“Son of a bitch,” he whispered. “Some things never change. After all this time, she’s still pissed because she thinks I screwed April Pierce.” He shifted the cans in his arms to get a better hold before he followed Vickie from the tent. Then he nearly did a face-plant because he tripped over Pistol, who had decided to lie just outside the tent flap. As he staggered around in the dark to catch his balance, he grumbled, “I didn’t even like April. She was a twit then, she’s still a twit now, and she’ll always be a twit. The least Vickie could do is give me credit for having halfway decent taste.”
Slade headed toward the area where they normally built the central fire. He found Rex and Dale repairing the rock ring that they’d left intact last autumn when they broke camp. John and another man were hauling over armloads of firewood, which Wyatt had cut, split, and stacked when he’d been on the mountain alone a few days back.
“Glad you boys are on top of this.” Slade deposited the cans of chili on the ground near the rocks. “It’s going to get nippy tonight, and we don’t have the tin-can stoves set up in any of the tents yet. We can warm ourselves toasty by the fire before we head for our bedrolls.”
Using his fingers, Rex dug a shallow depression in the dirt to seat a rock. Apparently Pistol thought that looked like fun, because he began to dig nearby, making the men chuckle. “We might should get a tin-can stove set up in the lady’s tent, though, boss,” Rex mused aloud. “Along about midnight, it’ll be cold enough to frost our whiskers. We can handle it, but she’s not as tough as we are.”
Slade could have argued that point. Vickie looked delicate, but she could rough it with the best of them. On the other hand, she didn’t have much meat on her bones, and a banked fire in a tin-can stove would keep her tent warm and cozy all night. “Good idea, Rex.” He glanced down at Dale. “Maybe you can take care of that.”
Dale lifted his blond head. “I don’t mind doing it, but what the hell’s a tin-can stove?”
John laughed. “You were here last year. They’re those little woodstoves Slade bought to go in all the tents. You made a fire in yours as many times as I did.”
Dale shrugged. “Those look like regular woodstoves, except they’re a lot smaller. Don’t look anything like a can.”
“Yeah, well,” John tossed back. “They’re little, they’re flimsy, and we just call them tin cans.”
“That supper?” Dale asked, glancing at the chili.
“And breakfast,” Slade confirmed. “There’s more. I figured this would do us for tonight. Does anybody know what tote the paper plates and plastic spoons are in?”
Rex stood and brushed his hands clean on his jeans. “Nope, but I’ll go find them. I sure as hell don’t want to be hauling more water to do dishes before we can turn in.”
Slade looked around for Vickie. “Where’s our cook?”
John gestured over his shoulder. “She went that way.”
Slade peered through the darkness and saw a pinpoint of light bouncing around near the woodpile. He had no idea what Vickie was doing, and he told himself he wouldn’t walk over there to find out. She had grown up in these mountains and knew how to take care of herself. She didn’t need him to look after her. But he felt his feet carrying him in that direction anyway. He felt like a dog being led around on a leash.
* * *
• • •
Vickie nearly jumped out of her skin when Slade spoke from behind her.
“What the Sam Hill are you doing out here?” he asked.
Using her shirtsleeve, she dashed tears from her cheeks before she turned to face him. Long in the tooth. It was a saying to describe horses when they grew old, which hadn’t been very flattering to her, either.
“I, um—I’m looking for small pieces of wood to use as kindling.” That was a complete lie, but she couldn’t very well tell him she’d been searching for two limbs with some branches still on them. When he found them at the edge of camp later, he’d know she’d put them there. “I like shavings and little slivers for starting fires. I thought I could find what I need over here where your foreman did all the woodcutting.”
He gestured toward a stack behind her. “There’s plenty of kindling. Can’t you just use it?”
Thinking quickly, she said, “Of course, but I’ve learned that smaller bits catch easily and get the kindling arranged on top to burn hot a lot faster.”
He shrugged. “Well, you’re the camp jack. I guess you can start fires however you want.” He rubbed beside his nose, a nervous habit of his that she remembered well. “We haven’t really gone over your duties. You want to do that tonight?”
Vickie had plans that talking with him would totally screw up. Nancy was waiting for a play-by-play account of the first practical joke later tonight, and she’d be very disappointed if she didn’t get a text. “I’m really tired, Slade. Riding up the mountain zapped my energy.” Oh, how it galled her to add, “This business of getting long in the tooth isn’t for sissies.”
In the darkness and with that hat casting his face into deep shadow, she couldn’t read his expression, but she did hear him chuckle. “Ah. That got to you, did it?”
Vickie hugged her waist. “Not really. At this age, I roll with the punches.”
“You’re not that old.”
She’d always loved it when he walked right into a good comeuppance. “I like to think that, and as I drove over from the coast this morning, I had myself almost convinced. But then I saw you.”
“Ouch.”
She smiled sweetly, which might have been lost on him because it was dark. But it felt good, anyway. “Oh!” she cried, lacing her tone with fake concern. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. You’re not old, Slade. You’re just—well seasoned.”
He cleared his throat. “Is this how we’re going to play this? Every time we see each other, exchange insults? It’s sort of juvenile, don’t you think?”
“You started it,” she said.
“I did not.”
“Did, too.”
“I did not. You took the first shot, implying that I wear a hat to hide my bald pate.”
“Oh.” Vickie did remember saying that. She’d been steamed because he meant to send her away and he’d flatly refused to set aside a tiny bit of his precious time to discuss their son with her. He had to know what the unfinished business was that she wanted to hash out with him. “Well, the thought did enter my mind that you might be bald. Apparently that Stetson is affixed to your head with superglue.”
“It is not.” He swept the hat off, bent forward, and swept his hand back and forth over the top of his head. “See that? Hair. It may go white eventually, but it’ll never fall out. Wilder men don’t go bald.”
“Sorry. It’s so dark I can’t see.”
“Your night vision was always great.”
“Yes, well, everything starts going to hell at sixty, and it’s all downhill from there. I can’t see as well as I once could.”
“Well, damn it, reach out and feel, then.”
Vickie knotted her hands into fists to stop herself from touching him. And the truth was, she could see just fine. Once her eyes adjusted, she could see pretty well even on a moonless night. “I’ll pass and just take your word for it.”
He straightened and clamped the Stetson back on his head. “So there. I haven’t gone bald.”
Pistol found them just then. He leaned against Slade’s leg for a moment and then crossed over to Vickie and lay down on her feet. Vickie wasn’t sure why the canine had taken such a shine to her, but it pleased her, mostly because she could tell that it pissed Slade off.
“He’s a treasure,” she said. “I really miss having a dog.”
“Why don’t you get one, then, and leave mine alone?”
He was so easy. She’d almost forgotten how much fun it could be to needle him. “It’s the age thing again, I�
�m afraid. The average life span of a dog is about twelve years. I worry about getting a pup. It might outlive me.”
“That’s nonsense. You think you might kick the bucket and never reach seventy-four?”
It was comforting to know that he remembered how old she was. “I turn sixty-three in December.”
“Seventy-five, then. It’s silly not to have a dog if you want one. You’ll still be going strong at that age. Look at your parents. They’re still kicking. Besides that, you’ve got kids. If something happens to you, the dog will have a good home.”
Her body stiffened. She had personally informed him of Brody’s existence, but she’d said nothing to him about her other two children. Yet he somehow knew she had more than one child. Had he been keeping tabs on her?
“I’m the one who has to worry about that if anybody does,” he said. “I’ve got no kid standing in the wings to look after Pistol if something happens to me. He’ll be on his own unless one of my employees takes him.”
Vickie’s eyes burned with unshed tears. How could he stand there and act as if his own son didn’t exist? Never had she wanted so badly to slap a man’s face. Not even Matt, at his very worst, had incited such anger within her. Well, she had wanted to kill him the night he’d beaten Brody, but that had been a cold, blood-chilling rage that had come over her then. What she felt now was scalding hot, an anger that made her want to burst into tears, call him names, and rip his eyes out.
“You rotten son of a bitch!” She hurled the words at him. “You rotten, low-down, heartless son of a bitch!”
He gave her an incredulous look. “What?”
“You heard me. You want to play games, Slade? Fine by me. But fair warning. You’re way out of your league.”
Vickie jerked her feet out from under the dog, wheeled away, and started toward camp. The men had gotten the fire going. It flared bright orange and gold in the darkness, flames leaping toward the sky that created a beacon to guide her, but she didn’t really need one. She’d grown up in these mountains and had learned how to find her way in the dark as a small child. In the fall, her father’s base camp had been like a second home to her. Her parents had taken her out of school, and she’d done her lessons at the table in the cookshack after her mother cleared away breakfast. By the time lunch was ready to be served, she’d had all her assignments done, and she’d spent the remainder of every day running wild in the surrounding woods.
Vickie intended to bypass the fire and take up squatting rights in a tent of her choosing, but a young fellow with blond hair saw her and called out, “Ma’am?”
Vickie was shaking, and she really didn’t want him to see how upset she was. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much choice. She stopped and turned as he walked toward her. “Yes?”
“I got a tin-can stove set up for you in a tent. If you don’t mind, I’ll show you the way.”
Vickie struggled to tamp down her anger. “That’s kind of you.”
He drew up and stuck out his hand. “Name’s Dale.”
She grasped his fingers and let him pump her arm up and down. “Victoria Brown. Vickie, for short, if you prefer to call me that.”
“Good to meet you.”
He motioned for her to follow him and led the way to a tent. As they grew closer, she saw that the canvas walls were faintly illuminated.
“I lighted a lantern for you. Rex found your duffel bag, so I carried it over. I also brought what I thought was your bedroll. None of us ever bring one. The boss supplies all the cots and bedding. But feel free to use your own if you want.”
She wanted. Sleeping bags rarely got taken to a laundry because dry cleaning cost more than they were worth. To her, there was little more disgusting than the thought of using a bag that some man had slept in last year when he hadn’t taken a bath in days. Most men reverted back to childhood in a hunting camp and let their hygiene go. Normally their wives stayed at home, and they could get as dirty as they liked. No reminders to shave. No reason to brush their teeth. For a few days, they could pretend to be a mountaineer and were as happy as clams when they began to stink like one. Vickie believed that the primary reason so many wealthy professionals paid so much to rough it in a wilderness area was because the entire experience was a departure from their reality. For a whole week, they could be real men who stood around a campfire at night to drink beer, fart, and scratch their balls whenever they wanted.
Dale swept aside the door flap and then stood back so she could enter the enclosure. He’d set up a cot for her. A fire had already been started in the little stove to chase away the chill. Her things had been dumped on the dirt floor along one canvas wall. Dale stepped inside behind her. The lantern hung from an aluminum ceiling support. He reached over her head to turn up the wick so there would be more light.
“This is so thoughtful,” she told him, sincerely meaning it. “I figured I’d have to set this all up myself. Thank you so much.”
He was a handsome young fellow with blue eyes and a friendly grin. Fair skinned, he had an overabundance of freckles, but he had even features and nice ears that lay flat against his head. Vickie always noticed ears. When her babies had been born, she’d looked at their ears before she even counted their fingers and toes. She hadn’t wanted her children to have teacup handles poking out from the sides of their heads.
“You’re the cook, the most important person in camp,” he said with a smile. “If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“That’s very kind.” Vickie stepped closer to the stove. She hadn’t gotten her coat out of her duffel, and the cold night air cut through her flannel shirt as if it were tissue thin. She chafed her hands and smiled at him. “And one good turn deserves another. What’s your favorite goodie? Are you into cookies, brownies, pies, cobblers, or cakes?”
His eyes widened. “I like it all, but unfortunately, pie is my absolute favorite.”
“Why is that unfortunate?”
“Because nobody’s going to make pie out here. It’d be—well, a heap of work.”
Vickie laughed. “I love to cook, Dale, and I’ll be happy to make you a pie. It may be a challenge to make your favorite kind until I can get the right filling ingredients.” She narrowed an eye at him. “Let me guess. You an apple pie man?”
“I’ve never met a pie I didn’t like, so, yeah, but apple’s not my favorite.”
“What is?”
He leaned a bit closer and lowered his voice to say, “Pecan.”
She made a mental note to put pecans and syrup on her list when someone went down the mountain for more supplies. “Once I get my kitchen organized, I’ll make some pies. Maybe not pecan right away, but I’ll come up with something.”
He winked. “I love you already.”
Vickie was still smiling when he exited the tent. Then she allowed her anger to ramp up again. Slade had crossed over a line with her tonight. Brody was a handsome, hardworking, and loyal man. Any father would be proud to call him son.
Except, of course, Slade Wilder.
She crouched over her duffel bag and unzipped it. The items she needed lay on top because she’d bought them just that morning. Another smile curved her lips. Let the games begin. Nancy had been right all along. Slade might never willingly acknowledge Brody. Her decision to come here would probably accomplish nothing. But revenge could be sweet, and she intended to get some.
Chapter Eight
Slade heated the three gallons of chili right in the cans by setting the metal containers directly on a bed of hot coals and stirring often. The men fanned out circularly on both sides of him where he crouched by the fire. They all sipped a beer while they warmed themselves by the flames and talked with great enthusiasm about nothing all that important. The conversation drifted from one topic to another. Slade pretended to listen. Occasionally he made a comment. But mostly he just stirred the contents of the cans and puzzled o
ver Vickie’s outburst by the woodpile. He kept going back over their exchange, and he was still just as bewildered as he’d been when she first started screaming at him. Women. He would never understand them. He and Vickie had been talking about dogs, their own longevity, and whether people their age should get a pup. They hadn’t been slinging insults at each other. He’d said nothing mean. And all of a sudden, she’d grown so angry that he’d half expected her to physically attack him. What the hell was her problem?
When she showed up at the central fire, she sandwiched herself between two men and stood across the pit from him. She was such a slender slip of a woman that the contrast between her fragility and their bulk made his protective side surface. The top of her head barely cleared Dale’s shoulder, and Rex loomed over her on the opposite side, looking as stout as an old-growth stump. Slade trusted his employees. They were all good guys and had been unfailingly respectful around Cheyenne during seasons past. Unfortunately he couldn’t say the same about all the paying guests. Sometimes they were pleasures to have around and sometimes not, men who were temporarily out of their own zip code area and seemed to think that gave them license to be wild and woolly for a week. The thought of anyone following Vickie into the woods and getting out of line with her sent Slade’s blood pressure rocketing off the charts.
“Hey, boss?”
John’s voice. Slade didn’t look up. “What?”
“You stirring that chili, or are you fixing to kill it?”
Slade realized he was getting a little too forceful with the damned spoon and was slopping beans over the sides of the cans. Shit. All his instincts had told him not to hire Vickie. The whole situation had “trouble” written all over it, and now, when they hadn’t even gotten their base camp set up properly, his tail was already tied in a knot.
Pistol pushed in beside Slade and tried to grab a stray bean that had landed on a firebreak rock. Slade thought nothing of it—until the dog yelped and started whirling in circles.
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