Desperado

by Lisa Bingham

  What would the busybodies say once they heard that he was reentering Bliss society by entering the very public Wild West Games? As soon as folks realized he would be competing as the partner to a woman as flamboyant as P.D. Raines …

  Hell.

  Elam sat in the truck for several minutes, a muted country music station urging him to “Do the Dew” and his heart pounding in his chest much harder than the situation warranted.

  He’d diffused bombs in Afghanistan, IEDs in Iraq, and harbor mines in Yemen. He’d been in armed combat more times than he could count, and suffered through the devastating effects of a missile attack, which had finally sent him home for good. So why was he so nervous about walking into a restaurant and talking to P.D. Raines?

  But even as he acknowledged his misgivings, Elam sat with his fingers drumming on the steering wheel and his “going to town” hat sitting on the console beside him.

  He couldn’t help wondering who P.D. Raines really was and what she meant to his brother. Bodey had introduced her as “his friend,” but most of Bodey’s ex-girlfriends were “friends,” damn him. With that body of hers, she was Bodey’s type. His younger brother liked his women on the voluptuous side, and P.D. definitely qualified. But Elam had no clue if Bodey had already pursued the woman or if he was patiently circling her, waiting to cut her from the herd of females that invariably flocked around him.

  Damnit, not that it mattered. Elam wasn’t about to put the moves on P.D. Raines—or on any woman for that matter. He merely wished he knew the score. The Taggart males didn’t infringe on another brother’s woman. Ever. Even if she was an ex.

  Realizing that he was only avoiding the inevitable, Elam killed the engine. The resulting quiet after the rumble of the diesel motor was nearly overpowering. And silence of any kind hadn’t been his friend for a very long time.

  Sliding from the truck, he jammed his hat on his head, hit the lock button on his key fob, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  The last time he’d been to Vern’s, it had been a sleepy mom-and-pop diner—the perfect spot to grab a hamburger and a made-from-scratch milkshake. But judging by the vehicles crowded into the parking lot and the faint pound of music, P.D. Raines had made some real changes.

  His boots crunched against the gravel as he crossed to the front door. Years of training had him automatically sweeping the shadows. But in the assortment of flashy pickups, dented farm trucks, minivans, and sedans, he saw nothing more threatening than a stray tabby cat packing a squirming kitten toward the privet hedge that separated the parking lot from the new dollar store next door.

  Elam was nearly to the front entrance when the noise from inside filtered into his brain and he realized what he was hearing. Bluegrass. P.D. Raines had brought bluegrass music to Bliss, Utah. Granted, the folks around here were usually into country music—and pure Bluegrass was its mother genre—but Elam was still astonished. Especially since the lack of free parking spaces made it clear that the place was popular.

  For several minutes, he gripped the door handle, an exuberant melody seeping into the cool night air. There was something about the melding of its boisterous accompaniment and soulful harmonies that pulled at his emotions, enveloping Elam in a wave of something that felt very much like …

  Homesickness.

  With only the door separating him from conversation and laughter and human companionship, Elam suddenly realized how long it had been since he’d spent time with anyone other than himself. Occasionally, he’d run into his brothers, or waved to someone as he barreled down the road on his way to the hardware store, but usually, he kept to his own self-imposed exile. It had been so much easier that way.

  But tonight, it felt lonely.

  Maybe his brothers had been right when they’d hinted that it was time for Elam to rejoin the real world.

  Yanking at the door, he stepped inside and was immediately enveloped in warm air, a riff of fiddle and mandolin, and the incredible aroma of food. More than the addition of entertainment had changed at Vern’s. He was sure he could detect the rich spices of BBQ sauce, the lower notes of roasted meats, and the sweet inexplicable tang of apples.

  A divider made of reclaimed barn wood separated him from the rest of the restaurant. Benches lined either wall, and it was clear that there was a waiting list. Elam stepped toward a hostess stand cleverly fashioned from a sideboard like the one his grandmother had used to store her “best” silver and linens. A young woman dressed in a Western shirt with pearl snap buttons and tight denim jeans offered him a wide smile.

  “How many?” she asked, picking up a clipboard. As Elam had suspected, there were at least a dozen entries waiting for tables.

  “I’m actually supposed to meet P.D.,” Elam began. “I’m Elam Taggart.”

  The woman’s grin became even more pronounced. “She had us hold a table for you.” She grabbed a long menu and said, “This way.”

  He was led around the divider to the main room. Here in the dining area, the space had been completely transformed since he’d been here last. Gone were the vinyl booths and checkerboard floor, and in their places were rich wood and split logs. The furnishings felt familiar to Elam. As if he’d stepped into his own home. The floor had been built on several levels so that the tables circled a small dance floor, and at the far end, a makeshift stage had been erected to hold the live band.

  The hostess took Elam to a corner table where a RESERVED sign rested against a mason jar full of black-eyed Susans. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of a chair that could have been a part of an original farmhouse kitchen.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  It wasn’t until that moment that Elam realized that he was hungry. Not just hungry, ravenous. Maybe it was the rollicking music, or the warmth of Vern’s after too many nights camping out at the cabin in a sleeping bag. Or maybe it was the heavenly smells that kept wafting his way.

  “Beer, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  A glance at the menu soon had Elam’s mouth watering. No lukewarm soup heated over a camp stove tonight. His only problem was choosing what looked best from a list of gourmet-sounding delights such as bison burgers with prickly pear cactus compote, grilled river-fresh trout with a lemon and dill sauce, and lamb fries with Dutch oven potatoes.

  Good hell almighty, P.D. Raines was serving “lamb fries.” In Bliss, Utah. And after a glance at the plates of some of his fellow diners, Elam could see that the crispy battered sheep testicles appeared to be a hit.

  “Hi, there.”

  Elam looked up as his waitress appeared, setting a cold beer and a pair of glasses in front of him, one chilled, but empty, the other filled with ice water. She followed it with a wooden cutting board that held three small loaves and a ramekin of whipped butter.

  “Tonight, we’ve got our famous house beer bread, a chipotle cheese corn loaf, and a seven-grain sweet bread,” she said, pointing to each of the varieties. “Have you had a chance to decide what you’d like?”

  “What’s good?” Elam asked, his hunger seeming to gnaw in the pit of his belly.

  She winked. “The lamb fries are a favorite for those hoping to get lucky,” she said with a laugh, reminding Elam that many people considered the fare to be an aphrodisiac. “The steaks are always a hit. But I’d have to say my favorite is the bison burger.”

  “I’ll take that.”

  She nodded, taking his menu and hurrying away.

  The instant the woman left the table, Elam was reaching for the bread. Cutting a huge hunk of the first loaf, he slathered it in butter and took a bite.

  He’d never had beer bread before, but it could have been manna from heaven for all he knew. Dense and slightly sweet, it had a homey flavor that could never have been found wrapped in plastic and sitting on a grocery store shelf. And if this first taste was anything to go by, no wonder there was a waiting list at the door.

  Cutting himself another piece, Elam
leaned back in his chair and allowed himself to look around, nodding to a few of the townspeople he recognized. Vaguely, he wondered where P.D. might be, but supposed that with business booming the way it was, she must be holed up in the kitchens or an office or—

  His gaze fell on the band and he nearly choked on the piece of bread he was chewing. There, on the corner of the stage, a fiddler was jamming out a frenetically paced solo. Curly hair flying, body twisting and turning with the melody, P.D. Raines coaxed a ribbon of pure joy from the violin. Her eyes were closed, her mouth slightly parted—and there was such a look of rapture on her face that Elam would have thought the emotion was more in keeping with the throes of lovemaking than a public performance.

  The thought hit him like a jolt to his gut, and he reached for his beer, averting his eyes as if he’d been caught glancing through a neighbor’s window. But even after washing down his surprise, he found himself looking at her again. Closely.

  When Bodey had introduced P.D. Raines to him this morning, Elam had been distracted—no, he’d been pissed. Like a bear hauled kicking and screaming out of his cave before his hibernation was finished, Elam hadn’t been too intent on paying attention to the participants. He’d been more focused on making his displeasure known. If someone had asked him to describe P.D., he probably couldn’t have said much beyond: “She’s a woman. With brown hair. Or blond.”

  But now …

  Hell. P.D. was tall and curvy in all the right places—a fact that was all too clear by the tight jeans and snap-front shirt that seemed to be a uniform here at Vern’s. But while the waitresses managed to look cute in their getup, P.D. was all woman, with long legs, hips enhanced by a sparkling belt, and a full bosom beneath a shirt that must have been tailored to fit her shape. And her hair … her hair was nearly to her waist, falling into natural ringlets and waves in the shades of a new fawn—russet and gold with hints of auburn.

  She was a country boy’s wet dream to be sure—a city boy’s, too. And for the first time in months, Elam found himself stirring at the mere sight of a woman. Holy, holy hell. He was supposed to partner up with … that? He was supposed to remain cool and businesslike with a woman who … who … probably played the fiddle the same way she would make love? With utter abandon?

  “Here you are.”

  Elam started like a guilty teenager when his waitress set a plate of food in front of him. Taking his napkin, he subtly arranged it in his lap as the waitress explained, “The little pots next to the burger are the house’s own stone-ground mustard, garlic and onion aioli, and the prickly pear compote. But I can bring you the regular store-bought condiments if you’d like.”

  Was she kidding?

  “No, this looks great.”

  “Wave if you need anything else. In the meantime, enjoy.”

  Enjoy.

  How could he not enjoy his meal with the scents rising from his plate, a cold beer in a frosty glass, and his own personal peep show mere yards away?

  Trying to avoid staring at P.D. like the letch he evidently was, Elam loaded his burger with lettuce, tomato—and yes, onion. He sure as hell wasn’t kissing anyone tonight.

  But for some reason, the realization didn’t bring him the reassurance that he’d thought it might.

  After dipping his spoon in the compote and finding it to be tart and savory with quick bite of jalapeños and the slow heat of cayenne, he liberally dosed the top of his bun and jammed it over his burger. As he took his first bite, the juice and toppings began to run down the side of his hand—which in Elam’s opinion was the hallmark of an excellent burger.

  “The first taste is always the best,” a voice said next to his table. “And judging by your expression, I’ve got you hooked.”

  *

  WHEN Elam looked up, P.D. caught a glimpse of something raw and sexual in his eyes, and the effect was so startling, so powerful, that she nearly took a step back. But just as quickly, the searing heat was gone and his expression was carefully neutral again.

  Unconsciously, he licked the side of his hand, then set the burger back on his plate. The sensuality of his movements, as well as the thought of that tongue licking other things—her things—had her sinking into the chair before she stumbled like a starstruck groupie.

  “It’s good,” he said after swallowing. “Really, really good.” Then he gestured toward the stage. “You’re good. You run a restaurant and provide the entertainment?”

  P.D. shook her head. “Occasionally, the band persuades me to join them, but otherwise, I listen like everyone else.”

  “It’s a rare talent to play the fiddle like you do.”

  She shrugged. “My parents might have opted for homeschooling—when they bothered with any education at all—but they insisted I learn to play music. I was able to put myself through college by playing in honkey-tonk joints around the Midwest.”

  She was sure that Elam almost asked about her parents. Almost. But just in time, he seemed to realize she wouldn’t give him any answers so he asked instead, “What were you studying? Music? Culinary arts?”

  “Nah. I graduated with double degrees in physics and business.”

  “And you ended up in Bliss, Utah?”

  His tone was so incredulous, she laughed. “It turned out that being stuck in a lab bored me. Since I’d traveled a lot as a kid, I knew I wanted to live in the mountains, so I came back to the place I felt most comfortable.”

  “Military brat?”

  “Hippie hostage.”

  And with that, she condensed her crappy childhood into a few sentences, hoping he wouldn’t ask any further questions about her “adventures” with Summer and River.

  A familiar figure moved toward their table. “What can I get you, P.D.?”

  P.D. smiled at Becky, one of her best waitresses, and said, “A cold diet soda, thanks.”

  “You’re not going to eat?” Elam asked.

  “No. I eat before the dinner shift, otherwise I’d be nibbling all night long. But you go ahead. You’re probably starving after spending your day sweating on the job. Construction work must be really demanding.”

  Geez, P.D. Smooth, really smooth. You may as well have added, “With your muscles bulging and your chest gleaming.”

  Not for the first time, she rued the fact that her parents had fallen into a form of “free-range childrearing.” P.D. might have roamed the country and wallowed in nature, but she still wasn’t too adept at social skills. Especially small talk. Which was why most men didn’t view her as “relationship material.” Her background and awkwardness made her difficult to explain should dating ever reach the “meet the parents” stage.

  Thankfully, Elam began to eat again, which helped to break his powerful gaze.

  “So tell me about this competition of ours,” he said between bites.

  “I’ve got all the information in my office,” she said with a jerk of her thumb in that direction. “Once you’ve eaten, we can go get the handbook so you can familiarize yourself with the rules. It’s a bit like television’s Amazing Race.”

  When Elam stared at her blankly, she could have kicked herself for being an idiot. He probably wasn’t watching much television in a cabin with no electricity.

  “It’s a relay race, four days long. It involves negotiating our way from the Ridley Historical Farm near Logan to an, as yet, undisclosed spot in Bliss. According to the rules, we’ll randomly be assigned roles—such as prospectors looking for a claim, or mountain men in search of rich furs.”

  “Schoolmarm and outlaw,” Elam filled in smoothly.

  And damnit, his idea sounded like a whole lot of fun.

  P.D. cleared her throat of its sudden dryness as a host of images flooded her brain—Elam kicking down the door to a one-room schoolhouse while she trembled in the corner with something far more intense than fear.

  Geez, P.D.

  “Uh … yeah.” She verbally stumbled, then quickly dragged her mind back to the topic.

  Rules. Rules.

&nb
sp; “Anyway, at the starting line, we’ll be given a sealed envelope that will outline the first location we need to find. Our journey will be timed from the moment we receive the envelope to the point when we check in with a contest official at our destination.”

  His brows rose. “We’re supposed to walk?”

  “Some.”

  She leaned forward, propping her forearms on the table. For a split second, Elam’s eyes betrayed him, skipping down to her cleavage before steadfastly returning to her face. A warmth flooded through her chest as she realized Elam Taggart was probably a breast man, and he liked what he saw, even if he wasn’t comfortable admitting that fact to himself.

  “Modes of transportation could include buggies, wagons, horseback, railroad cars, or like you said, good ol’ boots to the road. Then, once we get to our assigned spots, we’ll be asked to perform a series of pioneer-related tasks appropriate to the locale. Most of the stops will include a gun range where we’ll be tested on marksmanship, but we could also be challenged with roping and tying cattle, bronco busting, cooking—even panning for gold.”

  “So we’re graded on our times?”

  “Times, accuracy, and quality of performance. The rubrics they use to put everything into a numerical point system are located in the back of the handbook. From what I understand, they’ve had a huge response to the Games. The contestant roster was filled within the first week of accepting applications and there’s already a waiting list for next year. They’ve got volunteers all over the county lined up to help take scores and times. Vendors have rented space at the historical farm. Several large businesses have become sponsors. And there’s even a rumor that an indie documentary producer will be coming to watch some of the stages to see if it might be something they’d like to film next year.”

  Elam had all but wolfed down his burger and Dutch oven potatoes, and sensing he might still have a little room left, P.D. gestured to Becky. When the waitress arrived, P.D. asked, “Could you bring Elam a blossom? And if you wouldn’t mind, could you go to my office? I left a pamphlet about the Wild West Games on my desk and I need to give it to Elam.”