Wildflower Road Read online

  “Let me help you with that,” Shane called.

  Her head whipped toward him as he jogged over.

  Her face was flushed, and sweat dripped down the side of her neck, but she didn’t put the table on the ground. “I’ve got it.”

  “No, really, let me do that for you.” Shane moved closer.

  She lowered the table but gave no ground as she turned square to face him. She placed her hands on her hips and cocked her head, studying him. “Who are you?”

  “Shane Olson—the, uh, new cook.” He focused on her eyes as they burned into his and retreated a step. “I was supposed to meet with Chuck Matthews at nine, but no one answered the door.”

  “You’ll find that time is flexible here. My father’s around somewhere.” Her confidence was ablaze as she took a complete inventory of him from his head to his shoes and back. “The new cook, huh? You’re certainly better to look at than Emil. Maybe we won’t need to keep you shut up in the kitchen all summer. The female guests will like you.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” He hoped the heat in his pale face was not noticeable in this light.

  She, however, was unfazed. She closed the distance between them until she was less than a foot away.

  It was the closest he’d been to a woman in a long time. He rocked back on his heels.

  Her eyes finally left his, but only to study his mouth, his nose, and his hair. They narrowed, and her rosy lips lifted into a smirk. “I’m messing with you. You’re my cousin’s friend. The pastor . . . from Iowa?”

  “I’m not a pastor anymore, and I’m from Ohio.” He summoned his remaining confidence and steeled himself, imploring his feet to stay planted, even as she leaned toward him.

  “Same difference.”

  Shane’s eyes dropped to her bare left shoulder. A ribbon of scar tissue, still red from her massaging fingers, trailed out from the strap of her tank top. He stepped around her. “Actually, it’s a whole nother state.”

  “But is it, really?” She swiveled to face him once again. “I’m Ryann. Did Sage tell you about me?”

  “She did. I thought you were a man.”

  “Oh, right! Because Ryann is a boy’s name! I’ve never heard that before. If you hadn’t noticed, I’m a girl. It’s a whole nother gender.”

  “Are you teasing me for how I talk now?”

  “Nah. I’ve just always thought it was a funny phrase that you Midwesterners say. I hear it a lot from our guests.”

  They stared at each other for a long moment. How much had Sage shared with her cousin? Probably not very much. Ryann didn’t seem to see him as the monster he’d become. Shane offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Ditto.” She took his hand, gripping it assertively at first, then softening.

  He recoiled, breaking the handshake. “So, where are we taking this?” Shane grabbed the edge of the table and lifted.

  “Behind Cabin Four. Over there.” She joined him in pulling it along the ground.

  When her arm grazed his, he readjusted his grip, farther from her. “Wouldn’t it be easier to carry this table? Less resistance?”

  “Probably, but I can’t support much weight with my left arm. Old injury never healed right.”

  Beneath the surgical scar, her skin was smooth and fair, dotted with small freckles. A series of more jagged scars, shining silver in the sunlight, laced her forearm. No. Forearms. Evidence of a story waiting to be told. One Shane determined never to get close enough to hear.

  “Eyes up, Pastor.”

  Shane dropped his eyes to the table, his cheeks growing hot at her assumption. “No, I wasn’t . . . I was noticing your scars.” Noticing your scars? Smooth. Real Smooth.

  “Sure, you were.” She sounded pleased. From her fiery hair down to her slim-fitting blue jeans, she must cause a stir wherever she went.

  Like Chloe. His beloved Chloe. Shane focused on the ground under his feet. Shouldn’t they have reached Cabin Four by now?

  She nudged his side. “Lighten up, Shane. I was kidding. Don’t they have sarcasm in Iowa?”

  They positioned the picnic table on a pad of snow-covered grass between Cabin Four and the water’s edge. The river meandered through the valley to the witness of white-tipped pines, blue sky, and not much else.

  “Hey, you okay?” With a flick of her wrist, Ryann brushed Shane’s cheek.

  He seized her hand, perhaps a bit too tight, considering how her breath hitched. “I’m married.” Inwardly, he cringed. Whether it was out of habit, denial, or embarrassment, he could now add lying to his list of sins.

  Her expression hardened. “Good, because I’m not interested. It was a mosquito. Apparently, they can smell your Midwestern blood from miles away, too.” She yanked her hand free. “Where is this wife of yours, anyway?”

  These personal questions were almost enough to make him catch the next flight to a non-English-speaking country. He should’ve said no to the car and bought a five-thousand-dollar plane ticket instead. One way.

  Ryann’s gaze didn’t relent. Well, if she needed an answer so badly, any one would do. “Still back in Ohio. She’s more farmhouse chic than rustic. She wouldn’t like Montana.”

  Ryann scoffed. She stepped toward the river, which had swollen beyond its bed and grabbed hold of the grass on the bank. She kneeled and sank her arm beneath the surface up to her elbow. With her other hand, she scooped some water and poured it onto her scarred shoulder a few times.

  Shane followed her lead and spread his fingers above the colorful pebbles in the riverbed. The icy water, likely from the melting snow, stung his skin. Not wanting to look like a wimp in front of Ryann, he refused to shirk away from the cold. He rubbed away the table’s offering of winter dirt from his hands, until his nerves screamed. Standing, he dried his hands on his jeans.

  Ryann shook the excess water off as she reclaimed her statuesque form. Her gaze followed the land from its mountaintop down to the boulders on the opposite bank. A proud grin fixed on her face. She drew in a deep breath and lifted her chin heavenward.

  He could see her as a child in this place, fording the river to get a basketful of berries. Perhaps sunning herself as a teenager on the rocky bank. Sitting by the firepit under the arm of a boy who didn’t deserve her.

  “Well, if she wouldn’t like all this, she’d really hate me. I’m about as Montana as they come.” Standing there, she almost eclipsed the surrounding majesty.

  Shane forced himself to look away, back toward his car. He had the urge to keep running until he found a place he could be alone, far away from meddling redheads who stood too close and smelled too sweet.

  “I hope you can learn to appreciate our little pocket of the world. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here on this river.” Her gaze drifted away from him. “Who knows? Maybe by the end of this summer, you’ll be a regular Norman Maclean.”

  “Who?”

  “Norman Maclean. Author of A River Runs Through It and Other Stories. Have you read it?”

  “I saw the movie back when I was a kid. Does that count?”

  “It certainly does not. You can’t live in Montana without reading that book. It’s a rule.”

  “Is it?” he asked.

  “Well, it’s my rule.” She dug her hands into her back pockets and rocked her hip to the side.

  His words were carried away by the current, leaving only the rushing water and a distant bird song to fill the moments his eyes lingered on her. Which must have been too many, considering how she laughed at him. A soft, teasing laugh that shook his resolve more than he cared to admit.

  Keep your head down. Stay out of sight. He clapped his hands together in front of him and glanced toward the office. “Is that all you need me for? I should check if your father’s ready for me.”

  Ryann smiled coolly. “Oh no. We have ten more to move.”

/>   CHAPTER TWO

  Shane Olson, I take it?” An older man with a short beard and thin brown hair streaked with gray stepped off the porch of the main building. He was wearing jeans and a navy button-up shirt with a fish embroidered above the pocket. Pinning a cigar between his teeth, he held out his hand in greeting.

  “Yes, sir.” Shane shook his hand. How had Sage described her uncle? A mountain man with a heart of gold?

  “The name’s Chuck Matthews. I’m the owner of River’s Edge. My niece speaks highly of you. I’m honored to meet you, Pastor.”

  “The pleasure’s mine, but I’m not a pastor anymore.” Even if Sage had said nothing, the sheer number of news stories and articles made anonymity a near impossibility. Then, of course, there was the video.

  “She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Pride gleamed in Chuck’s wide grin. From the way he gazed at the river, it was clear what he’d meant by she.

  Still, Shane thought of Ryann. “One of the prettiest I’ve ever seen.” He chided himself. His transparency had gotten him in trouble before.

  “I was born in Ohio. Moved out here at eighteen. I tell you, I never saw a river like this out east.” From under a weathered brow, the old man scanned the river from bend to bend.

  “What, um, which river is this again?” Shane glanced behind him to where Ryann was pressing a towel to the nape of her neck.

  “The Madison. It stretches from Madison Junction to Three Forks and has some of the best fishing in the world. The way I see it, whether a river is male or female depends on its nature. This one, with its grace, peace, and beauty, is female in my mind. Of course, that doesn’t mean she’s safe, mind you. Do you fly-fish, Shane?”

  “I do not.” Once, he’d fished with his father from a boat in the Chesapeake Bay as a child. Not real fishing, though. Simply a photo shoot for an upcoming campaign. In fact, all his happy family memories were stunts to increase his father’s appeal to his constituents. Such was the life of a congressman’s son.

  “If there’s ever a place to learn, it’s here. My daughter, Ryann, could teach you. I see you already met her. Come on into the restaurant, and I’ll show you the kitchen.” Chuck led him back to the front of the building. “How was the drive from Ohio?”

  “Long. South Dakota, especially.”

  Chuck knocked his knuckles on the hood of Shane’s sedan. “Is this the car you drove? I bet it was long!” His laugh bellowed deep, and the birds who had returned to their spot on the roof fluttered away once again. Chuck extinguished his cigar in the ashtray atop the trash receptacle before pulling the door open.

  Inside, a glass display case from another time greeted them. It encased various emergency items such as flashlights, matchboxes, bear repellent, and knives, each covered with a thin layer of dust. Behind it lay a room the size of a walk-in closet with vacant shelves. A wooden plaque hung from the ceiling. The word Pantry was written in the same clean, feminine handwriting as the cardboard sign in the front window. Shane imagined Ryann carefully crafting the sign, paintbrush in hand, cursing when the r ran a bit too wide.

  A cabinet held Matthews family photos. Ryann’s vivid hair was a constant thread through each, from chubby toddler to gangly teen on the verge of beauty to a recent one of her pretending to kiss a fish. He caught his reflection in the glass. A grin looked foreign on his weary face. He quickly corrected it.

  “This is where my wife, Shirley, will be sitting most of the time. She answers all the questions about the camp and helps folks with their reservations. Campers don’t arrive for another week, but I could use your help with stocking the pantry and prepping the cabins. Winters out here are harsh, and they take a toll on the property.”

  A podium read, Please wait to be seated. Chairs and tables stood jumbled in the center, near a small counter. The adjoining room boasted wall-to-wall windows overlooking the river.

  So, this was how the outdated restaurant hadn’t yet folded. Even tarred coffee and burnt toast couldn’t detract from that view.

  “This here is Ryann’s zone—the front of the house, if you will. Except on days when Franny takes over those duties. And here’s the kitchen.”

  Shane entered the kitchen through two swinging doors straight out of a John Wayne western. It was small and hadn’t been cleaned well since last season. He took an inventory of the equipment. A large flat-top griddle, a double oven, a microwave, and an industrial dishwasher. Very different from the culinary school he had attended before his call to full-time ministry. Also a far cry from the one kitchen in which he had recently refreshed his cooking skills. He took the discrepancy as a sign: cooking for resort guests would be very different than cooking for his fellow inmates.

  He opened the freezer to find it completely empty. At least he got a clean slate in one respect.

  “Emil wasn’t the cleanest cook and certainly was not the best. Our sales and our ratings suffered quite a bit last season under his watch. We’re hoping to turn it around. Between you and me, we need it to turn around. Empty cabins and empty tables cost more than I care to admit.” Chuck ran his hand over his beard. “Anyway, Emil got into some trouble with the law a county over. He’ll be unavailable for a few months.”

  Shane swallowed hard. He should say something. Alert Chuck to his past before he discovered it on his own. But fear and shame shoved the words back down his throat. What Chuck didn’t know couldn’t hurt him, right? Guilt seized Shane at the cliché. He could write a sermon on it. About Uriah the Hittite, perhaps. Ignorance of his wife’s affair with King David paved the way for his early demise. Uriah was no hero; he was a fool. What a terrible sermon.

  “It was an answered prayer when Sage called me and told me her pastor friend needed a job.” Chuck swiped at a spiderweb near the pass-thru. “I about near slaughtered the fatted calf when I heard you could cook!”

  An answered prayer? Him?

  “Here’s the basic menu.” Chuck handed Shane a tattered piece of paper in a vinyl sleeve and pushed his way through the swinging kitchen doors. “You can change up the recipes any way you want, but over the span of twenty-eight years, this is the food folks want to eat.”

  Shane read over the menu, ignoring the nine-month-old syrup that fused his fingers together. It was unimaginative, but what one would expect from a rustic riverside café: omelets, eggs-your-way, ham steaks, sausage gravy, hash browns, French toast, and huckleberry hotcakes.

  “No crepes?” Shane asked sarcastically.

  “Not with this crowd.” Chuck grinned. “I like you, son. We need a good sense of humor around here. Expected hours are six a.m. to two p.m., five days a week. You choose which days. I’ll cover the sixth day. Sunday, the restaurant is closed for the Sabbath and fishing, and this family takes that very seriously.”

  Shane followed him back to the front door. “I think I can handle that.”

  “I’ll introduce you to my wife when she returns. She’s visiting her sister in Helena. You’ll also see our son, Robbie, and his new bride, Keira, here from time to time. And of course you’ll meet his wild-eyed daughter, Anabelle. They live in the new cabin over yonder.” Chuck gestured out the musty window, pointing to the left. But something else caught Shane’s focus.

  Across the gravel lot, Ryann carried a can of paint in each hand. Two paintbrushes stuck out of her back jeans pockets, bobbing with each step. She paused, set the cans on the ground, and shook out her left arm.

  “You and Ryann seem to work together all right.”

  Shane dragged his gaze from her. Perhaps too slowly, based on the way Chuck studied him. “We, uh, got the job done.”

  “That’s good, because you’ll be spending most of your days with her, and, well, your cabins are the only ones at the end of this road. Robbie and Keira have Internet at their place, but none of the other buildings are hooked up to it. I can’t see spending that money when most of our guests want to get away from all th
at mess. Also, you may have noticed that cell phone service is spotty here. You won’t get a good signal until you hit the crossroads of 287 and 191. But you can use the phone at the register if you need to make a call.”

  “No cell phone for me.”

  Chuck squared his shoulders to Shane, and his grin disappeared. “One last thing. Sage told me about your troubles back in Ohio. Now, I told Shirley, but no one else knows. It’s your past to share if you’d like. Not many people in this town keep up with news from other parts, especially if they need a computer to see it. They spend too much time gossiping about the muck in their neighbors’ lives to care about the goings-on of strangers.”

  Shane nodded, unable to find any words to speak.

  Chuck placed a solid hand on Shane’s shoulder—a fatherly hand that Shane hadn’t realized he missed until now. “All I’m saying is that it might be wise to hold your cards close to your chest for a while. But don’t worry about us. In this family, we believe in second chances. Shirley and I, well . . . we’re praying that you’ll make the most of your second chance in your time here, however short it may be.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Ryann bent to grasp the handles of the paint cans again. There wasn’t much sense in having a sign if no guests could read it. It was a solitary job, and she was happy to spend the afternoon out here above the wildflowers.

  You’ll like him, Sage had said. Ryann scoffed. But wouldn’t you know it? She’d been right. Ryann did like Shane. His dark hair and intense brow? They more than made up for his scraggly beard. A few times, she’d caught herself staring at him, contemplating how much more handsome he’d be with a clean shave or just some scruff. Her stomach somersaulted. When he’d removed his sweatshirt, revealing his tattooed arms, she’d almost abandoned the task of moving tables altogether. Still, that wasn’t what drew her to him. Perhaps it was how his smile seemed . . . tethered.

  The bell on the café door clanged. Shane trailed her father through the doorway. His steady eyes pierced hers across the gravel lot. He didn’t gawk like other men, as if she was simply a prized brown trout to lure, catch, and devour. Shane looked into her the same way Tyler had. It stirred a long-lost feeling deep beneath her rib cage.