Rugged Hearts

by Amanda McIntyre

  She slowed and searched the array of pickup trucks parked in the gravel lot. The pink neon light flashing Dusty’s was an enticing welcome to her frazzled nerves. She passed the first drive, battling the wisdom of turning in, and saw her last chance looming beyond a short snowdrift, a few feet ahead. With a sigh, she yanked on the wheel and pulled her car into a spot between two massive pickup trucks. She sat for a moment, still debating the social consequences, but her need for a peaceful drink outweighed the potential for scandal. She locked the door, hooked her purse over her shoulder, and headed for the front door, almost dissuaded by the catcalls of two older men who were leaving. She ignored them, pulled open the door, and hoped at least one of them was sober enough to drive. The music of the jukebox blared in the near-empty room and she felt the stiffness in her shoulders relax. Raucous male laughter filtered in from the back room, where she surmised a pool table must be. Cautiously, she unzipped her jacket and looked for a quiet spot where she could be alone. She spotted a seat at the end of the bar. A couple sat in one of the corner booths, so wrapped up in each other that Aimee decided the place could be on fire and they wouldn’t notice. Yet other than the couple, those involved in a pool game, and the bartender, the bar was virtually empty.

  “Welcome to Dusty’s.” The man behind the polished counter greeted her with a friendly smile and went on with stacking clean glasses on the shelves. “I’m Dusty. What can I get you?”

  Aimee slipped off her coat and placed it on the back of the stool. She looked up and caught the man studying her.

  “Stinger, on the rocks,” she answered. “You know how to make one?”

  His brows rose and he nodded. “Sure thing. Comin’ right up.” He began to put the drink together.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked, sliding into her seat, beginning to regret her impulsive decision.

  He shrugged. “Not at all. Forgive me. I make it a point of knowing my customers. This is your first time here, am I right?”

  She nodded.

  “You’re that second-grade teacher up to school? Saw your picture in the paper after you came to town.” He tossed her a smile.

  Aimee propped her forearms on the rolled leather rest of the bar and gave the man a pointed look. “That’s me, and at the risk of starting all kinds of rumors, my nerves are a bit frazzled by what I’ve just driven through. I’m sort of celebrating getting back here, unscathed, before I head on home. You okay with that?” She pushed a hand through her hair. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound like a—” She stopped herself. It was enough she was here; she probably shouldn’t add cussing to the rumor mill.

  “Sounds like the lady needs a drink, Dusty.” She looked to her left and found a handsome face with an equally charming smile. His eyes were a startling blue and he wore his thick, wavy hair combed back over his ears. Broad shoulders filled out his too-small black T-shirt with a faded Metallica logo on the front. He perched his boot on the foot rail and leaned on his elbow, his gaze focused on her. He looked perfectly at home.

  The barkeep scooted her drink across on a napkin. “Five-fifty,” he stated, picking up his towel. Aimee fished through her purse in search of her pocketbook.

  “Let me get this, darlin’.” Mr. Metallica slapped a ten on the bar and gave her a cocky grin.

  The predatory glint in his eye made it obvious where he hoped his gesture would go.

  “That isn’t necessary.” She started to pull her money out.

  He smacked a hand to his heart. “I realize, sweetheart, but there are so few times when I’ve had the good fortune to meet an angel in the flesh.”

  Dusty chuckled and Aimee offered the stranger a congenial smile. Clearly, he was well practiced in the art of pick-up lines.

  “Steve? You gonna play or what?” One of the guys came in from the back room, a pool cue resting on his shoulder. He passed Aimee a glance.

  “Don’t suppose you play pool, do you, angel?” Mr. Metallica asked, his eyes looked her over as his lip curved in a come-hither smile.

  Aimee shook her head and swirled the ice cubes in her drink. She wished he’d take his friend’s invitation to return to the game.

  He leaned closer, his grin blossoming into a full-blown, sexy smile. Maybe it was the drink, the storm, or the aftereffects of the handsome cowboy lingering still in her mind, but damn, to a woman wanting to be held for a while, this guy was seriously tempting.

  “Well, if my luck holds out, maybe you’ll be here when I get through?”

  She offered him a smile. “I don’t think so.” He slid his fingers over hers, letting them linger on her skin. Charming was one thing, pushy another.

  “You’re sure?” He lowered his voice.

  “Steve, come on man! We’ve got money riding on this one.”

  “Quite.” She slid her hand from his.

  He stood, towering over her, giving her one last look at his powerfully sexy physique. “Maybe another time. My friends and I come up here a lot. The food…is excellent.” He tossed the bartender a look.

  “You best get on in there, Steve.” Dusty nodded toward the friend who waited impatiently at the back-room door. “They’ll be starting without you.”

  He swaggered toward the door, then glanced over his shoulder with a parting, impish grin.

  “Good Lord,” she muttered and finished her drink.

  “Mind if I offer a piece of friendly advice?” Dusty spoke, his focus intent on the pilsner he polished.

  Aimee hopped off the stool and slid into her jacket. “You mean about Steve? Yeah, I know a player when I see one, no worries.” She tugged her purse over her shoulder. “But thank you for keeping an eye on a girl.”

  A slow smile crept over the bartender’s face. “He and his buddies live a few miles down the road. They come in a couple of times a week to play pool. You okay to drive home?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. Thanks, Dusty.”

  “Come on back anytime.”

  Aimee smiled. Unless she was with someone, the chances were slim. She stopped at the end of the bar and turned to him. “Say, listen. Maybe you can help me out with something. You said you know a lot of folks around here?”

  He shrugged. “Seems, eventually, they all come through here. I’ve got the only jukebox and bar for miles around.”

  She chewed her lip and wondered whether it was wise to inquire openly about the stranger on the ranch. What could it hurt? The worst thing she’d possibly find out was that he was married, recently divorced, or engaged in some bitter custody battle over his kids. She took a breath and charged ahead. “I was wondering about something…someone, actually.”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  “Well, I stopped to get directions at this place up the road. Looks like a giant ski lodge down in the valley…south a little ways, just off eighty-nine.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I’m guessing you mean the Last Hope Ranch. Fine looking place. Jed Kinnison, God rest his soul, and those three boys created quite a cattle business down there. Hard workers, all of them.”

  Aimee swallowed. “There’s more than one?” She tried not to sound giddy. “I only met one of them. He’s got dark hair, intense, kind of bossy.” She gave him a half smile. “Very bossy.”

  “Yeah, that’d be the oldest of Jed’s boys—Wyatt. I heard Dalton and Rein had left on their annual sales trip.”

  “Sales?” she asked, her mind simmering still on the old-fashioned name of Wyatt.

  “Yep, Last Hope is one of the last working cattle ranches in these parts. Has been for as long as I’ve been around. Every winter they sell off some of the herd to feedlots down in Iowa and Missouri.”

  “But Wyatt isn’t involved in…the sales?” Bartenders were a lot like beauticians, Aimee discovered. Get them started and they could dish on about anybody.

  He chuckled. “Not Wyatt. No, he prefers to stay home, keep an eye on things at the ranch. Kind of a loner but a nice enough guy. Quiet. Now you take his younger brother, Dalton. There’s a social guy. You�
�d like him. Flirts like hell, loves to dance and kid around, but he has a good heart. The boy would give you the shirt off his back. They all would. Jed raised some real fine men.”

  “Sounds like you have a lot of respect for them.” Aimee adjusted her purse and started to leave, her attention drawn momentarily to the loud ruckus going on in the back room.

  Dusty glanced toward the sound, sighed, and waited for the noise to settle before he spoke. “Jed, rest his soul, did lot for this community. Rein is the third of Jed’s brood. His nephew that came to live with him when his folks were killed. Now there’s a guy with a head for business. He helped me get this place back on track after I hit a rough patch. Jed raised the three as brothers. Left himself quite a legacy in these parts.”

  Aimee smiled, even more curious why it was she’d never heard any of them mentioned by her peers at school. Still, she supposed teachers and ranchers didn’t necessarily run in the same circles, unless of course they taught their children. Which left a question burning in the mind of any red-blooded, single woman. Were any of them married? That was a question for her friend, Sally. “Thanks, Dusty.”

  She waved a quick good-bye and hurried to her car. The snow had slowed to intermittent flakes by the time she climbed in and turned on the ignition to warm it up. She glanced at her watch and realized she had just enough time to get home and register for the online poetry class she promised Sally she’d take. Aside from her duties as End of the Line’s elementary music teacher, Sally moonlighted as an online instructor through Billings Community College. She spotted the map on the seat, picked it up, and thought of Wyatt’s sincere concern for her safety. True he hadn’t smiled much…at all, in fact, but his gaze was kind, if not tinged with a puzzling look that made her want to know more about what he’d been thinking. Still, in the entire time she was alone with him, she never felt threatened, as she had around Mr. Metallica in a public bar.

  Aimee tucked the map into the console between the seats and eased her car out onto the main road. For as early as it was in the evening, she could’ve shot cannon down the street. Like a scene from It’s A Wonderful Life, the store fronts were dark, in contrast to the festive holiday wreaths waving in the wintery challenge of the wind. Small white lights dotted the branches of the dwarf trees along the businesses, twinkling with each northerly breeze. A twinge of melancholy hit her. She missed not being at home with her parents, especially this time of year. She wondered at the wisdom in accepting a job in a place so remote that it was truly worthy of its name—End of the Line.

  She glanced down at the map and remembered the encounter earlier with Wyatt Kinnison. An interesting man and a challenge if ever there was one, if what she’d heard about him was true at all. Then again, she’d never backed away from obstacles before. Maybe there was more to why she was there than she’d considered. After all, it was the season of miracles.

  Chapter Two

  She was a vision of frothy seductiveness standing before him, taunting him in the pink jacket that covered just enough to make his imagination explode. His gaze traveled up her shapely, bare legs, and he thought of how her silky flesh would feel wrapped around his waist. He met her smiling eyes and watched as she began the slow descent of the coat’s zipper. The view of her creamy, white breasts caused his body to ache with need. He watched, barely able to breathe as the coat slipped from her shoulders, falling in a soft pastel pool at her feet. Behind her, the fire crackled and snapped, seeming to react to his heated image of the two of them, limbs entangled, her sighs urging him….

  “Can you help out a girl in trouble, cowboy?”

  Her tempting mouth puckered in a slight frown, but fire flashed in her eyes. He wanted to start at one end of her and nibble his way to the other. Mesmerized by her smile, he dropped his hat on the couch beside him, and in the back of his mind puzzled why he’d be wearing his hat indoors. She reached for him and his body ignited into flames. He swore he could hear the clanging of the station firehouse bell….

  The loud bong of the old clock on the mantle brought Wyatt straight out of his decadent dream. Dazed by his fantasy, he shifted painfully and attempted to get control of his arousal. His heart raced in his chest. It had been a long time…too long, since he’d thought of a specific woman like this. While he didn’t condone Jessie’s infidelity, he couldn’t deny that he missed what they’d had in bed. Thoughts of his fantasy woman drifted back into his mind, and he laid his head back and shut his eyes, allowing her to reappear. Unzipping his jeans, he freed himself and rubbed his hand over his burning erection. Thoughts of the blue-eyed stranger kneeling either side of his thighs caused his teeth to clench. His palm gripped his hard shaft as he imagined her tight wetness. He released a groan, his eyes shooting open to gaze at the crisscrossed beams above him. In his mind, her hands held his face. Her expression was one of bliss as she rode him to completion. “Son of a….” He came, gritting his teeth from the intensity, and sat there exposed and trembling from the event.

  And that was just a fantasy.

  He looked through bleary eyes at the clock and realized it was only eight. After a visit to the bathroom, he checked on Sadie. Still dozing by the fire, she remained oblivious to his erotic dreams. Wyatt ran his hand down his face. He needed to get some perspective. Restless and hoping the frigid air might clear his senses, he slipped on his boots and opened the French doors at the end of the living room. The snow crunched underfoot as he stepped out and sucked in a lungful of night air. Dazed by the intensity of the last few moments, he admonished himself for his lust-filled thoughts. Good Lord, he didn’t even know her name. He stood gazing at the stars, pondering his dilemma until his fingers began to grow numb. Preoccupied by his confusing thoughts, he wandered back inside, picked up the remote, and turned up the volume, watching mindlessly the beautiful woman on the screen. A local truck dealership was attempting to reach the ranchers in the area.

  “Come on down to Lucky’s Dodge Ram blowout, all you cowboys out there.” He found himself not listening to her spiel. Instead, he focused on the color of her tight pink T-shirt and pink cowboy hat instead. The buxom woman smiled. “Try out our new ballbuster mechanical bull, and if you can stay on,” she cooed into the television camera, “I will personally give you a special discount off Lucky’s big selection of year-end trucks.”

  Wyatt blew out a sigh and turned off the perky would-be cowgirl. He needed no reminder of any woman dressed in pink. He had a feeling his dreams were going to hold enough of that already. Searching for something to redirect his thoughts, he picked up a Horse and Supply catalog but quickly tossed it aside as he paced the room. He looked down at his faithful canine and wished for her peaceful slumber. A glance at his watch told him that Rein and Dalton would probably just be getting to dinner with their client, so he couldn’t call them. He spied the computer on Jed’s office desk and remembered he’d planned to check the forecast. With renewed determination to refocus his wayward thoughts, he sat down in the massive leather chair and waited for it to boot up, impatiently drumming his fingers on the polished cherrywood table.

  He checked the weather first and noted a front was passing through overnight and except for frigid temperatures, the forecast didn’t seem to be calling for measurable snow. He surfed the net, idly clicking links and typing in words to the search engine, ultimately ending up at the chamber web site for End of the Line. Linked directly to the town newspaper, he found an ad for nearly every small business in town. The Daily End Times web page gave folks in the outlying mountain towns a chance to read the paper without waiting for rural delivery, which was especially nice when the weather turned ugly, like tonight.

  Wyatt scoured the news, unsure or unwilling to admit—until his eyes lit on the link for the End of the Line public schools—what he was looking for. He clicked on the icon, anxious to find a picture, a name, maybe a contact e-mail, but his quest came to an abrupt halt when he saw the words Under Construction appear at the top of the page. He chewed at the corner of his li
p, debating whether his disappointment was the lack of a website or the fact it appeared he was stalking some poor, young second-grade teacher.

  “Get a grip, Wyatt. Did you see the way she looked at you?” he muttered, surfing through the links to take him back to the city council’s main page. “Get your head out of your fantasy, pal,” he chided himself. She looks like more of the jetting to a ski weekend with her accountant boyfriend type than someone interested in a rancher.” He scanned down the list of upcoming holiday events, something he hadn’t bothered to look into in years. The United Church of Christ had an advertisement for its annual Cookie Walk on Saturday afternoon. Santa’s hours at the log cabin in town square were three to six daily and ten to four on Saturday. Cameras encouraged. Not much had changed in all these years, it seemed.

  Wyatt’s gaze dropped down to the public request asking for a donation of a tall pine for the town square tree lighting. Guilt nudged at the back of his brain. Being Jed’s oldest son had garnered certain expectations over the years that Wyatt had managed successfully to sidestep. When he was alive, Jed Kinnison not only donated the perfect Christmas tree for the annual tradition, but also delivered it himself in a sleigh, dressed as Santa. He would then sit in the tiny one-room cabin, complete with the warmth of a wood stove in the corner, and invite kids to sit with him as he listened to their holiday wish lists. He’d treat them with a candy cane and remind them how important family was and how they should be helpful to those around them. He’d taken the boys with him, and Rein and Dalton had loved the spectacle, but the holidays were always a struggle for Wyatt. Too many painful memories. Too many unanswered wishes.

  Taking risks with his heart was not an easy thing for Wyatt. It was never said outright, but there was the expectation that upon Jed’s passing, Wyatt, as oldest, would take over the responsibility of the ranch and carry on Jed’s traditions, which included posing as Kris Kringle for the children in town. Year after year, he made excuses for not being able to take on the role, until finally, the calls stopped. To his relief Betty up at café had volunteered her husband Jerry for the role. Christmas, to Wyatt’s way of thinking, had become a holiday taken over by businesses who, in trying to make a buck, tapped into the tender hope of children using a jolly stranger in a red suit to guilt parents into buying beyond their means. It was heartless and if that made him a Scrooge, so be it.