Wildflower Road Read online

  But he said he was married. She knew all too well the shattering that follows the mishandling of precious things. Distance was her ally.

  A rumble vibrated the paint can handles in her fists. Stuart. His familiar silver four-by-four whipped onto the drive, spraying gravel onto the highway and raising a cloud of dust into the air. It stopped in her path. Sunlight reflected off the shiniest hood in all of Montana, and she winced.

  “It’s going to take more than paint to make this place look good.” Stuart Ashcroft hopped out of the truck, wearing his usual khakis and polo, though there was no golf course for miles around. He ran a hand over his wavy hair, the color of a dead pine. It was so carefully coiffed and gelled that a hair likely hadn’t fallen out of place since 2010. He was debonair and handsome, according to the out-of-towners. The local women, except for those with an appetite for power and money, didn’t see it, least of all, Ryann.

  “Hey, Stuart. What are you doing out this way?” Ryann plunked the paint cans on the hood of the truck.

  Stuart cringed but didn’t lose his plastered smile. “I’m out here assessing the Gas ’N Dash, and I missed my girl.”

  “You make me sound like a possession.”

  “Ryann, your feminist jargon only makes you cuter.” Stuart crossed his arms and stepped closer. His cologne smelled like rotting oranges, sweet and citrusy at first, but pungent after any significant amount of time.

  “The Gas ’N Dash? Is Henry looking to renovate?” Ryann glanced in the direction of the old gas station and the mountains that shielded it from view. Several miles down the road, it was the only one this side of town and offered a slightly larger shop for convenience items than their own pantry. It also boasted the best huckleberry jam in the state. The owner, Henry, was a fishing buddy of her father’s—a Montana native, five generations back.

  “I’m thinking about buying him out. With that location, we could tear down his measly station and build a whole strip. New gas station, a nice shop, fast food. Personally, I think a liquor store would be very profitable here with people coming in and out of the town. Why do you care so much?”

  “It’s Henry, Stuart. You were friends with his son.” Ryann thought back to a lazy summer afternoon a few months after the Ashcrofts moved to Montana. At fifteen, Stuart was tanned to perfection, and Ryann watched in awe as he and Henry’s son did flips off the front of the family boat on Hebgen Lake. He’d teased Tyler about having a girlfriend at twelve years old and offered to take her off his hands. Not all things change with time.

  “You don’t like the idea?” His expression faded into concern. “It could be very lucrative.”

  “No, I don’t like it at all.” Ryann sucked deep breaths in through her nose and blew them out through her mouth. Composure was a key in her hand. “I think it’d be better for you to secure him a loan. Help him update his pumps and the shop a little.”

  His desire to please her wrestled his business guile atop his brow. For Henry’s sake, she knew which needed to triumph.

  A little smile. A bat of the lashes. A tilt of the chin. “Stuart, I’ve always thought you looked best when your compassion was showing.”

  It was enough. His eyes lit up and his lips pursed as if he sucked on a lemon drop. He reached out and touched her neck, grazing his thumb across her jaw. A chill raced up her spine.

  “I’ll consider that. For you. I could do the same for this place. Add a few more modern cabins. Maybe hook you all up with Wi-Fi. I can make some calls—” Stuart looked past her to the front door of the café. “Who is that?”

  Her father was pointing out the cabins to Shane, who nodded between stolen glimpses of her and Stuart. “Oh, him? He’s the new cook, I guess.”

  “Why don’t I know him?”

  She shrugged. “He isn’t from around here.”

  Stuart’s back straightened, and a pulsing started in his clenched jaw.

  Not again. She let out a light, airy giggle. “He’s actually really awkward. And he’s married, so . . .”

  “I think I’ll go introduce myself.” His tone was low and dark like the clouds that spilled over the mountains before a storm.

  The chills returned, gathering in Ryann’s throat and choking all words. She caught his hand as he took his first step toward Shane, and he wheeled around, eyes wild and curious.

  “What do you say we blow off work the rest of the day? Maybe see a movie.” Ryann raised her gaze to his.

  “But what if someone sees us? You know what they’ll all say.” For someone who acted so pompous, Stuart certainly was afraid of public opinion.

  “I’ll go in first. You can come find me after. The theater will be dark.” Her words prompted the return of his smile. She could imagine the thoughts that might be dancing in his head. Nausea spread like a wave across her stomach.

  “That sounds fantastic. A movie with my girl.” He escorted her to the passenger side and held the door for her.

  She took her seat as he walked around the back of the truck, pulled the paintbrushes from her back pocket, and slid them under the seat.

  Stuart beamed as he climbed into the cab and started the ignition.

  Ryann held Shane’s eyes as Stuart reversed, disturbing the paint cans from their rest on the hood. When they tipped, rolled, and thudded to the road, dousing the gravel with red paint, she never flinched.

  CHAPTER THREE

  That evening the truck rolled up to the café where Ryann’s father waited on the porch bench. A welcome sight. She’d had enough of Stuart’s attempts at affection the last three hours. He knew better than to try anything in front of her father.

  Stuart waved to him. Her father merely grinned. He’d probably noticed the two small dents on the hood of the flashy new truck, left by the paint cans.

  Ryann hid away a grin of her own. Stuart could afford to take his truck to the body shop. He owned it, after all. He owned nearly everything in this town.

  Except her. And it was going to stay that way.

  She hopped from the cab with a brief thank-you, slammed the door, and didn’t look back. She joined her father on the bench.

  They sat in silence as Stuart drove out of sight.

  “Don’t say it.” Ryann stared straight out toward the road.

  “Just gonna ask if you’re okay. As your father, I believe I’m allowed.”

  “I’m right as the river.”

  “Course you are. You’re strong. You’ve got—”

  “I know. Your grit and Mom’s grace.” Since she’d left that afternoon, the sun had crossed the clear sky and already ducked under the western range. She’d have to paint the sign tomorrow after she picked up more paint. “Sorry about the mess.”

  “No apology necessary. Not sure why you’re friends with him. I’ve told you before, but I’ll say it until my last breath. You don’t have to save us. What kind of father would I be if my own daughter had to cozy up to a sleaze like Stuart Ashcroft to keep us afloat?”

  “Oh, Dad, you don’t need my help. We haven’t had a bad review since last summer. And our ads are finally appearing where they’re supposed to. This place is going to have a great season. Unless Shane’s food tastes terrible.”

  “Worse than Emil’s? Is that even possible?” Chuck laughed. “What do you think of Shane?”

  What did she think of Shane? A lot of things. Enough to make her miss the entire plot of the movie. “Seems nice. He certainly has the brooding thing down, doesn’t he?”

  “From what I gather, he hasn’t had an easy go of it. He could use a friend, and you’d be a good one.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Ryann strolled down the gravel road, past her parents’ cabin. The single-story structure had an addition on the side that had been built after she’d thrown a fit. No twelve-year-old girl wants to share a room with her annoying little brother. Two years la
ter, with Robbie’s help, her father added a sunroom that overlooked the river. That project had revealed a gift in Robbie, who’d always struggled in school. Once Anabelle was born, Robbie built the gem of a cabin next door, mostly on his own. Ryann’s pace slowed as she passed by. Still humble size-wise, the cabin’s mixture of stone, timber, and iron made it a marvel of modern rustic design—and completely out of place at this old resort. Still, the success of Robbie’s new luxury log cabin construction business was no surprise at all. Neither was the return of the love of his life, Keira. Robbie had a gift for building beautiful things.

  Unlike her. The only beautiful thing she’d managed to seed and keep alive was the field of wildflowers that edged this gravel road. Wildflower Road, she’d named it the day she’d strewn the seeds. Since it was a private drive, the name didn’t appear on any map, but that didn’t stop her father from building a street sign out of pine and handing her a paintbrush. Now, years later, as she passed that old, worn road marker, the vibrant scent of the lupines, yellow bells, and wild geraniums seemed to ride the back of the butterflies that it attracted. A welcome gift whenever one passed by. Almost sweet enough to make her forget the mess she’d made of her life. Almost.

  The road curved toward the river, teasing a drop-off as it bent around a cluster of pine trees. Two small cabins came into view, flanking the end of the road, and separated only by ten yards. She veered toward the larger one on the right—the place she’d called home the past eight years. Her refuge.

  The voice inside—the one her parents and Sunday school teacher had demanded she heed—nagged her to check on the new arrival. Nope. It’s bad enough that I’ll be working in such tight quarters with Shane. I certainly don’t need to spend any more time with him than necessary. She slid her keys out of her pocket. The air had chilled her fingers, and stiffly, they fumbled for the key to the dead bolt. It was supposed to drop to the thirties tonight again. Had her father told Shane about the heater? Probably not. He had a lot on his mind these days.

  Ryann groaned. If Shane turned into a popsicle overnight, it would be nearly impossible to carry his body out of the cabin with those broad shoulders of his. Not to mention his tall stature or those muscles. She was merely avoiding an inconvenience. Being a good neighbor and all that.

  Ryann wiped any smeared makeup from under her eyes, pulled a few wisps of hair down around her face, and adjusted her shirt. With each crunch of the gravel beneath her boots, her chest tightened more.

  The porch was dirty. She kicked herself for not taking the time to sweep it or even knock down the cobwebs.

  Emil had never minded the grime. Of course, Shane was not Emil.

  She knocked on Shane’s door then waited. No answer.

  Peering over the rail of the porch, she spotted his small car with its temporary plates. It looked as though it was hiding, embarrassed of itself. She snickered.

  Beyond the car, a cedar swing overlooked the river. It was the one from behind her parents’ cabin—her favorite place to sit on the entire property. Trails through the grass gave away its recent relocation. Her parents were incorrigible.

  Again, she knocked. Again, nothing. From the looks of the footprints in the dust on the steps, he was the first one to enter the cabin in a few weeks, and he hadn’t left. His work boots—the ones he’d worn earlier—had been placed beneath the cheap plastic chair. They were spotted with red paint.

  Well done, Ryann. He’s been in town for five hours, and you’ve already tainted him.

  This was a terrible idea, but she’d promised her father she’d reach out to him. She returned to the door. “It’s me, Ryann. Come on, Pastor. I know you’re in there. Look, if you don’t open up, I’m going to disassemble your cute little Lego car.”

  Another pause and then the creaking of footsteps. The stubborn door shook and gave way. Shane stood in the doorway, freshly showered, in Wranglers and a plain white T-shirt that contrasted against the ink on his forearms. He offered no smile, and there was a greater sadness in his eyes than she had seen earlier.

  “I knew that’d get you to open up. I wanted to see if you need anything.” Ryann dug her hands into her back pockets. Keep it casual.

  “Everything is great, thanks.”

  “Did my father show you the trick with the heater in here? It’ll get cold tonight.”

  “No, but—” he started, prompting Ryann to cross the threshold and invade his space.

  His cabin was one of only three two-person cabins on the resort’s property. The model was great for honeymooners, hunters, and, apparently, mysterious pastors traveling alone. The room was tiny but quaint, housing a double bed, an electric fireplace, and a kitchenette. There was a closet nook with a few built-in drawers and room to hang a couple shirts. Another door led to a bathroom with a toilet, pedestal sink, and small shower meant for someone much shorter than he. A single duffel bag sat on the bed, spilling its meager contents. Some folded clothes, a few basic toiletries, and a letter was all. Dear Chloe, the top line read, followed by a flood of words that filled the entire page without a single break.

  Ryann crouched at the heater. “The display is broken. It always says seventy-three degrees, no matter the setting. However, the thermostat does work. You’ll have to guess what temperature you’re setting it to, though. If the room feels like an inferno, back it down, and if it gets too cold, well, you know what to do.” She straightened her legs and faced him.

  Shane nodded. A mosquito bite swelled on the cheek where her hand had touched earlier, just above his beard. He raised a hand to it, pausing mid-scratch. Redness crept up his neck.

  See? It was a mosquito, Mr. Midwest. You aren’t so tempting that I would caress your cheek for no reason.

  His shoulders slumped a touch more.

  Suddenly, vindication didn’t taste so sweet. A familiar ache nearly overwhelmed her. This time, her hand itched to reach out to him, with no mosquito in sight. She quenched the sensation by plunging her fingertips into the bed’s worn cotton quilt. She pictured her grandmother’s hands, strong and steady, pulling needle and thread. Her quilts covered every bed in the resort, each one painting a scene straight out of her mind. Stubborn until the day she died, she refused to follow anyone else’s pattern. Ryann had always admired her for it. “The mattress is new as of a month ago. You can thank me for that. I wouldn’t have let the new guy sleep on Emil’s mattress. He had every girl in the county over here.”

  “I thought you said he wasn’t good-looking.”

  “He wasn’t. I guess girls like guys who cook.” Ryann chewed her lip and raised her eyes to his. His hint of a grin heated her cheeks. “Speaking of, these walls are pretty thin. I’m right next door, and earplugs only do so much to block the noise.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m as quiet as a church mouse.”

  “I’ve noticed. But, when your wife visits—”

  “Chloe won’t visit.” His voice thinned.

  “I see.” Ryann’s eyes flitted back to the letter. “Where’s the rest of your stuff?”

  “This is all I own.” He grasped the letter, folded it, and stuffed it into his back pocket. He shoved everything else back in his duffel bag, zipped it, and held it at his side. The veins in his fist bulged across his skin, white with strain.

  “You’re quite the mystery, Pastor. Not that this cabin could hold much more. I should apologize. This probably isn’t what you were expecting from something called a resort, huh?” For the first time, she considered accepting Stuart’s offer to fix up the place.

  What could possibly compel a good-looking, educated, and competent man to take a thankless job with little pay and subpar accommodations across the country from everyone he knows?

  “Ryann, it’s perfect.” He offered her a reassuring smile. Quite a nice smile.

  “I’m meeting some friends for dinner. My dad asked me to invite you.” That shoul
d fend off any assumptions. He was married, after all.

  “Ah, I love guilt-driven invitations.”

  “Better than none, right? You should come. My friends are the best. They’d like you, I think.”

  Shane’s eyes grew vacant for a moment before refocusing on her. “Not this time. Thanks, though.”

  “Of course.” Ryann let herself out. “I’m right next door if you need anything. Stop by anytime. I don’t mind being woken up.”

  “What about your husband? Is he okay with strange men waking up his wife?”

  “You mean Stuart? Oh, Pastor, that was not my husband!” She debated how much to share. “My husband is long gone. I’ll get home late, but I’ll try not to wake you. Thin walls, remember?”

  He gripped a rafter above him, his tall frame dwarfing the porch. The scene could’ve been a clothing store poster in the Bozeman mall. When had he dropped the bag, though? Her heart lifted. Maybe he wouldn’t run away so soon.

  “Ryann?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do me a favor. Stop calling me ‘Pastor.’ I’m not one anymore, and, well, it’s a sore subject for me.”

  “You got it. A cook is a much more glamorous job anyway.”

  His cheek twitched, tugging his lips into the tiniest of smiles. But it quickly disappeared as Shane’s thick, dark lashes swept downward. “And another thing. I’m not married anymore, either. Chloe . . . she divorced me.” He dropped his arms and awkwardly tried to fold them across his stomach. After a moment, he gave up and hooked his thumbs on his belt loops, never once looking up from the ground.

  The river, with its melodious tinkling atop a steady roar, couldn’t drown out the sudden pulsing of her heartbeat in her ears. Divorced. “Is that the first time you’ve said it out loud?”

  His chin dipped as if a full nod was too great a task.