split-wood rocking chair claimed a corner of the porch while the other side sported an old fashioned chest freezer. Just his kind of place. A man could put his boots up on a table here and no one would slap him for it.
Two windows marked the front of the lodge, one on either side of the door. Nick caught sight of green flannel before Rachel stepped out of the lodge and headed toward the truck. Her chin tucked into her collar, she kicked a stone out of her way. Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from cheering, Nick glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. With luck, they’d hit Casper by midnight.
Rachel swung open the door and climbed into the cab. She tossed a key chained to a swatch of tanned hide at him. “Compliments of Jake.”
Nick held the key up to the fading light and studied both sides of the hide. “Who?”
“Jake Dubrowski, owner and manager of this fine establishment. We’re lucky he follows rodeo otherwise or we’d be bunking in the outhouse. The place is booked. Bass fishing may be great, but the pheasant hunting’s awesome this time of year. He caters to all clientele.”
Nick shook his head trying to follow her line of explanation. “Jake Dubrowski. . . a cowboy?”
“Actually he’s a fan of bull riding. Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association, Pro Bull Riders, it doesn’t matter. You ride ‘em, he watches ‘em. When I told him you were with me,”--she snapped her fingers–-“miraculously, accommodations became available.”
Nick searched the trees around the lodge for any sign of structures. “He just gave us rooms?”
“No, you’re still paying for it, and you’re donating a photo complete with signature and personalization for the prestigious Mountain Shadows celebrity board. Frankly, between you and me, you’ll be the biggest name there. Awesome honor.”
Her deadpan attitude frayed his nerves; her talking in circles didn’t do much for him either. He didn’t need a tour guide or a manager. He needed to get to Casper. “What gives you the right to determine what I will and won’t do?”
“Uncle Mitch.” She flashed him a self-satisfied smile, her white teeth almost luminescent in the fading light. “He told me to do what it takes to get you to the Regional Finale and that, my friend, is what I’m doing. Jake Dubrowski wanted a superstar name for his board and I wanted rooms.” Her voice faded with her statement. She paused and jostled the stick shift. “He had the key. . .I have you.”
He’d been used before, but never as a bartering chip. “Great.”
Rachel shifted into drive and maneuvered around a cluster of pine trees to follow a rutted drive around to the back of the lodge. She pulled up and parked in front of a rustic entrance complete with a yard light atop a telephone pole and a good sized firewood stack. A splintered wooden plate proudly displayed “Servants Quarters" atop a wide set of double doors.
“Here we are.” The engine chugged to silence.
Nick opened his door and stepped out. The scent of wood smoke and pine brought back memories he instantly shoved to the back of his mind. Now was not the time to think of his ranch. No time was a good time to think of his ranch.
“C’mon, cowboy.” Rachel huddled into her jacket. She pointed down the side of the lodge. “It’s cold. You’ve got the key.”
Nick eyed the back entrance noting the peeling paint, splintered trim, and a missing section of gutter. The aged timbers of the square structure leaned a bit askew, as if weary from battling the years of wind, snow, and rain. Double doors rattled with each gust and the yard light attached above them bounced against the front wall, its metal hood pounding against the siding like a bell tied to a runaway steer. Nick shook his head as he made his way around the back of the truck, gripping the battered key in his hand. For this he needed to smile through a photo op tomorrow? “Is this your cave, or mine?”
In the growing darkness, Nick saw her
Two windows marked the front of the lodge, one on either side of the door. Nick caught sight of green flannel before Rachel stepped out of the lodge and headed toward the truck. Her chin tucked into her collar, she kicked a stone out of her way. Biting the inside of his cheek to keep from cheering, Nick glanced at his watch. Seven-thirty. With luck, they’d hit Casper by midnight.
Rachel swung open the door and climbed into the cab. She tossed a key chained to a swatch of tanned hide at him. “Compliments of Jake.”
Nick held the key up to the fading light and studied both sides of the hide. “Who?”
“Jake Dubrowski, owner and manager of this fine establishment. We’re lucky he follows rodeo otherwise or we’d be bunking in the outhouse. The place is booked. Bass fishing may be great, but the pheasant hunting’s awesome this time of year. He caters to all clientele.”
Nick shook his head trying to follow her line of explanation. “Jake Dubrowski. . . a cowboy?”
“Actually he’s a fan of bull riding. Professional Rodeo Cowboy Association, Pro Bull Riders, it doesn’t matter. You ride ‘em, he watches ‘em. When I told him you were with me,”--she snapped her fingers–-“miraculously, accommodations became available.”
Nick searched the trees around the lodge for any sign of structures. “He just gave us rooms?”
“No, you’re still paying for it, and you’re donating a photo complete with signature and personalization for the prestigious Mountain Shadows celebrity board. Frankly, between you and me, you’ll be the biggest name there. Awesome honor.”
Her deadpan attitude frayed his nerves; her talking in circles didn’t do much for him either. He didn’t need a tour guide or a manager. He needed to get to Casper. “What gives you the right to determine what I will and won’t do?”
“Uncle Mitch.” She flashed him a self-satisfied smile, her white teeth almost luminescent in the fading light. “He told me to do what it takes to get you to the Regional Finale and that, my friend, is what I’m doing. Jake Dubrowski wanted a superstar name for his board and I wanted rooms.” Her voice faded with her statement. She paused and jostled the stick shift. “He had the key. . .I have you.”
He’d been used before, but never as a bartering chip. “Great.”
Rachel shifted into drive and maneuvered around a cluster of pine trees to follow a rutted drive around to the back of the lodge. She pulled up and parked in front of a rustic entrance complete with a yard light atop a telephone pole and a good sized firewood stack. A splintered wooden plate proudly displayed “Servants Quarters" atop a wide set of double doors.
“Here we are.” The engine chugged to silence.
Nick opened his door and stepped out. The scent of wood smoke and pine brought back memories he instantly shoved to the back of his mind. Now was not the time to think of his ranch. No time was a good time to think of his ranch.
“C’mon, cowboy.” Rachel huddled into her jacket. She pointed down the side of the lodge. “It’s cold. You’ve got the key.”
Nick eyed the back entrance noting the peeling paint, splintered trim, and a missing section of gutter. The aged timbers of the square structure leaned a bit askew, as if weary from battling the years of wind, snow, and rain. Double doors rattled with each gust and the yard light attached above them bounced against the front wall, its metal hood pounding against the siding like a bell tied to a runaway steer. Nick shook his head as he made his way around the back of the truck, gripping the battered key in his hand. For this he needed to smile through a photo op tomorrow? “Is this your cave, or mine?”
In the growing darkness, Nick saw her
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