Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
A shot of whiskey would help. I shake this off, but the voice that lives in my mind has been yammering all afternoon, and it’s just gotten a new reason to get loud.
My new boss can’t possibly know that not even a week ago, I was playing with his daughter’s peach in the back of a crowded bar while she rubbed herself off on my thigh, but it’s getting all twisted up in my mind.
Because I read loud and clear that Linnea doesn’t want her dad knowing we’re already acquainted. Why? Not that I’m opposed, because my goal to take over the sweetest conservation district in Idaho next year depends on Rowdy’s recommendation.
But it chafes too because what reason could Linnea have for hiding it? I decide to play along. At least until I can get a read on the situation.
For the hundredth time, I wish I’d asked for her number that night. But I was rendered speechless by what she did for me, and then, before I’d fully regained control of my faculties, she was gone.
I toe off my boots inside the entryway and set them next to Linnea’s and Rowdy’s, the familiar ritual tugging at a feeling I haven’t experienced since I left my family’s ranch.
While I was growing up, boots never crossed the threshold.
Anyone who disobeyed Grams would end up scrubbing the floors with a toothbrush.
“Bathroom’s down the hall if you want to wash up,” Rowdy says with a quick glance over his shoulder. He’s already at work building a fire in the hearth while Linnea is moving around in the kitchen out of sight to the left.
“Great.” I walk through the cozy living area to the hallway on the other side, but slow when I get there to take in the collection of framed pictures.
The first is a school shot of Linnea in pigtails with a missing front tooth and a hint of mischief in her cornflower blue eyes.
The next few must be of her siblings. A girl with the same honey-colored hair and blue eyes but with a more serious expression.
A boy with Rowdy’s dark hair and an earnest look on his face.
Besides the family shots of the four of them celebrating birthdays or doing trail work or gathered around a campfire, there are several of teenaged Linnea barrel racing and plenty more of her on horseback—in the mountains, in a barn, outside of an arena.
And there are lots of her with various animals.
Cuddling a rabbit. Bottle feeding a baby goat.
Wading into an alpine lake in a faded blue bathing suit, a fluffy red dog leaping in beside her.
From the living room comes the crackle of Rowdy’s fire in the hearth, snapping me back to my purpose, so I force myself to continue to the bathroom. But the bedroom door opposite it is ajar, and I can’t help myself.
Everything is neat enough that at first glance, I think it’s unoccupied, but then I catch sight of the tidy bed on the floor near the window, and the duffel bag on the bed. Based on the colors, it’s clearly a girl’s room. Why is Linnea sleeping on the floor?
Inside the bathroom, except for the tidy toiletries bag next to the sink, it’s otherwise empty of personal effects.
If Linnea’s a state-hired wildlife biologist, she’s either stationed up north, in the southwest, or here in the Bitterroot-Clearwater district.
If she works for US Fish & Wildlife stationed in Idaho, she’d be in Boise.
So if she’s only visiting, does that mean she’s not stationed here and after tonight, I’ll only see her again if we work on a project together?
It makes me want to stride out there and corner her so I can kiss her, remind her what it felt like that night in the bar.
Fucking hell.
Using the bar of soap, I wash my hands, then splash cold water on my face. While it drips into the sink, I take a good, hard look at myself. I need to focus on the job and not giving my new boss a reason to throw me out on my ass. Which means not obsessing over his daughter.
Leaving the bathroom, I follow the voices into the cramped kitchen separated from the dining area by a breakfast counter.
The dining room is taken up almost entirely by a dark wood table with four mismatched chairs.
I’m guessing this is where Rowdy works because there’s a stack of reference books, a closed laptop, and what looks like a tent rainfly with a busted zipper.
“Something to drink?” Rowdy asks while rolling up the rainfly. “Beer? Soda?”
Beer is on the tip of my tongue. Just one beer.
To take the edge off. I glance left, where Linnea stands at the stove, partially turned away as she stirs whatever’s in a big blue pot.
Dressed in jeans and a flannel, with her long hair pulled back in a braid, and her face relaxed as she works, she’s even prettier than she was on the dance floor, if that’s even possible.
Because that night she was a fucking smoke show.
“Uh, water’s great,” I say with conviction I’m struggling to project. Standing, I rub the sobriety coin on my keychain tucked into my front pocket. “I can get it though.”
Linnea spins to the sink and pulls down three glasses.
She glances over her shoulder at me. Beyond her, the big window is dark, outlining her striking profile.
An urge to come up behind her, wrap my arms around her waist and press my face into her hair steals my breath.
I want to touch her again. Hold her. Kiss my way up her slender neck.
Suck on that pulse point until she makes those noises again.
“Ice?” she asks.
Not unless you can inject it into my veins. “Uh, no thanks.”
When I enter the kitchen to take the glass, she’s busy adding ice to hers and Rowdy’s, so I carry mine back to the dining room where Rowdy is busy spreading two USGS topographic maps across the table.
While he launches into the details of the Clearwater-Lower Bitterroot district, pointing out areas I need to start memorizing, my focus wanders. Every time Linnea moves around in the adjacent kitchen, her golden hair catching the light, a jolt fires under my skin.
“There’s trailer parking here.” Rowdy taps his index finger a place on the map where a dirt road dead ends in a valley. “Do you have winter gear?”
“Yes, sir.” Winter gear + trailer parking. We must be heading out for an overnight.
His gaze flicks toward the kitchen, then back to me, a scowl darkening his features. Has he figured out yet that his daughter is distracting me to no end? Get it together.
“Any idea when they’ll issue your vehicle?” Rowdy asks.
The sudden shift in topic distracts me for a split second too long.
“Next week sometime, sir,” I manage. They offered me a trailer too, which I’ll gladly take because mine’s on its last bearing.
Too bad they don’t also offer lodging. The only thing I could afford that also had horse boarding for Jasper was a room in a shared bunkhouse halfway between Finn River and Gibbs.
“What do you know about shed hunting?” Rowdy asks.
Again the shift in topic renders my mind blank for an instant.
“Uh, that it’s legal with a hunting tag.
” By the end of winter, most big game animals have shed their antlers.
It can be a fun thing to scavenge for. Grams and I used to go if we finished up lambing season with a little bit of time before spring turnout.
But some people do it illegally by spooking the herd into brushy territory, where the antlers can get caught and shed prematurely. “Is that what we’re doing tomorrow?”
Rowdy slides his glasses back up his nose and taps another area with his index finger. “First I’ll show you the winter range project area.”
From the kitchen, a spoon clatters to the floor, followed by Linnea’s soft curse.
Rowdy glances up, concern on his face. “You okay?”
“Fine.” She picks up the spoon then uses a dishrag to clean up the splotches of sauce. “Supper’s ready.”
Two minutes later we’re sitting down with our bowls, and Linnea adds a skillet of cornbread to the middle of the table.
It’s been a long time since I had a home-cooked meal like this, and it’s damn nice. Even with the awkward tension hovering between Linnea and me.
Why doesn’t she want her dad to know we’ve met? It’s not like we’d have to share details. Is she ashamed of what we did that night? Is it me? Do I not measure up?
“What made you want to be a conservation officer?” Rowdy asks before scooping a bite.
“My grandpa and I hunted and fished a lot when I was growing up. One of his close friends was a game warden, and I always thought it was cool that he got to be outside so much. I worked wildland fire in the summers for a while, and I thought I might go into law enforcement someday or the fire service, but I like the conservation work that goes with being a CO, and the idea of being my own boss.”
Across from me, Linnea blows on a bite of chili, her eyes on her bowl.
Watching her lips pucker takes me straight back to Sunday night.
My fingers in her hair and her soft, tight mouth wrapped so perfectly around me.
Her little moan that was more like relief.
Like she wanted me, but expected me to deny her.
What kind of a fool would deny her anything?
Forcing my eyes back on my bowl, I scoop a bite, then close my eyes so I can savor the rich flavor. Garlic and tender beans, and meat that practically melts in my mouth.
“This tastes amazing,” I say. “Thanks for having me.”
Rowdy grunts, but Linnea’s gaze is thoughtful when it finally connects with mine. Then it drops to my lips for an instant before she looks away.
Did my little sigh of pleasure affect you, darlin? Because just being in the same room with you is sure as hell affecting me.
She spoons another bite. “Have you spent much time in this area before?”
I take a sip of water, but it doesn’t squelch the heat building in my core. “As a smokejumper we passed through here now and again.”
“Scott said you’re from Gardiner,” Rowdy bites into his cornbread. “Lotta farms down that way.”
“My sister and I grew up sheep ranching with my grandparents, actually.”
Linnea’s brows knit together, like she knows there’s more. It catches me off guard. Most people just breeze on by.
But from Rowdy’s thoughtful expression, he’s picked up on it too.
If I had a nice buzz going, telling them about my parents would roll off my tongue so smoothly. But that’s not why it’s tough to share. It’s the pitying looks it usually gets me.
Rowdy sips from his water. “Are your grandparents still raising sheep?”
“No. We sold the operation about five years ago. My grandparents were ready to retire.”
“And you didn’t want to become a sheep rancher?” Linnea asks, her lips twitching like she might actually smile. That urge to grab her face and kiss her senseless nearly knocks me flat.
I reach for a piece of cornbread instead. “No. I care about animals, but sheep are…special.”
Even Rowdy gives an amused grunt.
“What about your sister?” Linnea asks.
I take a few extra seconds to butter my cornbread, sifting for the right words. The last time I talked about Molly, it was to the police, not that they had any luck finding her. “She had other plans.”
Even though I’ve delivered my answer with a light tone, the table goes quiet.
“What’s this Winter Range Project?” I ask to move us along.
Linnea’s spoon pauses on the way to her mouth and a look fires between her and her dad.
“It’s a volunteer effort to remove old livestock fencing so that wildlife can better access their winter ranges.
” She rubs her lips together while her expression turns eager.
It’s easy to read this project means something to her.
“My sister and I were involved for a while. We helped remove hundreds of miles of old barbed wire. My brother made a film about it, actually.”
“Won a couple awards,” Rowdy adds with a glint of pride in his eyes.
“How come Fish and Wildlife doesn’t spearhead a project like that?” I ask. “Sounds like something we’d be involved in.”
Maybe it’s my use of “we,” or maybe Rowdy’s interpreting my question as a jab, but he stiffens next to me. “Only so many hours in a day, and the Clearwater-Lower Bitterroot is one of the biggest and most varied in the state.” He shoots me a steady glance. “You’ll learn that you can’t do it all.”
“Right,” I say even though his patronizing undertone makes my hackles perk up. I refocus on Linnea. “Is that what made you want to” —I stop myself from finishing that with become a wildlife biologist just in time— “are you still involved with the project?”
She averts her gaze. “No, I…had to step away.”
“Linnie was busy with her graduate studies followed by back to back internships,” Rowdy says. There’s a hint of tension in this exchange, but before I can figure out how to get to it, the phone in the kitchen rings, drawing everyone’s attention.
Rowdy pushes his chair back and hurries toward the phone. He answers the call in a calm, brisk tone, his back to us.
Linnea arches one accusatory eyebrow at me. “Top secret huh?”
She has every right to be mad that I didn’t tell her about my job, but if I can get her laughing, maybe I have a shot? “It kept you guessing, right?”
From the kitchen, Rowdy’s tone has turned urgent. He tucks the phone into the crook of his neck and scribbles something on a pad of paper.
“Cassidy Jordan,” I say.
She cocks her head. “Jordan’s your middle name?”
I shake my head. “I just have two first names. Jaymes is my middle name.”
Her tongue darts out to wet her lips—her soft, pink lips. She nods at my left hand. “Who’s the rose for?”
I give the design a caress with my thumb. “My mom.”
Rowdy hangs up the phone, his eyes dark. “Sorry to rush off, Linnie, but…” He glances at me, his lips tight. “Someone’s found a body.”