here for a purpose and this ranch was the closest rental available to Kate Summers, the reason he’d come to this godforsaken place. He didn’t want to think too long or hard about his mission. Hell, he could be on some wild-goose chase, but he was going to see it through. No matter how painful.
With one final glance at the broken rails of a fence that visibly listed, he unloaded his truck, dropped his meager belongings on the rickety porch, and reached into the cooler for a beer. Opening the bottle with the flat of his hand and the rail, he took a long drink, then rammed a tarnished key into the lock of the front door and walked into his new home, temporary though it might be. The electricity had been turned off and the rooms smelled musty. He lifted every grimy shade and threw open each window, letting in a sharp, dry breeze that cut through this valley.
There was furniture—stained and filthy, the floor no better. The real estate agent hadn’t lied. The place needed paint and Lysol, varnish and Windex, elbow grease and lots of TLC. Well, he had a little time. Not that it mattered. He didn’t own these hellish acres, he just had to act like he needed to use them for a while. His own place was waiting for him near the Bitterroot Mountains with Cal Hanson tending the livestock. If he ever wanted to return. He really didn’t know—not anymore. Not since his meeting with Bibi less than two weeks ago.
Rolling up a yellowed shade, he stared through cracked glass and thought about Bibi, a woman he’d tried to forget for what seemed like a million years. He’d gotten the call and agreed to meet her. Two weeks ago…
Heads—you win. Tails—I lose.
Daegan O’Rourke tossed his silver dollar into the cold night air, watched it spin under the streetlamps, caught it deftly, and flipped it onto the back of his wrist. The eagle. Tails. I lose. Of course. This was, after all, a no-win situation. An invitation to disaster. But one he couldn’t ignore.
Collar turned against the wind, he watched a jet, lights winking, take off into the frigid night. A few drifting snowflakes fell from the sky, promising that winter in Montana, harsh and unforgiving, was close at hand. Pocketing his coin, he shouldered his way into the lobby of the hotel. He didn’t pause at the desk, just made his way to the bar and slid into a booth near the door to wait.
For Beatrice. Bibi. His sultry cousin. A woman he’d tried to forget, but every time her image filtered into his mind, he felt a jab of disgust and guilt that cut him straight to the bone.
What was it that brought her from the comfort of her town house on Beacon Hill to this harsh stretch of land? He’d tried for years to divorce himself from the family that had never wanted him, had pretended he didn’t exist, had looked down their aristocratic noses at him, had accused him of murder. And yet Bibi was flying in. A bad feeling settled in his gut.
He ordered a beer from a waitress with an eager smile, then half listened to a country-western ballad he’d heard crackling over the speakers of his old Dodge truck on more than one occasion, not that he noticed much. Life on his ranch in the Bitterroots was pretty much the way he liked it: simple hard work, no game playing, no manipulations, no questions without answers, just survival. He picked at a dish of salted peanuts and wished he could just get this ordeal over with.
The waitress brought him a chilled long-neck and he tipped her heavily as he stared at the door. Waiting. For disaster to strike. He’d barely taken two swallows when he saw her.
Beatrice, lynx coat billowing behind her, expensive perfume in her wake, swept into the bar, glanced quickly around, and then, without so much as a smile, zeroed in on him. She’d aged in the past fifteen years—was a little thicker around the middle, her dark hair tinged red, her makeup a little more severe than it had been in her youth. She was still pretty enough, he supposed, if
With one final glance at the broken rails of a fence that visibly listed, he unloaded his truck, dropped his meager belongings on the rickety porch, and reached into the cooler for a beer. Opening the bottle with the flat of his hand and the rail, he took a long drink, then rammed a tarnished key into the lock of the front door and walked into his new home, temporary though it might be. The electricity had been turned off and the rooms smelled musty. He lifted every grimy shade and threw open each window, letting in a sharp, dry breeze that cut through this valley.
There was furniture—stained and filthy, the floor no better. The real estate agent hadn’t lied. The place needed paint and Lysol, varnish and Windex, elbow grease and lots of TLC. Well, he had a little time. Not that it mattered. He didn’t own these hellish acres, he just had to act like he needed to use them for a while. His own place was waiting for him near the Bitterroot Mountains with Cal Hanson tending the livestock. If he ever wanted to return. He really didn’t know—not anymore. Not since his meeting with Bibi less than two weeks ago.
Rolling up a yellowed shade, he stared through cracked glass and thought about Bibi, a woman he’d tried to forget for what seemed like a million years. He’d gotten the call and agreed to meet her. Two weeks ago…
Heads—you win. Tails—I lose.
Daegan O’Rourke tossed his silver dollar into the cold night air, watched it spin under the streetlamps, caught it deftly, and flipped it onto the back of his wrist. The eagle. Tails. I lose. Of course. This was, after all, a no-win situation. An invitation to disaster. But one he couldn’t ignore.
Collar turned against the wind, he watched a jet, lights winking, take off into the frigid night. A few drifting snowflakes fell from the sky, promising that winter in Montana, harsh and unforgiving, was close at hand. Pocketing his coin, he shouldered his way into the lobby of the hotel. He didn’t pause at the desk, just made his way to the bar and slid into a booth near the door to wait.
For Beatrice. Bibi. His sultry cousin. A woman he’d tried to forget, but every time her image filtered into his mind, he felt a jab of disgust and guilt that cut him straight to the bone.
What was it that brought her from the comfort of her town house on Beacon Hill to this harsh stretch of land? He’d tried for years to divorce himself from the family that had never wanted him, had pretended he didn’t exist, had looked down their aristocratic noses at him, had accused him of murder. And yet Bibi was flying in. A bad feeling settled in his gut.
He ordered a beer from a waitress with an eager smile, then half listened to a country-western ballad he’d heard crackling over the speakers of his old Dodge truck on more than one occasion, not that he noticed much. Life on his ranch in the Bitterroots was pretty much the way he liked it: simple hard work, no game playing, no manipulations, no questions without answers, just survival. He picked at a dish of salted peanuts and wished he could just get this ordeal over with.
The waitress brought him a chilled long-neck and he tipped her heavily as he stared at the door. Waiting. For disaster to strike. He’d barely taken two swallows when he saw her.
Beatrice, lynx coat billowing behind her, expensive perfume in her wake, swept into the bar, glanced quickly around, and then, without so much as a smile, zeroed in on him. She’d aged in the past fifteen years—was a little thicker around the middle, her dark hair tinged red, her makeup a little more severe than it had been in her youth. She was still pretty enough, he supposed, if
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