Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Zoe
T he mom-and-pop diner I stepped into looked torn straight out of the ’60s. Honest-to-God red vinyl booths and black-and-white checkered floors met my eyes, and thin eyelet curtains fluttered in the breeze. The smell of warm spices, freshly brewed coffee, and crispy, salty bacon clashed with the sweetness of cherry pies.
I watched Warrick gingerly walk to a booth at the back of the room, and when he plucked his worn Stetson off and rolled his neck, I could see the fine lines gathered in the corners of his eyes. Quietly, I wondered what his face would look like without the beard. A shadow of stubble, dark against his skin, would look good on him…but I had to admit this wolfish beard was hot, too.
If he kissed me, I’d feel the scrape of his beard against my skin…and his stubble in other parts, too…
“What are you waiting for?” he asked irritably. “A neon sign or smoke signals to make you sit?”
And just as I was beginning to give him some slack…
Rolling my eyes, I sat and looked around. “Who owns this history textbook?”
“Sam and Betty Thompson,” he replied. “They’re staples in this community. And this isn’t a history textbook ; it’s a comforting slice of tradition. Something that keeps the older people in this town at ease.”
“The younger people around here could use a Starbucks, too,” I told him while reaching for a menu.
“An overpriced seven-dollar coffee with more syrup, frothed milk, and foam than is logically needed?” He snorted. “The moment you add syrup, it is no longer coffee. It’s dessert.”
“My venti caramel Frappuccino with nonfat coconut milk, two and a half cups of sugar with four chocolate drizzles, six and a half pumps of caramel drizzle, three espresso shots mixed in, and extra whipped cream will disagree with you.”
“I got heartburn hearing that,” Warrick grumbled.
“Are you always this optimistic, or am I judging you wrongly?” I asked, forcing a smile and batting my eyelashes.
“Never been accused of that before,” Warrick replied while a woman— African American, short and plump with a wide smile, curly gray hair, wearing a Kiss-the-Cook apron—came around with a pitcher of water.
She leaned in and kissed Warrick on the cheek before filling our water glasses. “Hi, darlin’. Goodness me, I feel blessed to lay eyes on you. I haven’t seen you in a dog's year. And you, pardon me for saying this, but aren’t you too good-looking to date this old sea dog?”
“ What ?” He jerked hard enough to nearly upset his water. “No, Betty, God no. Zara is my new assistant.”
Her brows lifted. “My apologies. But you must understand my shock. Warrick is like a hermit up there in those mountains. I've never seen him with a lady friend, but now that I have removed my foot from my mouth, what can I get you two?”
No wonder he first thought I was a hooker.
“The usual, with a cup of coffee.”
“Hey, Sam!” She called over to the kitchen. “Burn one, take it through the garden and pin a rose on it,” she called over, presumably to the fry cook. She then looked at me, “And what can I get you, sweetheart?”
“Could you tell me what you just said means?”
“It's a hamburger with lettuce, tomato, and onion,” Warrick replied instead.
“Um, do you have any chicken? Baked perhaps?” I asked.
“We got buttermilk fried with the best mash you’ll ever taste in your life,” Betty said. “Add some biscuits and gravy to it and you’ve got yourself a real southern plate. Is that what you want, dear?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Coming up,” she turned to the kitchen. “Sam, get me a buttered bird, mash, a side of cat's heads and easy diggings. I need a pitcher of Winnie Palmer, too.”
“Do you have any soup, too?” I asked before she went off.
“We’ve got tomato.”
“I’ll have a small bowl of that first,” I said, knowing my stomach needed something warm and soothing first.
While she went off, I sagged into my seat. “This is a serious shock to my senses. I wasn’t lying when I said that this place looked like a blast from the past.”
“If this surprised you, I wonder what your reaction will be when you get a look at the ranch,” he murmured.
What the hell did that mean?
“Um…what? How far in the past are you?”
“We have brick shithouses, our roof is made from thatch, we fear for our lives when it rains, and God help us when we get hail,” his tone was so cut-and-dry, I didn’t know if he was pulling my leg or not. His eyes flickered up, and that cutting blue still sent shivers down my spine. “We hunt our food, skin the game, make clothes of its fur, and hang up the carcasses to scare off predators.”
Now I knew he was screwing with me.
“Great,” I said. “Now that I know you live like cavemen, I promise I won’t slurp my soup, nor eat with my hands, and I will use a napkin most of the time. It might be the one time you see some civility. I can even provide character references if you want.”
I didn’t know where this was coming from. I damn well knew I wasn’t flirting. I knew that…but teasing? Now and again, I saw an emotion flicker over his face that looked scarily enough like attraction, but it didn’t make me feel any better than I had earlier.
Maybe he wasn’t quite as annoying as I’d first thought. He’d been almost kind, and he’d opened up by telling me a part about his unfortunate past. I could not think of what it felt like to have your dream, the passion of your life, the one thing that got you up in the morning, to die right before your eyes.
Can’t you? If the FBI and cops cannot catch the man who tried to kill you in your bed, you’ll never step foot into the newspaper office again. You’ll be running for the rest of your life.
Unbidden, I touched my throat where the man’s thumbs had sunk into my windpipe, cutting off my air and making fear lance through my body like greased lightning. The memory of those hard green-blue eyes cutting into me through the holes of a black ski mask temporarily wiped out the hunger I’d just felt.
“Miss Harrington?” His rumbly voice had me snatching my hand from my throat. His brows were down, and I wondered if he felt true concern. “Are you all right?”
I scrambled for an appropriate lie. “I’m fine. My er…throat feels gritty from the fairgrounds. Like I’d swallowed a bucket of dirt.”
His eyes dipped into the glass of water beside me as if to say, well, there you go. I held back a huff.
What a jerkface.
Sipping the water, I asked, “How did you go from rodeo champion to rancher?”
“I was born here,” he said while Miss Betty came with a tray of food. “It’s my family’s ranch.”
He didn’t offer any more information after that, but I accepted it. I didn’t think he was in the mood to outline his whole family tree to me. Dipping my spoon in my soup, I ate quietly, then remembered that I needed to get a phone.
“Miss Laura told me I could get a phone at the local all-goods store,” I said. “I need to get one today if possible.”
“The phones Hank’s got are all beepers,” he said, portioning his massive burger into fours. “Don’t you need one of those with Facebook and all those social media apps or something?”
“Why do you sound like I’m twelve?” I asked. “You cannot be that much older than I am.”
“I’m thirty-four,” he replied. “Your paperwork says you are twenty-seven.”
“I am, but you’re acting like you’re in your fifties,” I replied. “You cannot be so…isolated that you’ve aged yourself twice your true age. I mean, you do look the part of a mountain man, but I refuse to accept that you’re back in the stone age.”
“Time is not the only thing that can age you,” he replied. His solemn tone made a resonant pang go off in my chest, and I decided to keep quiet for the rest of the meal.
“If anything, I can wait until tomorrow,” I said while digging into my chicken and mash. Holy shit, it was delicious. It melted in my mouth.
“I’m heading to Helena in a couple of days,” he said. “If you want to wait that long, you can get a better range of options there.”
A twinge of apprehension twisted my belly at being in the open. The lead operator of the FBI, Lewis Clark, who had set me up with my new identity, told me to lie low.
They gave me another car, new plates, and a new identity. Is it even possible that someone could have followed me here? I made sure to avoid the toll roads and took the back ones….
“Okay,” I replied.
Biscuits and gravy were the most delicious things I’d ever tasted, and I wondered why I’d never truly immersed myself in southern cooking before in New York. We finished eating, left a tip, and headed back to the inn.
“Do you have a laptop or something for me to put these into a spreadsheet?” I asked. “And who is going to shower first?”
“I have a laptop in a cupboard in the bedroom, and I would appreciate a long bath, so you may shower first,” he replied.
“Sure,” I replied as we entered the cabin. While I turned on the kettle, Warrick removed his jacket and hat, unlaced his boots, and set them aside.
He headed into the room and returned with the MacBook. “There’s no password, so you can go on and use it.”
“Thank you.” I dipped into the room, grabbed a few things, then headed to the bathroom to quickly shower.
Ten minutes later, I was dressed again and inside the front room, ready to start the rest of my work, when I found Warrick there, leaning on the table, his hair wild from being raked through, and he was itching at his beard as if he needed to wash it... or shave it off.
His shirt was rolled up to the elbows, the muscles in his forearm standing in sharp relief. I tried very hard not to stare.
“The bathroom is free,” I said while taking a cup down and making my tea.
Warrick rolled his neck. “Thanks.”
Booting up the laptop, I accessed the spreadsheet and with the files spread out before me, I began to get everything in order, sipping the smooth chamomile brew. Here and there, I’d look up at the door, hearing the pipe go on. Soon enough, wisps of body-wash-scented—and was that Epson salts?—steam drifted out.
I dipped back into the bedroom to get a robe as the front room was getting chilly…and temptation pulled me closer to the bathroom door, which was partially closed. The gentle lap of water drew me closer.
Peering through the crack, I saw Warrick…and damn it, he was gorgeous. He was lying in the large tub, his head pillowed in a corner of the tub aside from the spigot, and from my vantage point, I could see his wet hair pushed back from his chiseled face.
His eyes were closed, his head resting against the back lip of the tub, one sinewy arm draped along its edge. Warrick shifted and I saw the tops of his splayed knees while the muscles of his other arm and shoulder were bunching, flexing as if he was?—
Oh god.
I scurried away, ashamed at my voyeurism—and how tight my nipples were prickling against my cotton PJs.
How could I look him in the eye again knowing how he looked jerking off?
“Rodeo riders, rodeo riders—” I shuffled the papers blindly, almost upsetting my cup, trying to find the paper I was using. Finally grabbing it, I gripped the edge of the table and sucked in a breath. “Jesus, Zoe, calm down. It’s not like you’ve never seen a naked man before.”
Calmed, I set down to work, trying—and failing—not to look at that doorway every two minutes. Had he seen me? Had he noticed my reaction?
I bit my lip and focused on the paper before me, tapping the information into the grid while trying to bury the ripe memory of seeing my new boss pleasure himself.
“Mama always said my nosy ass would get me in trouble,” I muttered, trying not to squirm on the seat and ignore the heat still thrumming through my body.
A hard bang on the door had me jolting again, and I shot a look at the door when someone shouted, “Warrick! Warrick, get out here! It's an emergency; we need you!”
I was frozen in my seat, unsure of what to do.
When I heard scrambling in the bathroom, I lurched from my seat and rushed to the door. Pausing to look through the peephole, I spotted a man, tall, in a dark Stetson, and I dared to turn the knob and pull the door in. “Can I?—”
“Who are you?” the stranger gaped before his eyes traced over me, and he whistled. “Is Warrick?—”
“Frankie!” Warrick called from behind me, and I turned—then felt nailed to the floor.
Clad in just a hastily wrapped towel and dripping water, Warrick stood there, and my gaze ran over him, over the long ridges of lean muscle, his tan skin stretched, well-developed chest muscles dusting of dark hair, the lean rippling of his abdomen, and lower...ah yes.
This man is nearly perfect.
My head snapped away and back to the man at the doorway. “Zara Harrington, Mr. Donovan's new PA.”
“What the hell is going on, Frankie?” Warrick demanded.
“One of the cows is birthing, but the vet is away,” Frankie said. “It’s a breach birth and the guys are freaking out. You’ve got more knowledge on those things than half of us combined. We gotta go!”