Summer Showdown (Seasons in Montana: Summer #6)

Chapter One

Lark

The GPS announced my arrival at Evergreen Inn with the same robotic confidence it had used to guide me through the last four hours of Montana back roads.

I silenced it with a tap and stared up at the Victorian mansion through my windshield, wondering—not for the first time—if running away had been the smartest solution.

I stretched my stiff shoulders, feeling the accumulated tension of the two-day drive from Chicago.

My cell phone buzzed on the passenger seat—another text from Sloane Rafferty, my closest friend at the firm.

I ignored it. Whatever latest update she had on the Apex-Meridian disaster could wait until I'd checked in and washed the travel grime from my skin.

The Evergreen Inn was exactly as advertised on its website: a sprawling Victorian gem with sage-green shutters, a wraparound porch, and enough gingerbread trim to star on a historical preservation calendar.

Despite myself, I felt a reluctant admission that my exile at least came with architectural compensation.

I grabbed my purse, leaving my luggage for a second trip.

The pale mountain gravel crunched beneath my heels, nothing like Chicago's polished concrete, as I approached the wide front steps, each footfall sounding like the ticking of a clock counting down my forced sabbatical.

Two weeks. Fourteen days of "paid administrative leave" while the firm conducted the initial phase of their investigation.

Corporate speak for "we need you out of the office while we sort through this mess. "

An antique brass bell announced my arrival with a sound that belonged in a Christmas movie, not August in Montana.

The interior was cool and smelled of lemon polish and fresh flowers.

High ceilings, polished wood floors, tasteful rugs—whoever had renovated the place had respected its bones while giving it new life.

"Hello there! You must be Lark."

A young woman with chestnut hair piled into a messy bun emerged from a doorway to my left, tablet in hand and a warm smile on her face. She wore a simple sundress and looked utterly at home amid the Victorian splendor.

"I'm Rory Lancaster, owner and innkeeper." She extended her hand. "Welcome to Wintervale."

I returned her handshake with the firm grip I'd perfected during a decade of male-dominated boardrooms. "Lark Hayes. Thank you for accommodating me on short notice."

"Of course! We're delighted to have you." She glanced at the single purse slung over my shoulder. "Do you have more bags in your car?"

"Just one suitcase and my laptop."

"I'll help you bring them in. The Inn's quieter this week—the Summer Splash Festival doesn't start until next week, so you'll have some peace and quiet before the town gets busy. The festival runs through the following weekend."

A quiet week followed by festival chaos, perfectly aligned with my two-week leave. "That timing works well, actually. I'm here for about two weeks."

We retrieved my luggage, and Rory led me up a grand staircase, the wood creaking beneath our feet in what she cheerfully called "the Inn's way of saying hello.

" My room was on the second floor, a corner suite with windows facing both the front gardens and the side lawn that sloped toward what I presumed was the direction of the lake.

"The Larkspur Suite," Rory announced, swinging open the door. "One of my personal favorites."

The room was airy and elegant, with a four-poster bed, a reading nook tucked into a bay window, and a bathroom featuring an original claw-foot tub. Modern amenities had been tastefully integrated: reading lamps, power outlets, a ceiling fan turning lazily overhead.

"It's lovely," I said, genuinely impressed. "Thank you."

"Breakfast is served from seven to nine each morning, but there's always coffee and tea available in the dining room.

Wi-Fi password is in the welcome folder on the desk.

And if you need anything at all, my apartment's just off the kitchen.

" Rory handed me an old-fashioned brass key.

"We do have electronic key cards, but most guests prefer these for the authentic experience. "

I took the key, its weight substantial in my palm. "I appreciate it."

"Oh, and if you're interested in swimming, the lake's just a five-minute walk down the path from the side lawn. Public access, nice swimming area. Perfect way to cool off in this August heat."

I nodded, already envisioning a solitary swim. "I might take advantage of that."

"Well, I'll leave you to settle in. Breakfast is served from seven to nine in the morning, and there are several nice restaurants in town for dinner if you're hungry later."

Once alone, I stood in the center of the room, suddenly uncertain what to do with myself. I was accustomed to purpose—meetings scheduled in fifteen-minute increments, conference calls, deadline pressures. The silence felt foreign.

I began unpacking my hastily assembled wardrobe.

After the emergency management meeting where they'd placed me on leave, I'd gone straight home and thrown things into a suitcase, barely registering what I was packing.

Now I surveyed the strange mix: a couple of work blouses and slacks out of habit, several casual tops I rarely wore, three pairs of shorts, and a swimsuit still bearing tags from last year's impulse purchase.

I'd packed like someone fleeing, not someone taking a planned vacation.

The random assortment suited my current state—neither fully professional nor comfortably casual, suspended between identities. I hung up what could be salvaged from the wrinkled mess, folded the rest, and tried to impose some order on the chaos.

My fingers brushed against something hard in a side pocket, and I pulled out my grandmother's ring. The sapphire caught the late afternoon sunlight, sending blue sparks dancing across the wall.

"Steady, Larkin," I whispered, using the childhood nickname only my grandmother had ever used. "You've weathered worse."

But had I? Being accused of leaking confidential information about the Apex-Meridian merger—a client I'd personally brought to the firm, no less—felt like the ultimate professional betrayal.

I strongly suspected Andrew Cavendish was behind the allegations.

We'd been neck-and-neck for the single partner position opening this year, and my success with the merger had put me ahead.

But suspicion wasn't proof, and without evidence, I couldn't fight back effectively.

Now here I was, exiled to Montana while Andrew probably had his feet up on his desk, congratulating himself on eliminating his competition.

I slipped the ring onto my right hand, the familiar weight centering me. Grandmother had given it to me when I graduated law school, telling me to wear it whenever I needed to remember who I was.

"A Hayes doesn't run from a fight," she'd said, her voice strong despite her eighty-three years. "We strategize, then we win."

I took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of fresh linens and old wood. Perhaps this wasn't running. Perhaps, as I'd told myself in my Chicago apartment, this was calculated distance. Time to clear my head. Space to plan my counterattack.

My phone buzzed again, and this time I glanced at the screen.

Sloane: Andrew's assistant let something slip today. Call me.

I silenced the phone without replying. Whatever new development had occurred at Keller & Benson, it could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I needed space from the tight coil of professional dread that had taken up residence beneath my ribs since Andrew's accusations.

After a quick shower, I changed into a pair of khaki shorts and a light blouse, leaving my still-tagged swimsuit in the suitcase—today was just for reconnaissance, not swimming.

After slipping on sandals, I headed downstairs, waving to Rory as I passed through the foyer.

She mentioned a few dinner options in town, but I was more interested in exploration than food at the moment.

The early evening air was warm against my skin as I followed the path she'd mentioned, leading from the inn's side lawn through a small copse of trees.

The scent of pine and sun-warmed earth replaced the city smells I was accustomed to, and despite everything, I felt my shoulders relaxing incrementally.

The path opened onto a clearing, and suddenly the lake stretched before me, a vast blue expanse glittering in the golden hour light. Mountains rose in the distance, their peaks still holding patches of snow despite the August heat—an impossible contrast to Chicago's flat skyline.

The public access area was well-maintained: a wooden dock extending into the water, a small beach area with sand that looked deliberately imported, and a roped-off swimming section.

A few families were packing up to leave, shaking out towels and collecting scattered toys.

I made my way toward the dock, drawn by the clear water and the promise of solitude once the remaining sunbathers departed.

That's when I saw him.

He emerged from the water in one clean surge, vaulting onto the dock with the unconscious athleticism of someone who'd spent a lifetime in motion.

Water cascaded down his tall frame—he had to be at least six feet—tracing rivulets over broad shoulders and a chest that tapered to a flat stomach.

Sunlight caught each droplet, turning them momentarily to amber.

A quick shake of his head sent water flying from dark brown hair that summer had bleached golden at the tips.

He tossed back his head, laughing at something shouted from the water, revealing a thin white scar that cut through his right eyebrow.