the
grill, then arranged the thick steaks on the rack. Lila was right; Maggie loved her dad dearly—but he was too serious about everything else.

  Her smile broadened as she recalled the time he’d caught her wearing Mary Ellen Parker’s lipstick. She was thirteen then, and all the girls in her class were experimenting with makeup—except Maggie, of course. Her father had hit the roof. She had thought she’d have to make a pilgrimage to the Holy Land to settle him down.

  Her smile slowly faded. Then there was the night she’d crashed Ross’s party...

  It had been late when Mary Ellen dropped her off at the parsonage, and Maggie had been torn between going inside, and standing in the dark forever. She was still fighting the mortification of being seen with her blouse undone. When she did go in, all she’d wanted to do was get past her parents and run to her room. Unfortunately, when she’d kissed her dad good-night, he’d smelled beer on her breath.

  “Honey?” he’d said. “Do I smell alcohol?”

  She’d ended up admitting that she’d tried some beer, just to fit in. Her mom had understood. But Maggie had never seen her father so disappointed, and it nearly broke her heart.

  Later, he’d clicked on her small bedside lamp, and pulled a chair up to her bed. “Disobedience, sweetheart? Sneaking around? That’s not like you. What made you want to attend such an inappropriate party?”

  She’d shrugged miserably because she couldn’t tell him that she was hopelessly in love with that wild Dalton boy. That would have upset him even more.

  “And the beer? Maggie, you’re only fifteen—there are laws. What if the party had been raided? What then?”

  That was when she’d realized that her parents—especially her father—would have been shamed. And she’d broken down.

  “Don’t cry,” he’d murmured, kissing her forehead and holding her close. “It’s all right. Just listen to one small piece of advice from your dad?”

  She’d nodded, unable to speak.

  “In the next few years, you’re going to encounter many temptations, and some of them will be incredibly difficult to overcome. But do you know what will get you through them?”