When the Rancher Came to Town (4 page)

 

Chapter 4

M
ASON STARED AT
Amanda, trying to keep his shock and sadness hidden, knowing she wouldn't welcome it. He couldn't imagine someone abusing her; it gave him a dark, tense upheaval in his gut that made him want to punish the man who'd caused her suffering.

“Amanda, I'm so sorry,” he said, taking her hand again. He was relieved she allowed it, and their linked hands rested between them on the bench. “You can talk to me.”

“It happened at work.” She winced. “I just thought he was a flirt—­some guys are.”

“Your boss?”

“Yeah. He was friendly with everyone, you know? And that's why ­people didn't believe me when I had to tell the truth. Everyone was convinced I was misreading his ‘friendliness,' ” she said, using air quotes. “When I turned down his requests for dinner, he started brushing up against me too frequently to be accidental. God, he made my flesh crawl by the end of it. What was I going to say to ­people—­‘His arm brushed mine'?”

She sounded so angry, bitter, and sad. He realized she'd left behind her career—­one she'd worked hard for—­because of this man.

“But it got worse,” she said hoarsely. “He got me alone once at the end of the day, when I hadn't realized we were the only ones in the office. He tried to force a kiss on me, and I only got away by giving him a good knee to the balls, grabbing my shoulder bag, and running.”

“Good for you. The scum deserved it,” Mason said fiercely. “Is that when you came forward?”

She shook her head. “I was already applying for a new job to get away from him. But then he threatened to fire me, to blacken my name if I didn't have sex with him. That's when I went public. To face a whole panel of his supporters and all those cameras . . .” She shuddered.

Confused, he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “What do you mean, cameras were involved?”

“Oh, I forgot to explain that part, did I?” she said bitterly. “My boss was a United States senator.”

Mason clenched his jaw until his teeth ground together, but he controlled his outward reaction. It was obvious she hadn't spoken of the harassment in a long time, for the words were pouring out of her.

“I had no proof, never thought to record what he'd done—­I just wanted to get away from him. But he made that impossible, and I couldn't let that go or let that happen to other women. When I complained, they opened an investigation, and I ended up having to testify in front of an ethics panel. It was . . . awful. There was nothing but my word, and it wasn't good enough.”

“He got away with it?” Mason asked, appalled.

“For a while. I resigned. The publicity, the reporters—­it was just too much. They followed me everywhere I went, trying to get me to recant or say something new and explosive. ­People I thought were my friends turned against me. I lasted another year in D.C., but my life was hell, and my new employer was using me like a poster child for fighting the establishment. At the one-­year anniversary, it all came up again, and that's when . . . when I had my first panic attack. Cameras and microphones in my face—­they had me backed into a corner.”

He could see her pale face flush, feel the tremble in her hand as she remembered.

“I didn't think I'd be able to get away. I didn't faint or anything. I forced myself to watch the clip on TV later and I looked distressed, but not incapacitated, thank God. I gave it all up and went home to Denver, to my parents. I hid out for a while, even after another woman came forward and told what the senator did to her. She'd been smart enough to record it, and he ended up quitting politics.”

“I remember a senator resigning in disgrace a few years back.”

She nodded. “I hope he's never in a position to do that to a woman again. But as for me—­I was done with Washington. I worked at a small law firm in Denver for a ­couple years, but my heart wasn't in it. I had enough saved up to take some time and discover what I wanted to do. I came to Aspen to do some skiing, but I didn't want to stay in a big hotel where I might be recognized. That's when I tried my first B&B and fell in love with it. I found and bought Connections a year ago now, and I've never been happier.” Her lips twisted with sarcasm. “And then I realized I've been using my home just to hide.”

“I don't believe that,” he said. “You're good at what you do—­it's obvious you love it.”

She sighed. “Thanks. I have a lot of help from my assistant innkeeper, Erin. One of the ways I realized I was in trouble was that I'd only leave my house with Erin, someone I trust. And tonight, I went out with you.”

He stared at her in surprise. “You trust me?”

“I . . . I don't know what it is about you or why, but . . . yeah, I guess I must trust you.”

They stared at each other a long moment, and the setting sun just dipping behind the mountains highlighted her blushing cheeks. Those dark blue eyes were like crystal windows into her turbulent emotions. And he was fascinated. She was a woman who'd come through some of the worst moments imaginable, still suffered the effects, and yet she'd succeeded in owning her own business.

“I hope that doesn't make you leery,” she continued. “I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to run far away from someone with my kind of problems.”

“I think you're strong and brave, and you've already taken steps to improve your life. So you had a little setback tonight. It doesn't negate the fact that you stood up against a powerful man with only your word.”

“Other ­people might call me stupid.”

“Not me—­and not yourself.”

She bit her lip, and for the first time in hours, he saw a glimpse of her sweet smile.

“Yeah, I couldn't let him get away with it,” she said. “Even at the height of the craziness, I didn't regret that I'd told the truth. And when I was vindicated—­it was a good feeling. But the resulting notoriety? Not something most ­people would like. Thankfully, you'll never know what it feels like to have so many ­people staring, judging.”

He felt the first stirrings of unease. He knew what it was like, of course, though he'd only been famous within the rodeo world. But there was a big difference—­she was trying to forget about her fame, and he was trying to use his to attract an investor. It felt a little cheap—­but it was necessary. It didn't feel right to bring it up, as if comparing their situations, when there was no comparison at all.

“About this Wild West Weekend,” Amanda said. “It's a little ironic that I bought a place where women were exploited. I'm proof things haven't changed all that much.”

He squinted at her. “Things have changed—­and you helped change them by speaking out. That wouldn't have happened a hundred years ago.”

She shrugged, smiling.

“You've decided to participate?”

“I have. I can't avoid the things that make me anxious; I've been working hard to face them and get through them, and make myself realize that I can. I'm used to ­people coming into my house—­this'll be no different.”

“I can't wait to see what costume you choose,” he said.

She raised an eyebrow.

He laughed. “Think your other guests might want to join in?”

“I don't know. I'll ask when they arrive. But I might rope you in.”

He let go of her hand to raise both of his. “Not as a john.”

She laughed. “How about as the sheriff, come to make sure customers don't cause trouble?”

His grin spread across his face. “I like that. Sheriff Lopez. Bet there weren't many sheriffs with that kind of last name in the old west.”

Her expression sobered. “Yet you have important business here besides the rodeo. You don't have to participate, Mason.”

“But I want to. I may not be around all day, but get me a badge, Madam.”

She smiled, watching him out of the corner of her eye almost shyly. “I guess we should get back.”

“There's still that drink I promised you.”

She hesitated, and he wasn't surprised when at last she shook her head.

“If you don't mind, I'll pass. I need some time to think about what happened tonight, to prepare myself for tomorrow.”

“I understand. Maybe a rain check?”

“We'll see.”

“Then at least let me walk home with you, since we're going to the same place.”

“I'd like that. And you still need a piece of peach pie.”

“Believe me, I haven't forgotten.”

They shared another smile and turned to walk across the grass, elbows brushing. He took her hand again, and although she shot him a startled look, she didn't pull away.

 

Chapter 5

I
N THE MORNING,
Amanda did the yoga stretches she'd begun a ­couple months ago as part of her recovery. The garden was the perfect peaceful setting, and she felt wonderful watching the sun rise over the mountains. As she lay on her back on a mat, relaxing and breathing deeply, she thought of Mason Lopez, his kindness and concern. She wouldn't have blamed him if he'd packed up and left. It had been a long time since she'd felt excited about a man—­years, in fact. She'd dated a few times in Denver but had never felt a spark, not like this one.

And . . . it scared her.

Yet it was her job to provide Mason with breakfast. Though feeling nervous, she took a quick shower, then took special care with her makeup and hair, like she was going out on a date instead of serving her guest a meal and then running errands.

She'd given Erin the day off, so it was just her in her kitchen. Though she'd given the space some old-­fashioned touches, like lace curtains and antique kitchen tools hung on the walls, her working space was modern to the core—­granite counters, an industrial mixer, several large waffle makers. She'd frozen homemade muffin batter in individual liners and taken several out to thaw last night. Now she popped them into the oven, and the smell soon filled the whole downstairs.

In the dining room, she was at the sideboard laying out a fresh fruit salad, several cereal selections, yogurt, and granola bars, when she heard the squeak of footsteps on the front stairs. She felt an electric shock buzz through her, and when Mason appeared a moment later, she told herself to give him just a professional smile. But it was difficult, when he made her feel so full of yearning and regret. He was wearing another perfectly pressed Western checked shirt with his jeans. To think she'd once thought a man in a suit the height of sexiness.

He smiled in return. “Mornin', Amanda.”

She liked the sound of her name in that deep, masculine voice. It rumbled right through her, and she had to squelch a shiver. “Hi, Mason,” she said, hearing a little breathlessness and feeling silly.

“No chocolates on my pillow last night?” he teased.

“If I did that and you didn't see them, you'd wake up with chocolate in your hair.”

He chuckled.

And then she remembered her job. “I'll have some fresh muffins for you in a moment. Until then, please help yourself. Would you like coffee? I can bring a French press.”

“That would be great, thanks.”

“Today's hot breakfast is a ham and cheese quiche. Would you like that?”

“I'll take some of anything you've got.”

She blushed, wondering if he was actually flirting with her.

He looked around at her dining room, and she saw it through his eyes: the gold wallpaper, the chandelier, the glass-­fronted cabinets displaying her nineteenth-­century china collection, the lace tablecloth covering her mahogany table and displaying place settings for six. She'd thrown the French doors wide to catch the morning breeze.

“You could eat on the porch if you'd like,” she said, gesturing to the tables for two or four ­people.

“Naw, that's okay. It's nice right here. You'll be joining me, right?”

“I don't usually disturb my guests while they eat.”

“But this guest is all alone.”

She knew she should refuse. And then she heard herself saying, “All right. Help yourself”—­she gestured to the sideboard—­“while I fetch your muffins.”

Wincing at her own giddy foolishness, she brought the cloth-­lined basket, brimming with a selection of blueberry, bran, and apple muffins. She also set down a plate of butter pats, molded into flower shapes.

He blinked in surprise. “Wow. You really go all out.”

“That's the point of a B&B, isn't it?”

Ten minutes later, she brought out two plates with wedges of quiche steaming upon them.

Mason inhaled. “Can't wait to dig in. Please join me.”

So she did, perpendicular to his right, since he'd taken the head of the table that looked out on the yard. Blue sat on a chair in the corner and just watched them, tail swishing lazily. They ate and talked about nothing in particular, mostly about quaint small towns, comparing Valentine Valley and Elk's Crest. Safe subjects, Amanda thought.

When a lengthier silence fell, he said, “I saw you in the garden this morning.”

Damn her pale, blushing complexion.

He rushed on. “I'm usually up before dawn. Hard to break old habits. It's just . . . I happened to look out just as the sun crested the Sawatch mountains, and it seemed to . . . ripple across you, patterned through the trees. It was peaceful and beautiful.”

To her surprise, her eyes moistened, and she wished she could see herself like he did. To make light of her overreaction, she said, “What are you, a cowboy poet?”

“Shucks, no,” he said, shrugging and digging back into his quiche with gusto. “Was that yoga you were doing?”

“Yeah, I feel so much better afterward, relaxed and strong.”

“I can tell you take care of yourself,” he said, dark eyes warm with what could only be admiration.

Flustered now, she said, “And meditation. That's important, too.”

“I've done some meditating.”

“You have?”

“Sure. Only I'm usually on the back of a horse, riding slowly, enjoying the quiet. Can you call that meditation?”

“I think so. As long as you clear your mind and only think about your breathing for a while, you're set.”

“It's hard to think of nothing, when there's always so much to do.”

“I hear you,” she said, rising to her feet to take his plate, glad for the excuse to escape his sweetness and her reluctant attraction.

“Let me help,” he said, starting to stand.

“No way. You're my guest. Have another muffin or some yogurt.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said, eyeing the sideboard with interest.

When she returned to the dining room fifteen minutes later, Mason was still there, reading the
Valentine Gazette,
which she'd left out for guests.

“There's a big article on the Wild West Weekend, along with the rodeo,” he said. “You still going to give it a try?”

“Yep, I'm calling the Widows' Boardinghouse after breakfast.”

“Good for you. Does that include the rodeo, too?”

When unease stirred inside her like scurrying mice, she brushed it aside. “Yes, I'm coming. I won't let last night affect my recovery. But I do have to work first.”

He gestured to the paper. “Take a look at the schedule. I ride late in the morning.”

She came to look over his shoulder and saw the bull-­riding schedule, but soon the warmth of his broad back so close to her chest distracted her too much to read.

He glanced sideways at her, which brought his face inches from hers. She turned her head to face him, knowing she should straighten up, back away. But . . . she couldn't. It was like she was frozen in place, desire overwhelming good sense. It had been years since a man had made her feel this way, daring and reckless, and she was caught off guard.

He leaned toward her, his movements slow and easy, giving her plenty of time to back away. But she didn't, only waited in anticipation for the brush of his lips on hers. And it was a gentle brush, as if her lips had been the delicate petals of flowers that would bend in the slightest wind.

But she wasn't delicate, she told herself, and leaned into the kiss, parting her lips to taste him, to explore the fullness of his lower lip.

With a groan, he turned, and before she knew it, she was lying across his lap and he was holding her tightly against him. His mouth slanted across hers, hot and inviting and arousing. When their tongues met, it was her turn to moan her welcome. She plunged her hand into his hair, feeling the silkiness of dark curls, while her other arm slid up his back. She could feel the tension in his muscles as he held her, while she felt positively urgent with passion and need, as if she couldn't get close enough.

At last he lifted his head and looked down at her, breathing hard. Wide-­eyed, she stared back at him, her wet lips parted.

“I hope you don't need an apology for that,” he said huskily.

“You better not apologize” was her fierce response.

He briefly hugged her close. “I would keep on kissing you, but I have an appointment, and you have things to do, too. And there's still that drink we didn't have.”

Almost shaky with the aftermath of such intense, conflicted feelings, Amanda slowly sat up. Perched on his knee, she couldn't help looking deep into his black eyes. “We both have so much to do. I don't think we could fit in a drink—­”

“I won't accept no for an answer.” His grin was slow in coming, white teeth gleaming in his tanned face. “But if you're going to do the Wild West Weekend tomorrow, you might have a lot of prep to do tonight. Squeeze me in?”

“I'll try.”

His smile changed into an earnest look as he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her once more.

A
FTER CALLING THE
widows, Amanda took fifteen minutes to meditate. To her relief, Mason had gone, so she was able to clean and tidy his room. She was never nosy with her guests, but she couldn't help noticing how neatly he'd folded away his clothes, how he'd even wiped the sink after shaving. And then she escaped before she could moon over him anymore. She had errands to run. The Sassafras Girls would be arriving that afternoon, and although their rooms were ready, she wanted to be back in plenty of time, working on the Wild West Weekend transformation.

During the quick drive to the community center, she remembered her panic attack, but tried not to dwell on it. There would be no large crowd there—­just the widows and a few costumes to choose from before moving on. Still, when she entered the doors to the reception room, she felt a little light-­headed at the bad memories, but let the feeling pass over her and concentrated on her breathing. She would conquer this.

The room seemed deserted, with chairs folded up after the previous night's meeting, but rows of costumes still hung on several freestanding clothes racks. Sadly, the selection seemed much thinner, and she hoped she hadn't waited too long.

“Amanda!”

She gave a start, only to see Mrs. Palmer step out from behind the nearest clothes rack, wearing the simple cloth dress, bonnet, and apron of a prairie settler.

Amanda smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Palmer. You're certainly ready for the Wild West Weekend.”

Mrs. Palmer did a spry little twirl. “I do enjoy dressin' up. Sorry the others couldn't meet up with us.”

“Oh, no, I'm grateful you could make time for me at all.”

“I must admit, you've been surprisin' me a lot these last ­couple days. I was surprised—­but pleased!—­to see you here last night, surprised to see you run off like you'd been chased out of Dodge by the sheriff, and completely surprised when you called this mornin'.”

Amanda felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. “I know, and I'm sorry that I seemed so indecisive. It's just that . . .” She trailed off, not knowing if she should explain herself. It was so humiliating to be afraid of what other ­people took for granted. Taking a deep breath, she met the old woman's kind eyes. “I just . . . have trouble being in crowds, and last night, it was particularly bad.”

Mrs. Palmer touched her shoulder. “I thought it might be somethin' like that. Either that, or you were about to lose your dinner!”

Amanda gave a wan smile. “It felt like that, trust me. But the Wild West Weekend can be part of my recovery.”

“Well, I won't ask what happened in your past, don't you worry. I'm just glad you'll be participatin'. I did put Connections on the special map we made—­I just had a good feelin' you'd change your mind.”

They picked out a freestanding sign to set on her sidewalk marking her B&B as another stop on the tour. Amanda explained her ideas of how to entertain visitors, and Mrs. Palmer was gleeful as she promised to stop by and see the fun. Then she showed Amanda the passbook that guests would be using, and when she offered up a generic star as the stamp representing Connections, the crafter in Amanda gave herself the challenge to find something to better represent her B&B.

Lastly, they roamed the clothes racks together, and this was where Amanda's indecisiveness had cost her. “Uh-­oh, I'm not sure there's anything I can wear.”

“Sure there is. And if it's a little too big, you can pin it in the back.”

Mrs. Palmer held up a low-­cut, red satin dress with tiny straps and full skirt that fell all the way to the floor, cinching in at the waist.

“Families might be coming in,” Amanda said, shaking her head. “That neckline—­”

“Haven't you ever heard of a strategically placed lace handkerchief?” Mrs. Palmer pulled one from up her sleeve and put it in Amanda's hands. “This is fresh and clean, I promise. Now I heard you're havin' the Sassafras Girls as guests. I set aside some saloon girl dresses just in case they want to play along. And of course, there's that nice young rancher stayin' at your place. Did you have somethin' in mind for him?”

Could Mrs. Palmer read the infatuation in her hot face? She cleared her throat. “Something in mind . . . ?”

“Surely he'll want to dress up!”

“Oh! Oh, of course. He said he'd be the sheriff making sure everything was okay at the ‘disorderly house.' That's what they sometimes called brothels.”

“Ooh, you've done your research! I'm sure I can find somethin' in this box to help.”

They dug in and ended up finding a tin badge, a holster, and plastic gun.

“And I saw he can provide his own cowboy hat,” Mrs. Palmer added, her bright eyes watching Amanda too closely.

Amanda loaded up her car with costumes and prayed she wasn't asking too much of her guests—­or herself. Then she spent several hours scouring stores in Valentine, Basalt, and Carbondale until she had everything she needed. Her nerves surfaced a bit when Hal's Hardware had a dozen customers just getting out of a how-­to-­paint class, but she let them jostle past her on their way out, reminding herself that no one knew her, no one was paying attention, no one could read “panic disorder” on her forehead. She knew her anxiety wasn't gone—­it would take a lot more than a ­couple of errands to convince her that last night was a rare exception to her recovery. She'd recently spent time talking with a counselor, too, and she'd make a follow-­up appointment next week.