Mara died a little inside. Dr. Pretty, with his PhD in computer science, wasn’t about to be any more impressed by that than he should be. He wouldn’t even know who Little Zee was.
And as for Little Zee—whose real name was Jim—he’d dropped Mara on her second day in the hospital after she broke her leg on a skiing trip in Big Sky. She’d still been in traction.
Sorry, babe. I’ve got to replace you.
That was the last she’d seen of him. It had taken her a full week to figure out that he hadn’t only meant professionally. He’d had all of her belongings shipped to her parents’ home in Brazil. How thoughtful—considering Mara was stranded in Montana. Then she’d learned on TMZ that he’d begun dating an actress.
Had the actress heard all about the faithless high school sweetheart who’d given up on him because he was living out of his van and street performing in subways? Who hadn’t believed in him enough to stick it out until he found success?
Or maybe he’d turned Mara into the heartless diva of his latest personal drama. Little Zee’s acting was even better than his music, and in truth, his music wasn’t half bad.
“Wow. I’ve heard the song on the radio, but I’ve never seen the video. I’ll have to check it out,” Luke said politely, sounding about as impressed as she’d expected. He held up the bottle of fennel seeds and gave them a shake. “Thanks for the help, Mara.” He kissed Diana on the cheek. “It was great seeing you, Di. I’ve got to run, but drop by the ranch with the kids anytime. Bring O’Sullivan, too.”
He strode off, calm and in no apparent great hurry, but he didn’t fool Mara. He’d avoided speaking about his family and their recent loss, neatly turning the conversation, then he’d ducked out at the first opportunity. The biggest tell, however, was that he’d lost the easy form to his movements that had first caught her eye.
“Poor Luke,” Diana murmured, half to herself. Pity pooled beneath her black lashes, suggesting she wasn’t fooled by him, either. She patted the baby nestled against her and spoke to Mara, fixing her smile back in place. “How are things at the studio?”
“Great.”
Mara’s stomach clenched around the lie. Thankfully, Diana was too nice to call her on it. Why bother when they both knew the truth?
A dance studio in Grand was akin to offering ice skating lessons in Honolulu. The only way Mara could keep up with the bills without dipping too deep into her savings was by offering steep discounts to parents looking for cheap ways to occupy their children for a few hours on Saturday mornings. And, of course, the adult Zumba classes.
She probably should have opened up shop in Billings or Missoula, but in the cities, she would have faced more competition. Her original plan was to establish her reputation in Grand before moving on. She was only twenty-six. There was no rush. She’d needed this past year to pull her life back together and Grand had been kind.
But she hadn’t expected the locals’ complete indifference to her qualifications, which included ballet and jazz at some of the best schools in the world, not to mention two runs in Broadway musicals before her agent convinced her to give pop videos a shot. People seemed to think being pretty was the only skill she’d required to get where she’d been.
Her damaged leg was all the proof she’d needed that being pretty wasn’t nearly enough. For her, beauty was about movement. About rhythm and grace. It had been almost a year and a half since the accident now, yet her leg continued to ache and her knee still gave out without warning. She didn’t give a damn about the Dr. Frankenstein scars. Her passion was dance. She’d be happy to be able to demonstrate a decent pirouette to her young students. She’d lost an important piece of herself and she wasn’t going to recapture it anytime soon.
The baby began to fuss. One pudgy fist grabbed the front of her mother’s sleeveless cotton blouse.
“Has the landlord fixed the lock on the studio door yet?” Diana probed, ignoring the squirming bundle.
“He said he’d get to it later this week.”
The landlord was in his nineties, the crime rate in Grand wasn’t high, and only a few people knew the lock was broken, so Mara chose not to stress about it. The rent was cheap and she wasn’t rocking the boat when she could brace a chair under the doorknob. The result was the same. She’d lived in far worse conditions.
Diana, however, who was one of the nicest people Mara had ever met, didn’t share her lack of concern. A troubled frown replaced her smile. “I’ll send Randy over to fix it tonight.”
This was one of the things Mara did like about Grand, and why she’d decided to start her dance studio here. She liked the sense of community. People were happy to step in and help out, and while she’d learned that cowboys could be territorial when it came to the women they dated, there’d be no obligation at all in accepting anything from Diana and Randall O’Sullivan. He was as nice as his wife.
There was no point in arguing. Nothing to be gained. She’d only offend them.
“Thank you,” she said.
Dr. Pretty had finished his shopping. He carried his small bag of goods through the sliding glass doors and into the sunny parking lot outside. His elegant ease of movement had returned—and with interest. He aimed for a four-door, dark blue economy car.
Mara couldn’t say what she’d expected a professor with grassroots deep in Montana to drive, but that wasn’t it. Or maybe she was thrown because it wasn’t a half-ton truck, which was what everyone else around here seemed to own, no matter what their occupation.
She dragged her attention away from Dr. Pretty to discover Diana had her phone out and was texting her husband.
“He says to expect him around eight,” Diana announced.
Chapter Two
Mara’s studio overlooked Sutler Cemetery, its name a proud nod to Grand’s history. It had a nicer ring to it than Bootlegger Burial Ground, which from the stories she’d heard, would have been the more accurate tribute.
The historic pioneer cemetery was beautiful, no matter what it was called. Ancient cottonwood trees draped the wrought iron fence that enclosed it. Two worn gray stone pillars, with fine surface cracks sprouting green moss, supported the front gate. Inside, gravel pathways wound between well-tended grave markers dating back two hundred years and brilliant white hydrangea bushes. Only founding family members could be buried here anymore, but it was a lovely, peaceful place to go for an early morning stroll before the day’s temperatures soared.
When she got home, a familiar, four-door, dark blue economy car huddled in the shade of the cemetery’s small parking lot that her studio shared.
For a second Mara puzzled over why Luke McGregor was here when he’d left the store in such a hurry, but then she remembered the McGregors were one of Grand’s founding families, and his parents’ remains had already been interred, even though the memorial service wasn’t scheduled until the upcoming weekend.
He emerged from between the stone pillars as she was lifting the grocery bags out of the trunk of her little red hatchback. Sunshine draped his shoulders. He hesitated, as if he didn’t know whether to continue onward or retreat into the shadows of the cottonwoods.
She pretended not to see him, allowing him the privacy he so obviously wanted. She guessed Dr. Pretty wasn’t holding it together as well as he’d like Grand to believe and she could sympathize with that.
She set the bags on the asphalt, slammed the trunk closed, then slipped her palms through the canvas straps, dividing the load between her two hands. She straightened, went to take a step, and as she did, a wave of white-hot, blinding pain shot from her shin to her thigh.
Her bad knee gave out. Her groceries hit the ground seconds before she sprawled into an inglorious heap of scattered cans and fresh produce. A jar of organic peanut butter rolled under her car. Her long hair saved one elbow, which got tangled in it.
Footsteps pounded on the pavement, drawing closer, before she could collect herself. She clenched her eyes closed in mortification.
“Hey.” A smooth, masculine voice
, oozing concern, floated a few inches above the back of her head. “Mind if I help?”
The question turned out to be more of a warning that he intended to touch her rather than a request for permission, because he didn’t wait for an answer. Strong, warm hands grasped her arms.
She opened her eyes. Emerald-green irises glittered behind black-framed lenses, so close to her face she could see the tiny flecks of gold surrounding each pupil. And a suspicious hint of red rimming his eyelids.
He helped her get her feet under her. Once she was upright his eyes dropped lower, assessing the damage. They halted, and narrowed. “You okay?”
The leg of her Capri pants had hitched up, exposing her mangled knee.
A hot blush straddled her cheeks. She hated pity. No one understood that a few scars weren’t important to her. Her dancer’s feet were ugly, too. She had corns on the joints of each toe, bunions that hurt if she wore tight shoes, and the two toenails she’d lost had grown in thick and deformed. None of that stopped her from wearing sandals.
Because she didn’t care how they looked as long as they worked. Beauty of movement was everything to her, and she’d just face-planted with all the grace of an albatross, a harsh reminder that she’d never dance professionally again.
But she’d give up her good leg before she’d give in to self-pity, and she wouldn’t tolerate it from others. She’d dance again—just not professionally.
She gathered her hair in both hands, looping it into a bundle, and shoved it over her shoulder and away from her face. The action bought her a few seconds.
“I’m fine. It happens sometimes.” There was no point in pretending her leg wasn’t the reason she’d fallen. Dr. Pretty was smart. “Thank you,” she added, not wanting him to think she wasn’t grateful.
“Let me help you with these.”
He stooped and began to gather her scattered purchases, dropping a packet of cellophane-wrapped baby spinach into one of the canvas totes. Mara spotted the jar of peanut butter under her car at the same moment he did.
His lips settled into a straight line and his eyebrows rode up in a cool challenge. The look he shot her said, “Don’t even think about it.”
He dropped to one knee, groped behind the tire, and withdrew the jar. A smudge of dirt streaked the crisp white cuff of his rolled-up shirtsleeve. Dark hair fell forward over his eyes. He flipped it aside. The peanut butter disappeared into one of the totes.
Her left elbow—the one her thick padding of hair hadn’t rescued—stung. A quick peek showed she had road rash oozing blood through the tight, three-quarter sleeve of her lightweight knit top. The heels of both palms were scraped too, and the leg of the Capris covering her good knee was suspiciously damp.
“Thank you so much. I’ve got it from here,” Mara said, moving to take the bags from him.
He stepped away, putting them a few inches out of her reach. “No problem. I’ll carry them for you.”
She began to see the cowboy in him. Luke McGregor, however, didn’t give quite the same raw, he-man impression. He leaned a bit more to the refined, gentleman side—just far enough to intrigue her.
He looked around. “Where am I carrying them to?”
“I live above the dance studio.”
He stared at the former warehouse, still sheathed in steel siding that was pockmarked with rust, as if she had to be kidding him. “That’s old Angus McKillop’s oxygen cylinder filling station.”
Defensiveness kicked in at his tone. It didn’t look like much, fair enough, but it was her home. “Not anymore. Now it’s a dance studio. There’s an apartment upstairs.”
The apartment used to be office space and ran the length of the building. She’d dipped into her savings to make it a cozy haven where she could relax. Plus, she liked the privacy and the convenience of the studio’s location. Downtown Grand was only a few minutes away, and if not for her bad leg, she could walk. From upstairs she had an excellent view of the Yellowstone River. It widened at Grand, its delta fed by the Tongue River, and was rampant with trout sports fishermen, especially in the spring.
They crossed the cul-de-sac between the studio and the communal parking lot. Luke hung back to allow her to open the door of her building. She turned the knob and nudged the door with her shoulder because it tended to stick in the heat. Summer this year was going to be fierce.
She began to have second thoughts about allowing a stranger into her space, but this was Grand and Diana liked him.
Besides, it was too late. He was already in.
The interior was dark, the air cool. It smelled a bit funky, kind of sweaty and damp, like the combination of warehouse and dance studio it was. She fumbled for the light switch.
The glare of a long line of fluorescent fixtures flooded the room. She’d had a double barre installed, as well as a sound system, and a rubber subflooring with a Marley overlay that was perfect for dance. Mirrors lined the wall at the far end of the room. To their left, as they walked in, a flight of prefab aluminum steps, complete with guardrails, climbed fifteen feet to a catwalk that overlooked the studio floor.
“You should lock your door,” Luke said.
He sounded so disapproving. She couldn’t help yanking his chain. “Diana’s husband is coming over to fix the lock tonight.”
Luke looked at her. Really looked. As if for the very first time. Then, he blinked.
And she could literally see where his thoughts took him.
“Show me where to put these bags. I’ll fix it for you and save Randy the trouble,” he said. It wasn’t quite a demand, but it was close.
She wasn’t fooled by it, either. He was offering to fix the lock as a favor to Diana, not her. As if she were some sort of femme fatale. And as if Randy, who so plainly adored his adorable wife, would ever wander.
She plastered on a wide, innocent smile and yanked a bit harder. “Randy doesn’t mind.”
Luke didn’t rise to the bait. Neither, however, did he back down. “I’m fairly certain he won’t mind if I fix it for him either, especially since I’m already here. He works long hours trucking and doesn’t see a whole lot of his wife and babies.”
Making her the unreasonable one if she refused his offer.
Since she didn’t care if the lock was fixed or not, and hadn’t asked for anyone’s help in the first place, he could go right ahead and give it a try. “Thank you for both of us, then. I’m sure there’s a toolbox around here somewhere. Mr. McKillop left a few things he thought I might need.”
“Sure. So you can handle any maintenance yourself.” That faint trace of dry humor he’d exhibited earlier reemerged. “McKillop claims to be Irish, but there’s a lot of Scottish in him.”
She couldn’t help smiling, because Mr. McKillop did, indeed, make a big deal out of being Irish, but she wasn’t about to get sidetracked by another interesting facet to Dr. Pretty. She was looking for a distraction, not a cause, and she’d already determined he had too many issues. Her romance with Little Zee wouldn’t be forgotten anytime soon.
“You can check in the utility room under the stairs to see if there’s anything you can use. I’ll put the groceries away,” she said.
Luke didn’t relinquish the canvas totes. “I’ll carry them up the stairs for you first.”
Dr. Pretty’s roots were really starting to show. “If you insist.”
She led the way, secretly relieved he was doing the heavy lifting. The aluminum stairs, which gave her the sensation of walking on manhole covers and tended to tremble, were a challenge for her at the best of times, and although she’d gotten used to carrying things to her apartment, right now her knee ached something fierce.
“Your elbow is bleeding,” Luke said from behind her.
She glanced back, careful to keep a firm grip on the rails, to where he’d halted a few steps below her. Concern radiated from the perfect lines of his face.
His eyes were so distractingly green.
She’d almost think he wore colored lenses, except Dr. Pr
etty was also pretty masculine, and he didn’t strike her as all that invested in his appearance. He was trendy, perhaps. The haircut testified to that. But he hadn’t noticed the dirt on his sleeve—or if he had, he didn’t care. His style likely had more to do with his career choice than any personal preference.
“It’s just a scrape. I’ll clean it with hydrogen peroxide and put a Band-Aid on it,” she said. She kept a first aid kit in the studio for her dancers, but a smaller one in her personal bathroom for her own use.
They reached the catwalk. She hesitated at the steel door that led to her kitchen. While she was okay with a stranger coming into the studio, she wasn’t as okay with bringing one into her private living space.
Luke must have sensed it, or perhaps all that gray matter he owned told him it wasn’t a smart move on her part and he shouldn’t help her commit an act of stupidity. He propped the bags against the wall. “I’ll go see what I can do with that door.”
He strode the short length of catwalk to the stairs. She really did like the way he moved. He had some of that inherent cowboy swagger, but with an added touch—his body flowed, every muscle connected, a lot like the way water rippled over rock. Disappointment that they wouldn’t be getting to know each other better settled in.
What a shame their situations weren’t better aligned. He would have made a good… dance partner.
*
Luke clattered down the rickety stairs, the noise of his shoes on the aluminum risers amplified by the cavern’s acoustics until it echoed through the steel beams overhead.
He hadn’t paid much attention to Mara when she’d spoken to him in the grocery store. He’d had too much else on his mind. Besides, his breakup with Denise was far too fresh for him to take notice of other women, no matter how pretty they were.
He hadn’t expected to see Mara again, either. Especially not here, right next door to the cemetery. All he’d wanted was a few minutes alone with his parents. To check out their graves before the memorial service so he wouldn’t break down in front of Grand, his brothers, and the children. It was doubtful Mara had noticed he’d shed a few tears. That was a nasty tumble she’d taken.
The Rancher's Secret Love (The Montana McGregor Brothers Book 2) Page 2
