Forgotten Hearts: Dunblair Ridge Series Book One

by Sloan Archer

  Like most of his conquests as of late, Cash had met the woman in a bar downtown. The Wagoneer was an establishment Luxury Traveler West had deemed “a delightful diamond in the rough nestled within a magnificent Rockies setting.” Really, it was a glorified honky-tonk in little old Dunblair Ridge, Montana. In the same article, the magazine had also used elegant, trendy, and evocative to describe other businesses in the area, words that had caused Cash to laugh until his belly ached. Likewise when they depicted Tipsy’s Tavern, the only bar left in town that still utilized a working outhouse, as “charmingly rustic.” Had Cash written the piece, it would have taken a different narrative, the pages graced with more downhome phrasing like redneck, bumpkin.

  It wasn’t that Cash resented his hometown. Though he didn’t swathe himself in local pride the way some of his neighbors did, he had, at the very least, made peace with Dunblair Ridge now that he’d gotten comfortable with being back. Which he supposed was something. It was this newfound acceptance that fueled his reluctance to endorse the town as something it was not or was desperately trying to be.

  Then again, times had changed. This was a fact Cash didn’t need reminding as a local boy who’d fled the country coop for the big city at eighteen only to, now at thirty-seven, find himself right back where he’d started. During the few years since his return, he’d witnessed the town’s breakneck transformation with his own two eyes, almost as if he’d gone to sleep in one century and awakened in the next.

  Though tourists now flocked to Dunblair Ridge in droves for the unspoiled nature and world-class skiing, it was only recently that the town had gained notoriety. In the not-so-distant past, Dunblair Ridge was inconsequential, the sort of flyby place motorists would stop at just long enough to fill up on gas before heading to a more popular resort destination like Whitefish. The town’s swift rise to fame was thanks mainly to the European royal family who’d decided to vacation in Dunblair Ridge back in 2012. Local, national, and then international media had quickly gotten wind of the holiday; suddenly, it seemed the whole world had to visit Dunblair Ridge—those in the world, that was, who had expensive tastes and lots of money to burn. After all, if the little country town was good enough for royalty, why not them?

  What came next would take many locals by surprise, a speedy wham, bam, gentrification. Although many of the town’s oldest landmarks remained—Paulie’s Pie Hole, Chop-Chop Axe Shop, and, of course, the charmingly rustic Tipsy’s Tavern—newer, fancier, businesses began cropping up in clusters. Ratty laundromats, second-hand machine shops, and other failing establishments were replaced by upscale boutiques, shiny coffeehouses, and sports equipment rental shops. Much to the aggravation of many born-and-bred citizens, their opinions rooted back in the Old School Way of Doing Things, Dunblair Ridge was soon being touted as the next Aspen by the vacationing elite.

  Despite the initial backlash, there were still many business owners who’d embraced the change, particularly those who’d been struggling financially. Folks like Rosie Benson, owner of Rosie Bee’s Bed and Breakfast, who’d once been on the brink of bankruptcy. Now, she operated even during the off-season at a near-full capacity; in the wintertime, she was booked months in advance and had to constantly turn away last-minute travelers.

  Being a rancher, the town’s transformation hadn’t affected Cash too much one way or the other—he was barely staying afloat no matter how many well-to-do snow bunnies skied through town. Still, the transformation hadn’t come without its perks, like the opportunity for a little mystery: exchanges with big-city women who weren’t clued-up on everything that had happened in his life since kindergarten. Not the way local women were.

  Though his brawny stature, chocolatey brown hair, and jade green eyes didn’t hurt, Cash’s continual success with the opposite sex did not happen out of sheer luck. In a town as small as Dunblair Ridge, people liked to talk. And if you were smart, you listened. It boiled down to two very basic types of information delivered: There was the bendy, sugar-coated, ultra-accommodating information provided to tourists, and then there was the locals only truth. It was the locals who knew where to find the freshest powder for skiing, the secret fishing spots, hiking trails, and hot springs. They knew where to get the cheapest (and also the best) barbeque in town, and which eateries were overhyped and overpriced.

  While the Wagoneer hadn’t changed much aesthetically since the town’s refurbishment, any local with a working set of ears knew that the bar catered mainly to wealthy tourists during regular business hours. (After hours was a different story, when the booze dropped in price by half and the crowd morphed into a sea of familiar neighborhood faces.) These were impeccable, bleach-toothed patrons who ordered frou-frou drinks with complicated ingredients—or, if they did go wild and order a pint, it had to be small-batch craft. The males who frequented the Wagoneer, just like the rest of the winter tourists found outside on Dunblair Ridge’s bustling streets, were clean cut and dressed to the nines: hundred-dollar haircuts and cashmere cable-knit sweaters. Designer jeans, Italian leather footwear. Cash, with his wild mane, five-o’clock shadow, and dusty cowboy boots, stood out from the crowd, which, as many hot-blooded women could attest, made a man who was already plenty sexy even more desirable.

  It hadn’t taken much for Cash to lasso the heart of Ms. Baby Don’t Stop. He’d noticed her immediately after he’d entered the bar, its lights dimmed and candles burning with just the right level of suggestiveness, slinging back martinis on her own. Cash did not immediately approach. He kept his distance for a while to assess the situation, his logic being that a woman so beautiful was accustomed to having men swarming like ravenous vultures.

  And sure enough. Cash watched as the woman rejected would-be suitors with a sexy pout and firm shake of the head, one after another . . . after another. It was only when he saw that her drink was getting close to empty that he sauntered up to bar to order one of his own, ignoring her and her batting eyelashes completely. This, he knew, would drive a woman so used to easy attention crazy.

  Cash wasn’t all too amazed when she eventually broke the silence with an inane observation about his appearance, asserting how nice it was to finally encounter a guy in town who looked like a real man, as if he was her usual type back in Beverly Hills or Palm Beach or wherever she’d come from. He’d done his best to overlook the veiled condescension in her voice, the way she’d addressed him almost as if he were a child, or perhaps mentally challenged. It was a tone he’d heard before from out-of-towners of her ilk, the implied understanding that she was from the city and he from the county, which naturally made her superior in both intellect and class. Cash didn’t bother to correct her, since that would require him to actually care about the misguided opinions of spoiled vacationers. Which he didn’t.

  Cash kept his eyes trained a gentlemanly ten inches above the woman’s heaving cleavage, bought her a drink, and then quietly listened as she raged about the midlife crisis ex-husband who’d traded her in for a younger model, and man-oh-man was she ever looking forward to spending those fat alimony checks. Like a tire deflating at a painfully sluggish rate, she ranted on (and on) about the late nights at the office, the dress shirts that reeked of another woman’s scent, the sudden business trips out of town, until she eventually ran out of air. Not once did she ask about Cash—not what he did for a living, not where he lived, or even for his name.

  When she did finally meet his eyes to murmur an enquiry with her full red lips, it was one to which she already knew the answer: Do you want to come home with me?

  They’d stumbled two short blocks back to her fancy downtown hotel, where she had champagne already chilling. She didn’t even try to pretend that she hadn’t gone out looking for action, which put Cash at ease about the whole thing. Though he, too, was plenty intoxicated, taking advantage of a drunk woman was not, nor would it ever be, his style.

  What did make Cash feel shameful was the lack of emotion he now felt as their bodies sweated and writhed. The woman had made herself up
more heavily than Cash preferred—natural beauty was more his style—but she was still plenty attractive. Her body was soft, curvy in all the right places, and she smelled exquisitely of sweet, expensive perfume . . . Yet. The whole thing felt empty, a cheap substitute for the real thing. Like eating popcorn when what you really wanted was steak. It dawned on Cash then just how much he was itching to leave, how he wished to be back at home at the ranch, kicking back in the living room on the tatty old Lay-Z-Boy that used to belong to his father, a bottle of beer in his hand and some funny old rerun playing on the television. He wondered exactly how offended she’d be if—

  Bucking against him like a mechanical bull powered on overdrive, the woman flung her head back and let out a final howl. Cash grit his teeth as she slashed him deeper with her talons, this time across his chest, burrowing her boney heels into the tender flesh of his upper thighs. He joined in on the over-the-top moaning, hoping to move things along. She was too wrapped up in her own good time to notice that he was faking.

  The woman dismounted Cash and rolled on her back, panting. “Thanks so much,” she said with a satisfied sigh that stunk of sour champagne now that the mask of cinnamon had dissipated. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been serviced like that. I needed it.”

  Cash nearly burst out laughing. Really? Had she been in the same room that he had—because it was pretty awful. Maybe even the worst. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Cash eyeballed his jeans that had been carelessly chucked across a chair in the corner. How much longer would he need to stay before it wasn’t considered disrespectful that he bailed?

  She surprised him by getting up first. She crossed the room, flipped on all the lights, and began rooting around in a large crocodile handbag that she brought back to the bed. With all the lamps burning bright, Cash could now get a better handle on her age, which he guessed was a good fifteen years older than himself.

  She pulled out a leather wallet, extracted a stack of hundreds—at least ten by Cash’s count—and flapped the bills at him. “Here.”

  “Uh . . .” Cash rubbed the stubble on his chin. “Here, what?” He eased out of bed and snatched his boxers up from the floor. She didn’t seem to mind that he was getting dressed, so he kept going. He yanked his jeans up over his strong thighs, thought to hell with it, and then pulled on his boots, too.

  She furnished him an impatient look as she thrust the bills into his hand. “Here. Thank you.”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.” Cash let the money fall to the mattress, jumping back like the bed was aflame. “You don’t think . . .?” He grabbed his flannel and hastily buttoned it over his broad muscles, mismatching a few holes. “Let me get this straight. You think I’m, what, some kind of cowboy prostitute?”

  “A male escort or whatever you call it, yah,” she said, her flippant tone suggesting: So what?

  Cash gaped at the woman. “Hell, lady, no. No.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Sure. She eyed Cash shrewdly, snorted, and then circled her hand in the air in front of him. “You actually expect me to believe this country cracker gent act is real? You’re cute.”

  He flashed his palms at her. “I think there’s been . . . I’m not—”

  “So, do you want the money or not?” Hands on her bare hips, she glared at the bills on the bed and then him, making it clear that she was in no mood for games.

  Well, yah, he wanted the money—he clearly needed it a lot more than she did. What she must have paid for those bowling ball diamonds drooping so casually in her ears would probably rival the cost of the replacement bailer he so desperately needed, never mind the designer handbag and mink coat she’d been sporting earlier.

  Still, he had his self-respect. “Let’s go with not.”

  Shrugging, the woman scooped up the bills and stuffed the wad back into her wallet. She did not appear pleased that she’d saved herself about a thousand bucks or even embarrassed by the misunderstanding. What she appeared most was eager for Cash to depart.

  Cash was more than happy to oblige. He seized his jacket up off the floor and left without another word.

  Out on the street, he let out a little humph as he broke into a trot. He shook his head defiantly, his chest tightening with sore pride.

  Male escort.

  He’d had no illusions that the two of them were going to fall in love and get married, but he had thought that he’d at least earned her affection the good old-fashioned way, with authentic politeness and charm. That she actually assumed that he’d gone to the Wagoneer for the sole purpose of renting himself out to wealthy women like some kind of stud horse—that he could be bought as easily as a fast food burger . . .

  That was some kind of nerve, alright.

  Yet practically everyone he knew felt it their business to interrogate him about why he still hadn’t settled down, as if he went out of his way not to. Like he wasn’t trying. He let out another dissatisfied grunt. Well, people, this was why he was still single, because the only type of women he ever seemed to meet were nuts. Or, apparently, under the impression that he was some kind of county gigolo.

  Scowl deepening, Cash reconsidered his bold viewpoint. Was he being entirely accurate in his assessment of the available dating pool in Dunblair Ridge? Sure he was.

  Really, though—really, really?

  Cash blew on his hands and then shoved them in his pockets to keep warm. Man, it was freezing out—even his teeth were chattering.

  Okay, fine.

  He wasn’t being fair. After all, it wasn’t as if he’d gone to the Wagoneer expecting to find a nice local girl. He knew what he was signing himself up for as soon as he bought the woman her first drink.

  But why, exactly, wasn’t he searching for companionship locally? The answer was simple enough. Being the small town that Dunblair Ridge was, there were few women his age who were still unattached. And the ones who were left he’d known so long that they were practically related. Dating them would feel downright incestual.

  Cash quickened his pace. He still hadn’t determined if he wanted to attempt the fruitless task of finding a taxi driver willing to haul him way out to the ranch, or if it would just be easier to crash at Jared’s place downtown until he was sober enough to fetch his truck from the bar and drive himself home.

  He glanced up and down the street. No taxi. No cars whatsoever. His head hurt and the early signs of a hangover were beginning to gnaw at the edges of his tired brain. Jared’s, he decided with a heavy sigh, remembering that his best friend was out of town for firefighter training. He knew where Jared’s key was hidden and had crashed in his guest room a few occasions previously. Cash, in return, had extended the same courtesy to Jared—they were tight like that. He wished that Jared was home now, as he was one of the few remaining bachelors Cash knew in town; he’d probably get a laugh out of the whole male escort misunderstanding. Cash closed his eyes and winced, recalling the humiliating way the woman had flapped the money at him—how he’d faked having a good time just to get out of there sooner.

  Then again, maybe not. This might be one secret he’d take to the grave.

  As Cash headed for Jared’s, his mind drifted back to his romantic status. Or lack thereof. Most of Cash’s other friends had settled down and gotten married in their late twenties and early thirties, which, for most people, seemed to be the standard age of finding a mate. Maybe, he reckoned, he’d missed his window by waiting so long to find a partner—maybe all the good ones had already been snapped up. You snooze, you lose. Wasn’t that how it went?

  No, that wasn’t right. His argument to himself was this: Before the rancher lifestyle had been thrust upon him, he’d lived in a big city and had travelled internationally for work as a photojournalist. He’d connected with women literally across the world, both physically and emotionally, and not once had he found a partner that he’d loved deeply enough to want to marry—not in his twenties or early thirties.

  He was unsure if this realization should make him feel better or worse.

  Cash focus
ed his thoughts to keep them from straying to a place of pessimism. At the very least, he could say that he hadn’t settled for good enough, which he knew wasn’t always the case. He’d had more than a couple married friends admit after one too many that they might do things differently if they could go back in time—that they envied Cash his freedom. It was, of course, easy to be flippant about regrets and past choices when there was still somebody at home waiting. Would they still begrudge Cash his independence on a lonesome night like tonight? Unlikely.

  So, what did it all mean?

  Did it mean that, when it comes to love, age and circumstance are irrelevant—that, when he does finally meet The One, it will be at a time that fate has predetermined? That, all he needs to do is practice a little patience? Or did it mean that, since he was unable to find love the world over when he was younger and financially stable, the chances of him finding it now—in Dunblair Ridge, of all places—were slim to none as a broke cowboy approaching forty?

  Should he save himself the heartache and give up now on the hope of ever finding true love?

  Cash was so caught up in his contemplations that he nearly walked right past Jared’s place. Quickly, he headed down the narrow brick path toward the front door, taking care not to slip on any patches of ice. It didn’t take him long to get inside, since Jared’s “secret” hiding place for the key was under the mat. There was a time not so long ago that the small security measure would have been considered excessive; prior to the rise in tourism, most Dunblair Ridge locals hadn’t locked their doors at all.

  Not surprisingly, the house was freezing inside, but still an improvement from being out on the street. The bed in the guest bedroom was even chillier, and not only because of the temperature. Cash imagined he’d feel a lot warmer if he had someone sweet to curl up next to.