Man From Montana. Brenda Mott
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tell my dad I was playing his guitar. Please.”
She didn’t know what to say. “All right.” Was Derrick touchy about his guitar? To the point that he wouldn’t let his own son play it?
Before she could say anything else, they heard the sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
“Damn!” Connor hastened to wheel his chair through the sliding doors off the side porch, guitar case in his lap. He bumped the case into the doorjamb, and cursed again.
Kara wasn’t sure why she moved to help him, but she did. “Here.” She didn’t even know the boy, but the thought of Derrick getting angry at him for something that seemed harmless to her, somehow made her want to protect Connor. She righted the case and, reaching over his shoulders, balanced it on his lap as he wheeled into the house. Her adrenaline surged, and she felt silly.
Once Connor was safely inside, Kara hurried around to the front porch again. She spotted Derrick gathering a double handful of plastic grocery sacks from the camper shell on his pickup.
“Hi,” she called.
He looked up, surprised. “Hi, yourself.” He frowned curiously as he walked toward her. “So, what’s up?”
Suddenly Kara realized that in helping Connor hide his secret, she no longer had an excuse to be at Derrick’s house. She fumbled for an answer. “Oh—nothing really. I, uh—” Crud! “—was doing a little yard work, and I made too much lemonade, and I wondered if you’d like some.” She smiled, hoping her expression didn’t look as lame as her excuse felt. “But Connor said you weren’t here.”
“Oh, you met him then?” He smiled, not at all like the sort of dad who would mind his son playing his guitar.
“Yes. He’s a nice kid.”
They reached the sliding doors that opened off the kitchen, just as Connor came back outside. He held a glass of water between his knees, and Kara nearly laughed out loud. They’d thought of similar excuses for their odd behavior.
Derrick didn’t seem to notice. “Hey, buddy, you want to take these and I’ll go back for the rest?” He handed the grocery bags off to the boy.
“Yeah, sure.” Connor set his water glass on a small, round table near the door, then took the bags, set them in his lap and wheeled back inside.
“Need another hand?” Kara asked.
“If you want. One more trip ought to do it.”
Kara lifted a couple of the bags from the truck. Inside the kitchen, she looked around, appreciating the fact that it was fairly neat. Only a glass and a sandwich plate sat in the sink. A dish drainer on the countertop held a few items, things that looked as though they might not fit in the dishwasher. The entire room was sparsely furnished and decorated, but somehow homey, the walls painted a cheerful yellow. But no woman’s touch, and Kara wondered where Connor’s mother was.
“So, where’s the lemonade?” Derrick asked.
“What?”
“The lemonade you made too much of?” The corner of his mouth quirked. “Isn’t that what Connor had in his glass?” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the table on the porch.
“No, that’s just water,” Connor said. He looked at her, puzzled.
Crap! “I guess you got thirsty, what with all our yakking.” Kara smiled, then looked at Derrick. “The lemonade’s at my place. I didn’t want to bring it over until I was sure you wanted it, but I’ll go get it now.” Stop babbling. “See you in a bit.” She headed for the door.
Back across the street, she hurried to her cupboard, glad she’d bought a can of powdered, pink-lemonade mix at the store last week. She felt like an idiot. Derrick probably thought she’d made up some lame story so she could barge over to his house. With his good looks, combined with that sexy cowboy image and the fact that he sang and played the guitar, he probably had women lining up on his doorstep. Probably not bearing pink lemonade, but she could only imagine what the others brought him.
She’d make sure Derrick knew she wasn’t that type.
Plastic pitcher in hand, Kara headed back across the street. She’d drop the lemonade off and leave.
This time it was Derrick who had the guitar out when she reached the porch. He sat in a chair near the table. In his wheelchair, Connor munched on a stick of beef jerky. Derrick laid the guitar down and reached for one of three plastic tumblers he’d set out.
“It’s mighty nice of you to bring the lemonade. Have a seat.” He gestured to an empty chair, then poured her some of the drink before she could refuse.
“No problem. Like I said, I made too much.”
“Well, it was still nice.” He took a sip, his long, strong fingers curled around the tumbler. Connor had poured himself some lemonade, and he took a big gulp, not saying anything. But he cast her a grateful look.
They sat in silence for a while. Kara began to feel awkward. She should leave.
“Are you busy tonight?” Derrick asked.
Kara tensed. “I’m not sure what I’m doing yet.”
“It’s family night at the Silver Spur. They have it the first and last Saturday of every month. They open up the dining area, and serve soft drinks and appetizers from six until eight, or dinner if you want it. That way the kids can listen to the band for a while—maybe dance a little—before things get kicking in the bar.”
During the week, the Spur doubled as the local steakhouse. After dinner hours, a sliding partition closed the dining room off from the bar. She and Evan had eaten there a few times.
“Why don’t you come?” Derrick suggested. “You can sit with Connor so he won’t feel bored and alone.”
“I’m not a baby, Dad,” Connor said. “I don’t care if I sit by myself.”
Didn’t the boy have friends from school?
“Thanks,” Kara said, “but really, I don’t usually go to bars.” Not anymore.
“So you said.” He nodded. “But it’s not like it’s a rowdy honky-tonk—well, not from six to eight anyway.” He smiled. “I think the wildest person in the dinner crowd is usually Lily Tate. She loves the all-you-can-eat ribs, and if the cook runs out, she gets hostile.”
Kara laughed. Lily Tate was a regular customer at the bank, still feisty at seventy-eight. “Well, when you put it that way. I suppose I could come for a little while.”
“Great.”
Kara reached to set her lemonade glass on the table and, as she did, Derrick’s gaze fell on her wedding band.
He looked like someone had knocked the air out of him.
“That is,” he added, “if your husband won’t mind.”
CHAPTER THREE
KARA DIDN’T ANSWER for a long, drawn-out minute. Derrick waited. How could he have missed the ring on her left hand? Maybe because it was just a simple, white-gold band.
“My husband was killed eight months ago.”
Her quiet answer almost didn’t register. Shit. “Kara, I’m sorry.” Derrick wished he could wind the clock back five minutes and start over. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the look Connor gave him and felt even worse. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. It’s just that—”
She held up her hand. “Don’t worry about it. I can imagine you get all sorts of women falling all over you at the bar.”
That made him sound like a womanizer. “Well, not exactly, but I have had married women ask me out before.”
“I wasn’t the