Love and Trust

by Jean Oram

  “Inazuma 250.” It wasn’t the fanciest bike on the market, but it was affordable and economical.

  Ezra nodded, his fingers tangling in his long beard as he assessed her—mostly her legs, she noted. “A gal like you wouldn’t have issues with the seat height, and it’s nice and light. Good fit.”

  “I like it.”

  “Come ride with us sometime.”

  “Right. That would be nice.”

  She swallowed her apprehension as Tristen gripped her elbow and steered her out of the bar.

  “They are so sweet!” she said as they trundled down the steps. The heat of the day was oppressing as ever, but the intensity of the sun had dropped a notch. They must have been in there longer than she’d thought. “Unexpected fun. My favorite.”

  “You’re drunk. That was not fun,” he grumbled, strong-arming her forward.

  “Think he’ll stop by for divorce help?” she asked as she missed the last step, doing a funny leg bend that would have deposited her on her butt if Tristen hadn’t been there to catch her. Sweet, sweet-smelling Tristen.

  “You smell good. So did Ezra, actually. I didn’t expect that. What kind of shampoo do you use? Does it have ylang-ylang in it? I like saying that. It’s a fun word. At first I thought it was a joke, you know? But it’s real. A tree with pretty flowers.”

  Tristen gazed at her steadily, still holding her shoulders as though he wasn’t sure she’d remain standing if he let go. “I can’t believe you drank that much whiskey. Straight.”

  “I made it through law school, didn’t I?” She let out a giggle. “Can we sit down now? My legs feel funny. And I’m hungry. We should have waited for the onion wings—rings. Wings would be something. Flying onions. Isn’t that the name of a restaurant?”

  Tristen gave her a look she couldn’t decipher, and shook his head, helping her into his truck like a perfect, sweet-smelling, gentlemanly hero.

  He was already her favorite.

  CHAPTER 2

  Tristen had never met a woman quite like the one sitting in the passenger seat of his beater, and he’d met plenty of interesting and unpredictable women in his thirty-seven years of life. However, it seemed as though he still had plenty to learn about the fairer sex. And Melanie Summer, in her unassumingly sexy dress, who had figured out how to defeat an ancient, rusted-up lug nut with nothing more than lemons and a decent knowledge of physics, was sure to be another puzzle he’d never sort out.

  Add in the way she’d won over the bikers? Unprecedented. If they’d both broken out into song and asked her to give them a makeover, he swore he wouldn’t have blinked in surprise.

  There was something magical about Melanie. At first he’d felt the need to protect her—she was an abandoned woman in a rough area and he’d been raised right. But the more he got to know her, the more his need to protect had morphed into something more innate and primal. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what had changed, or why he feared if he let her out of his sight something would happen to her. Or that he would miss one of her unexpected quirks that would make him smile.

  The woman in question shifted in her seat as they rolled into the village of Port Carling. “Can I buy you a drink to thank you for your rescue services?” She asked the question so casually it was as though she was already expecting the rejection he had begun to plot.

  “I think you rescued me,” he replied, trying to figure out her sudden lack of bravado.

  Melanie’s voice quivered slightly, her hands a tangle in her lap. “I was so sure Scar was going to throw me to the hordes, and my family would never see me again.” She gave a laugh that was too tight to hide the fact she wasn’t joking. When she’d waltzed into the bar as though she owned it, he’d been dazzled by her confidence. She’d struck him as a woman who knew what she wanted. And yet here she was, acting scared.

  Her hands relaxed as her dark, worried expression gave way to a sunny laugh. “Who knew they were such a nice bunch of guys? I feel so silly.”

  Tristen didn’t think they were nice. The way the bearded one had kept eyeing her pale neck, well, he could have sworn the guy had been measuring it to see if his hands would fit around it. “Maybe stay away from them, just in case.”

  She laughed again, brushing him off. “You’re so funny.”

  No, he wasn’t. Not at all. “He was eyeing your neck, Melanie.”

  Tristen’s hands shook on the steering wheel. Didn’t she understand the way the world worked? The way bikers operated?

  “He makes necklaces, Tristen. While you were canceling the tow truck he told me I inspired him. If I go to the farmers market in Bala next week he’ll have a hematite and chain maille choker for me.”

  Choker. Man, she did not get it, did she? “Make sure you don’t go off with those men alone.”

  “Yeah, sure. Of course.” She waved a hand, dismissing his concerns as she mowed her way through his offered bag of beef jerky. The girl could eat, he’d give her that. But she was acting as though these men were just regular white-collar workers dressing up tough on weekends, not members of the Hells Angels. Not that he knew if they were gang members or not, but they probably were. Accountants did not look gnarly, and Ezra looked incredibly gnarly.

  Tristen rubbed his forehead and focused on keeping his truck between the narrow painted lines as they wound through the hilly town. The tires hit a bump and the fieldstones he’d picked up earlier clattered and banged in the truck’s box.

  What was it about this woman that made him want to hide her away? Part of him said it was to keep her safe. The other part said he was afraid others would see just how delicate and wonderful she was, and take her away.

  Hadn’t he learned anything from his ex? He needed to stay as far from women as possible. At least until he figured out his crap.

  “Where am I dropping you off?” he asked, his voice gruff.

  There was a familiar look of disappointment in Melanie’s eyes and he tried not to feel guilty for being relieved. Disappointed women didn’t expect anything from him long-term, and didn’t go looking to change his bachelor status and mend his heart, or whatever else seemed to crank their engines. Not that Melanie was the type to do that, especially since he hadn’t exactly strutted his manly side so far today. She probably thought he was a joke.

  In fact, he was a joke. She had been right about him hiding out in Muskoka for the past two years. Since his wife filed for divorce, to be precise. He’d run from Toronto like a dog with its tail between its legs, confused and wondering what the hell planet he’d ended up on.

  But he knew that an innocent thank-you supper with Melanie would turn into something bigger. She’d wowed and wooed the hardened hearts of bikers, so what chance did a man like him have? She was fatally tempting. Sexy. Demure.

  “At the boutique up the hill past the locks,” Melanie said. “I left my motorcycle there.”

  Tristen glanced at her bare legs. Motorcycle in a dress? Who in tarnation was this woman?

  Who cared? He needed to ditch her. And fast. Being intrigued meant trouble. And where women were concerned, he’d had enough trouble to last him at least another decade.

  “Yeah, I know,” she said, catching his look. “Practicality is my latest middle name. It used to be Safety. I really can’t decide between the two. I guess I should have introduced myself properly. I’m Melanie Practicality Summer.” She put out her hand to shake his.

  He gave her a look, keeping his hands on the wheel. She heaved a heavy sigh and fingered the hem of her skirt with slim, delicate fingers, inadvertently revealing more thigh. Then she leaned forward, her palm resting on the door handle, ready to exit even though he was still a ways from her stop. She was taking his lack of enthusiasm over a drink as a personal rejection.

  Women. Damned if you do. Definitely damned if you shut them down.

  He stopped outside a house that had been converted into a two-story clothing shop. “Thanks again,” he said. “Appreciate it.” He stared at the motorcycle. “Ar
e you okay to drive?”

  Who was he kidding? Of course she wasn’t.

  “The beef jerky helped. Thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, it’s not far.”

  “The greatest percentage of accidents occur less than five miles from home.”

  “A misleading statistic. Most of your driving happens there.”

  “I’ll give you that one, but I still think I should give you a ride the rest of the way home.”

  Melanie swung the squeaking door open and paused, half in the truck, half out, the skirt of her dress bunching up behind her butt. “A friend thought maybe you could help me and my sisters with some development stuff in relation to our family cottage. Could I call you sometime?”

  Aha. A rich chick with a cottage. That’s what the bit of intrigue had been about, the missing piece of the Melanie puzzle: she was a rich chick trying to be some girl without a trust fund for the afternoon.

  Funny, but he’d pegged her as a local. Granted, there were a few locals with cottages, but really, it didn’t matter, did it? He didn’t need to get wrapped up in a high maintenance and dressed-to-kill babe like her. And it was a sure bet she was all of the above. In other words, danger with a capital D.

  And developments? An emphatic, resounding no. Toronto would get the winter Olympics before he ever dug back into that mess and allowed it to take over his life, turning him into the monster he’d once been. Anything to win the deal. The side of himself he’d carefully and purposefully locked away. The beast would remain shackled until he was certain it had been slaughtered and couldn’t achieve reincarnation. That meant Melanie Summer was not allowed anywhere near his life.

  “So?” She gave him an expectant look. “Could you? Please? I could make you supper or walk your dog in return.”

  First Alice Estaire hadn’t got the hint that he didn’t need a woman in his life, and now this one. It had taken eight months of peeling Alice off his arm to discourage her. Sadly, she knew where he lived and had “popped in” at strange times, hence him getting his early warning system installed. AKA Max.

  But now Tristen had Melanie offering to walk his dog? Did it ever stop? What was with Muskoka women?

  “The seat is covered in dog hair,” she said. “It was a joke. Quit freaking out.”

  “I’m not freaking out.”

  “I’m trying to say that I don’t expect you to give your time freely. I know you’re a busy man.” Her gaze ran down his worn shirt and jeans.

  Ouch. That was a dig.

  “What do you need, Melanie?” He winced. That sounded like a yes, didn’t it? His cell phone vibrated on the seat next to him and he flipped it over to check who was calling. His ex-wife, Cindy, a woman who had been purposefully and successfully avoiding him for five months.

  “I need help with figuring out how to stop a development,” Melanie said.

  “Not my thing.” He picked up the phone, waiting for her to be polite and excuse herself so he could take the call.

  “I only have a few quick questions,” she blurted, sensing he was in the process of shutting her down. “Surely you know—”

  “Sorry, I really have to take this. If I think of anyone who can help, I’ll get in touch.” He reached across the seat and closed her door, leaving Melanie standing on the sidewalk, looking crushed.

  Get over it, woman. I’m not your type. I’m old, jaded, and dealing with an ex-wife. You are young, smart, beautiful, and completely out of my league. Move along and, for the sake of mankind, don’t sway those gorgeously round hips of yours as you go.

  He answered his phone, the corners of his lips turning up in a smile as Melanie unceremoniously shoved a helmet over her curly hair. All dolled up and ruining the look with headgear.

  What was the expression? Brains before beauty? Seemed like a good idea when riding a crotch rocket. And though she was walking straight, he still didn’t think she should be driving. He rolled down the window to call out to her while his ex-wife ranted in his ear. Holding his thumb over the phone’s speaker, he leaned out the truck window. “Shouldn’t you be wearing leathers with that dress? A dragonfly smacking into your arm will give you a bruise the size of a grapefruit.”

  “Are you listening to me?” asked his ex.

  “Yeah, yeah, of course,” he said into the phone.

  Melanie whirled, sticking out her tongue before flipping down the helmet’s visor. He laughed, feeling more alive than he had in ages.

  Not good.

  He popped his door, prepared to make her accept a ride the rest of the way home. Melanie pushed her bike onto the road, but began walking alongside it, the engine off.

  “Let me give you a ride,” he called from his seat. “Or push your bike. It looks heavy.”

  “I’m fine,” she snapped back.

  He found himself laughing again. Had he managed to get under her skin the way she’d gotten under his? And why did that feel so satisfying? So full of promise?

  Meanwhile, his ex continued on about how she needed to get Dot, their seventeen-year-old daughter, out of the house for the next two weeks. Both he and Cindy had been pretty determined at that age, and had defied their parents by eloping on their shared birthday—the day they’d turned eighteen. While that hadn’t worked out so well in the long run, with the exception of having their daughter, they’d had fun and lived life the way they’d wanted to. It didn’t surprise Tristen that Dot seemed to have a similar streak burning through her veins.

  “And you expect…what was it, Cindy?” He paused as though thinking, before delivering the dig he knew would drive her around the ex-wife bend. “An absent, emotionally constipated man who is incapable of expressing love to somehow straighten out the daughter who knows me so little she bought me a tie for Father’s Day?”

  “At least she thought of you.”

  “I remembered her birthday this year, thank you very much.”

  Melanie gave him one last glance over her shoulder, through the visor, then tucked her skirt under her backside and plunked herself on her bike—a move he interpreted as the equivalent to “kiss my butt.”

  His heart caught in his throat, but she merely coasted down a driveway. Home.

  He relaxed, smiling at the image of a gal in an old-fashioned dress on a bike giving him ’tude. How could she have possibly felt intimidated in the biker bar, especially when they’d all crowded around her like birds to a feeder? And why did Tristen want to get to know her better? His raving ex had taken him to the cleaners and he’d all but rolled over and told her to give it to him with steel-toed boots. And here he was…

  Stupid.

  He’d promised he’d straighten himself out before dating again. Ruining one woman’s life was one thing, but to knowingly do so to another was not something he could do and keep his head held high.

  “Cindy, enough,” he said, stopping his ex-wife mid-rant. He knew girls needed their fathers or at least a male role model, but he didn’t figure his ex actually believed he should take Dot for that reason. Something else was up, and honestly, he didn’t care what it was. “Send Dot. I’ll straighten her out.”

  He’d figured out how to fix and build stone fireplaces and patios. Surely he could fix his little girl’s world. And if he did manage to straighten out a teen he barely knew, then maybe he could start down that lonely, dark path of finally becoming a decent man who didn’t ruin the lives of others.

  * * *

  Tristen pulled into his driveway just outside town, staring unseeing at the cottage he’d converted into a year-round home. He wrung the steering wheel of his old truck and sighed. Sunshine fell through the maples overhead, leaving dappled shadows on the faded hood. He’d set something in motion, answering his ex’s call. Something he wasn’t sure he was prepared for. But he’d been hiding out for two years and he supposed it was time to face snapshots of the man he used to be, and the consequences that had ensued. Including a daughter who failed to have a father figure in her life.

 
; Tristen watched the shadows dance across the windshield, and sighing, slipped out of the truck, then made his way across the gravel driveway. He had a guest room to prepare and a stone wall project to put the finishing touches on over in Gravenhurst before Dot came in the morning. Neither tasks were huge, but he didn’t have time to dawdle if he planned to download a book on how to parent a teen. Why did Cindy, who had been perfectly content to allow him visitation rights for only a handful of hours a year, suddenly want him to take Dot for two full weeks? Was she trying to get even for the times he’d left her to take care of their daughter while he worked twenty-hour days on an unexpected project?

  He turned back to his truck, remembering to check on his spare. He smiled and shook his head. Melanie. What a gal. The tire was still holding air, which meant one less urgent thing to worry about. Bounding up the two steps, he opened the door and headed straight to his tablet.

  As he searched for a book by that Dr. Spock guy he’d heard about, he let his massive Bernese mountain dog, Maxwell Richard III, out the back door. Discovering Dr. Spock seemed to think childhood ended years before Dot’s current age, Tristen began browsing online stores for Max-sized dog doors that would let the dog come and go from the house as he wished.

  No. No distractions. He had to face this. No resisting. This was important. Scary, but important. Sixteen hours, minus eating, sleeping and working, didn’t give him a whole lot of time to bring himself up to speed on teen rearing. He checked for a “What to Expect” for parents of teens.

  Nope. Apparently the first two years of parenting were The Years. If you didn’t have the skills by the time your kid was two, you were, essentially, hooped.

  He placed the tablet on the coffee table and rested his head in his hands, his fingers finding plenty of hair to dig through. He needed a haircut. Sliding the tablet closer, he opened a browser and typed “How to Raise a Teen.”

  Now he was getting somewhere. Plenty of results.

  How to Cope When Your Teenager Suddenly Becomes the Scariest Person You’ve Ever Met: Puberty and the Teenaged Girl.