The Trouble With Valentine's Day (5 page)

When the plane landed in Dallas, he'd managed to put the blonde with the blue eyes out of his mind. He never would have even remembered the woman's name if she hadn't somehow gotten his home telephone number. By the time he returned to Seattle, Stephanie Andrews had left more than two hundred messages on his answering machine. Rob didn't know which was more disturbing, the volatile messages themselves, or the sheer volume of them.

Although it was no secret, she'd discovered he was married, and she accused him of using her. “You can't use me and throw me away,” she began each message. She screamed and raged, then cried hysterically, as she told him how much she loved him. Then she always begged him to call her back.

He never did. Instead, he changed his number. He destroyed the tapes and thanked God Louisa hadn't heard the messages and would never need to know about them.

He never would have remembered Stephanie's face if she hadn't found out where he lived and been waiting for him one night after he returned home from a Thanksgiving charity auction at the Space Needle. Like a lot of nights in Seattle, a thick misty rain clogged the black sky and smeared his windshield. He didn't see Stephanie as he drove his BMW into the garage, but when he stepped from his car, she walked inside and called out his name.

“I will not be used, Rob,” she said, her voice raising above the sound of the door slowly closing behind her.

Rob turned and looked at her beneath the light of the garage. The smooth blonde hair he remembered hung in soggy chunks at her shoulder, as if she'd been standing outdoors for a while. Her eyes were a little too wide, and the soft line of her jaw was brittle, like she was about to shatter into a million pieces. Rob reached for his cell phone and dialed as he moved backward toward the door. “What are you doing here?”

“You can't use me and throw me away as if I am nothing. Men can't use women and get away with it. You have to be stopped. You have to pay.”

Instead of boiling a rabbit or pouring acid on his car, she pulled out a .22 Beretta and emptied the clip. One round hit his right knee, two bullets hit his chest, the others lodged in the door by his head. He'd almost died on the way to the hospital from his injuries and blood loss. He spent four weeks in Northwest Hospital and another three months in physical therapy.

He had a scar that ran from his navel to his sternum and a titanium knee. But he'd survived. She hadn't killed him. She hadn't ended his life. Just his career.

Louisa didn't even come to see him in the hospital, and she refused to let Amelia visit. Instead, she served him with divorce papers. Not that he blamed her. By the time he was through with therapy, they'd hammered out visitation, and he was allowed to visit Amelia at the condo. He saw his baby on weekends, but after a short time it became clear to him that he had to get out of town.

He'd always been strong and healthy, ready to take names and kick ass, but suddenly finding himself weak and reliant on others had kicked
his
ass. He fell into a depression that he fought against and denied. Depression was for wussies and women, not Rob Sutter. He might not be able to walk without help, but he wasn't a weeny.

He moved to Gospel so his mother could help him with his rehabilitation. After a few months, he realized that he felt like a weight had been lifted. One he'd been refusing to acknowledge. Living in Seattle had been a constant reminder of everything he'd lost. In Gospel, he felt like he could breathe again.

He opened the sporting goods store to take his mind off his troubled past and because he needed something to do. He'd always loved camping and fly-fishing, and he'd figured it would make a good business move. What he discovered was that he really enjoyed selling camping and fishing equipment, bicycles and street hockey gear. He had a stock account that allowed him to take the winter off. He and Louisa were getting along once again. After he'd sold his house on Mercer Island, he'd bought a loft in Seattle. Once a month he flew to Washington and spent time with Amelia there. She'd just turned two and was always happy to see him.

The trial of Stephanie Andrews had ended within a few short weeks. She'd received twenty years, ten fixed. Rob hadn't been there at the sentencing. He'd been fishing in the Wood River, whipping his Chamois Nymph across the surface of the water. Feeling the rush and pull of the current.

Rob picked the mail off his desk and walked toward the door. He turned off the lights and headed down the stairs. He'd never been the kind of guy to overanalyze his life. If the answer didn't come easy, he forgot about the question and moved on. But getting shot forced a man to take a good hard look at himself. Waking up with tubes stuck in your chest and with your leg immobilized gave you plenty of time with nothing to do
but
think about how your life got so screwed up. The easy answer was that Rob had been stupid and had had sex with a crazy woman. The harder answer was the
why.

With his mail in one hand, he locked the store behind him. He shoved his sunglasses on the bridge of his nose and headed for the HUMMER. Once inside, he tossed his mail on the passenger seat beside his groceries and fired up the vehicle. He still didn't know the answer to the last question, but he figured it didn't matter now. Whatever the answer, he'd learned the lesson the hard way. He was a poor judge of women, and when it came to relationships, he was a bad bet. His marriage had been painful, the divorce an inevitable slam to the ice. That's all he needed to know to avoid a repeat of his past.

He would like a girlfriend, though. A girlfriend in the sense of a girl who was a friend. A friend who came over to his house and had sex with him a couple of times a week. Someone who just wanted to have a good time and ride him like a hobbyhorse. Someone
not
crazy. But there was the rub. Steph-anie Andrews hadn't
looked
crazy—not until she'd shown up in Seattle with a grudge and a gun.

Rob hadn't had sex since he'd been shot. Not that he wasn't able or had lost his desire. It was just that every time he saw a woman he was interested in, and who seemed interested in him, a little voice inside his head always put a stop to it before it even got started.
Is she worth dying for?
it asked.
Is she worth your life?

The answer was always no.

As he pulled out of the parking lot, he glanced in the rearview mirror at the M&S Market. Not even with a gorgeous redhead with long legs and a nice ass.

Across the street, Rob stopped at the self-serve Chevron and pumped gas in the HUMMER. He leaned his hip into the side of the car and prepared for a long wait. Once again his gaze was pulled to the front of the grocery store. Whoever had come up with the maxim that the more you went without sex, the less you wanted it, was a moron. He might not think about sex all the time, but when he did, he still wanted it.

A Toyota pickup pulled in behind Rob, and a short blonde got out and made her way toward him. Her name was Rose Lake. She was twenty-eight and built like a little Barbie doll. In the summer she liked to wear tank tops without a bra. Yeah, he'd noticed. Just because he didn't have sex didn't mean he wasn't a guy. Today she wore tight Wranglers and a jean jacket with that fake white fur on the inside. Her cheeks were pink from the cold.

“Hey there,” she greeted as she stopped in front of him.

“Hey, Rose. How're things?”

“Good. I heard you were back.”

Rob pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head. “Yeah, I got back last night.”

“Where'd you go?”

“Skiing with friends.”

Rose tilted her chin and looked up at him out of the corners of her light blue eyes. “What are you doing now?”

He recognized the invitation, and he shoved his fingers into the front pockets of his Levi's. “Pumping gas in the HUMMER.”

Yeah, she was cute, and he'd been tempted more than once to take what she was offering. “What about when you leave here?” she asked.

He was tempted even now. “I've got a lot of work to do before I open the store in a few weeks.”

She reached out and tugged at the front of his coat. “I could help you out.”

But not enough to drown out the warnings in his head. “Thanks, but it's the sort of paperwork I have to do myself.” Still, there was nothing wrong with chatting up a pretty girl while filling his HUMMER with fuel. “Anything interesting happen while I was gone?”

“Emmett Barnes got arrested for drunk and disorderly, but that's not anything new or interesting. The Spuds and Suds got a health code violation, but that's nothing new either.”

He pulled his hand from his pocket and reached for his sunglasses.

“Oh, and I heard you're gay.”

The pump shut off, and his hand stopped in midair. “What?”

“My mom was at the Curl Up & Dye this morning getting her roots done, and she heard Eden Hansen telling Dixie Howe that you're gay.”

He dropped his hand. “The owner of Hansen's Emporium said that?”

Rose nodded. “Yeah. I don't know where she heard it.”

Why would Eden say he was gay? It didn't make sense. He didn't dress like a gay guy, and there wasn't a rainbow sticker on his HUMMER. He didn't like to decorate or listen to Cher. He didn't give a crap if his socks matched; as long as they were clean, that's all that mattered. And the only hair care product he owned was a bottle of shampoo. “I'm not gay.”

“I didn't think so. I'm usually pretty good at sensing something like that, and I never got the gay vibe from you.”

Rob removed the gas nozzle and shoved it in the pump. Not that it mattered, he told himself. There was nothing wrong with being homosexual. He had a few friends in the NHL who were gay. He just didn't happen to be one of them. To him, it was just a matter of sexual preference, and Rob loved women. He loved everything about them. He loved the scent of their skin and their warm, wet mouths beneath his. He loved the heated look in their eyes as he seduced them out of their panties. He loved their soft, eager hands on his body. He loved the push and pull, give and take of hot sex. He loved it fast and he loved to take his time. He loved everything about it.

Rob clenched his jaws and screwed on the gas cap. “See ya around, Rose,” he said, then opened the door to his vehicle.

In the beginning it had been extremely difficult to go without sex, but he'd kept himself active and busy. When a sexual thought had popped into his head, he'd just thought of something else. If that hadn't worked, he'd tied flies, losing himself in nymphs and tung head zug bugs. He'd concentrate on mastering the perfect wrap, and eventually going without had got easier. Through force of will, and over a thousand flies later, he'd gained command of his body.

Until recently. Until a certain redhead had brushed her fingers across his arm and sent a bolt of desire straight to his groin, reminding him of everything he'd given up.

It wasn't like she'd been the first woman to offer him a good time. He knew women in Seattle and women right here in Gospel who were up for some bed action. She just tempted him more than he'd been tempted in a while, and he didn't know why. But like all the questions in his head for which there were no answers, he didn't have to know why.

The only thing he knew for certain was that that kind of temptation wasn't good for his peace of mind. It was best to steer clear of Kate Hamilton. Best if he stayed on his side of the parking lot. Best to get her completely out of his head.

And the best way to do that was with a seven-foot bamboo rod and an eight-ounce reel, a box of his favorite midges and nymphs, and a river filled with hungry trout.

He drove home and grabbed his rod and reel and waders, then headed to the Big Wood River and the spot just below the River Run Bridge where the big trout fed without fear in the winter. Where only the most dedicated fly fisherman stood knee deep in water so cold it forced its way through Gore-Tex, pile, and neoprene. Where only the hard-core walked cautiously across the frozen ice, stacked like blue cards against the river's steep banks. Where only the obsessed walked into the river and froze their balls off for a chance to battle a twelve-inch rainbow.

Only when he heard the sound of the river tripping over rocks, the swish of his line whipping back and forth, and the steady clicking of his reel could Rob begin to feel the tension ease between his shoulders.

Only when the sight of his favorite nymph kissed the perfect spot at just the edge of a deep pool did his mind finally clear.

Only then did he find the peace he needed to calm the struggle within him. Only then did the loneliness ease. Only then did everything seem right again in Rob Sutter's world.

Four

“There's a group social at the grange
tonight,” Regina Cladis informed Stanley Caldwell as he rang up a pound of bologna, a quart of milk, and a can of coffee.

Stanley groaned inwardly and kept his gaze pinned on the keys. He knew better than to look into Regina's thick glasses. She'd take it as a sign of encouragement, and he didn't have an interest in Regina or socials of any kind.

“We're all bringing samples of our poetry. You should come.”

He glanced over at Hayden Dean, Rob Sutter, and Paul Aberdeen, who stood gathered around his coffee machine a few feet away. “I don't write poetry,” he said loud enough for them to hear, just in case they thought he was the kind of guy who sat around writing poetry.

“Oh, you don't have to write it to enjoy it. Just come and listen.”

Stanley might be old, but he wasn't near senile enough to get himself shut in a grange with a bunch of poetry reading and writing women.

“Iona is bringing her famous peach thumbprints,” Regina added as enticement.

“I have to work on my accounts books,” he lied.

“I'll do the accounts books for you, Grandpa,” Katie offered as she moved toward the front of the store with a snow shovel in one hand and her coat in the other. “You should go out with your friends.”

He frowned. What was wrong with her? Lately she'd been pushing him to “get out of the house,” even though she knew he liked to stay home nights. “Oh, I think that—”

“I can pick you up at seven,” Regina interrupted.

Finally Stanley looked into Regina's thick glasses and stared at the only thing he feared more than one of those social meetings—riding in a car with a woman who was practically blind. “That's okay. I can drive,” he said, having absolutely no intention of driving anywhere.

He gazed past Regina's kinked-up hair to his granddaughter, who was walking toward the door. Katie's brows were pulled together like she was irritated. She stopped to lean the shovel against the magazine rack.

“I'll save a chair for you,” Regina offered.

“I'll shovel the snow, Katie,” he said. He set Regina's can of Folgers in a paper bag. “I need you to take a delivery to Ada over at The Sandman Motel.”

“Ada just wants to pump me for information about you. Tell her she needs to come in and do her shopping like everyone else,” Kate said through a frown. The last delivery she'd made to The Sandman hadn't gone well, and Stanley suspected he'd never get her to go back. Still, he had to try, because the alternative was having to go himself.

“Shoveling snow is man's work.” He glanced once more at the men by the coffee machine. “Let me finish up here, and I'll go out and do it.”

“There's no such thing as ‘man's work' anymore,” Katie told him as she shoved her arms into her navy blue peacoat. Stanley took Regina's check and glanced at the men standing around the coffee machine. He prayed his granddaughter wouldn't elaborate. He and Katie had had several arguments concerning men's and women's roles. This wasn't Las Vegas, and she wouldn't win any friends with her women's lib crap.

The good Lord didn't see fit to answer Stanley's prayer. “Women can do anything men can do,” Katie added, eliciting several raised brows and pointed looks from the men. His granddaughter was a beautiful young woman. She had a good heart and she meant well, but she was too independent, too opinionated, and too vocal. And that was too many things for a man to overlook. After living with her for a month, Stanley could see why she wasn't married.

“Can't make a baby by yourself,” Hayden Dean pointed out, and he topped off his mug.

She glanced down as she buttoned her coat. “True, but I can go to a sperm bank and pick out the perfect donor. Height. Weight. IQ.” She pulled a black beret out of her pocket and placed it on her head. “Which, when you think about it, seems a more logical way to conceive than in the backseat of a Buick.”

Stanley knew she meant to be funny, but her humor was lost on the men of Gospel.

“Not as much fun, though,” Hayden added.

She glanced over at Hayden, who stood between the other two men. “That's debatable.”

She wrapped a black wool scarf around her neck, and Stanley wondered if he should wrap it around her mouth. That Rob was a strapping young fella. He was single, too. He hadn't been in the store for a few weeks now, and if Katie would just keep quiet, she might trick him into a date. And Katie needed a date. Needed something to do, other than fussing at him about his eating habits, rearranging the hygiene aisle, and telling him how to live his life.

“Can't pee standing,” Paul Aberdeen said.

“No lady would consider doing that,” Stanley interceded on Katie's behalf.

“I'm sure if I absolutely had to, I could manage it somehow.”

Stanley winced. That last announcement would scare off any man, but Rob looked more amused than insulted. Laughter shone in his green eyes as he gazed across the candy aisle at Katie. “But you can't write your name in the snow,” he said and lifted his mug to his lips.

In the flattest voice Stanley had ever heard her use, Katie asked, “Why would I want to?” Her tone puzzled Stanley. The last time Rob had been in, Katie had gotten all red-faced and flustered. The kind of flustered a woman got around a guy like Rob. The good Lord knew Rob had been flustering the women in Gospel since the day he'd driven that HUMMER of his into town, and his granddaughter had been no exception.

Rob took a drink, then slowly lowered the mug. One corner of his mouth slid up. “Because you can.”

The other two men chuckled, but Katie looked perplexed rather than amused. The kind of perplexed women got when they didn't understand men. And for all of her years, there was a lot Katie didn't understand about the opposite sex. Like a man naturally wanting to take care of his woman, even if that woman was perfectly capable of taking care of herself.

Stanley handed Regina her bag of groceries, then moved from behind the counter in one last attempt to save Katie from herself. “Now, let me do that. Your grandmother never lifted a snow shovel in her life.”

“I lived on my own for a long time,” she said as she grabbed the snow shovel before Stanley could get to it. “I've had to do a lot of things for myself. Everything from hauling my own garbage cans to the curb to changing the tire on my car.”

Other than wrestle with her, what could he do? “Well, if it gets to be too much, I'll finish up.”

“Shoveling snow kills more than a thousand men over forty a year,” she informed him. “I'm thirty-four, so I think I'll be fine.”

With no other choice, Stanley gave up. Kate opened the door and walked outside, leaving a chill in her wake that Stanley wasn't certain had all that much to do with the weather.

A cold morning breeze slapped Kate's left cheek as the door closed behind her. She pulled the frozen air deep into her lungs and let it out slowly. A warm puff of breath hung in front of her face. That hadn't gone well. Her intent had been to get out of the store as quickly as possible, not to upset her grandfather or sound like a man-basher. She didn't even want to contemplate peeing while standing—ever. She'd never actually changed a tire, but she was sure she could do it. Fortunately she wouldn't have to, because like a lot of capable and intelligent women, she belonged to AAA.

Kate leaned the handle of the shovel against her shoulder and took her gloves from her pockets. For the past half hour, she'd felt like she'd been holding her breath. Ever since Rob Sutter had walked into the M&S looking better than she remembered. Bigger and badder. A green-eyed, six-foot-two reminder of the night she'd wanted to live out a fantasy. A night she'd just wanted some anonymous sex and had ended up with a humiliating rejection instead.

She knew the mature thing to do would be to get over that night in the Duchin, but how was she ever going to forget it if she had to see Rob all the time?

Kate wiggled her fingers in her gloves. She hadn't been near Rob for two weeks now, but she'd spotted him a few times across the parking lot or driving that ridiculous HUMMER around town. She hadn't seen him up close and personal, though, until this morning when he'd come in for a granola bar and stayed for a cup of free coffee.

While she'd shelved paper products and listened to Tom Jones moan his way through “Black Betty” like he was getting blown, Rob had chatted it up with some of the other local men. They'd talked about the freakish snowstorm that had hit the area the night before, and all she'd been able to think about had been details of the Sun Valley debacle. While they'd debated whether the snowfall should be measured in inches or feet, she'd wondered if Rob Sutter really couldn't recall any of the details—if he was a blind drunk in need of Alcoholics Anonymous. It was a question that had been driving her insane. Not, however, enough to ask.

The conversation had progressed to the mountain goat Paul Aberdeen had blown away that hunting season. Kate had wanted to ask Paul why anyone would fill their freezer with an old goat when there was perfectly good beef at the M&S. She hadn't because she hadn't wanted to draw attention to herself and because she knew her grandfather was already irritated with her for packing away a Tom Jones, The Lead and How to Swing It, poster that had hung over her bed.

Living and working day in and day out with her grandfather was taking awhile to get used to. He liked dinner at exactly six. She liked to cook and eat sometime between seven and bedtime. If she didn't have something prepared by six, he just pulled out a Hungry Man and tossed it in the oven.

If he didn't stop it, she was going to have to hide all his Swansons, and if he didn't stop having her do all the home deliveries, she was going to have to kill him. Before she'd moved to Gospel, Stanley had closed the store between 3 and 4
P.M
. and done the deliveries himself. Now he seemed to think the job fell on her shoulders. Yesterday she'd delivered a can of prunes, a jug of prune juice, and a six-pack of Charmin to Ada Dover. She'd had to listen to the older woman go on about how she'd been “backed up for days.” That was just one conversation you didn't want to have with anyone, especially a woman who resembled an old chicken.

Kate feared she was scarred for life now. As soon as she got her grandfather over his depression and she helped him move on with his life, she needed to get her
own
life. One that didn't include home deliveries to man-hungry widows. She didn't have a plan or know how long any of it would take, but if she gave it more effort, gave him a gentle loving push, the sooner it would happen.