Married In Montana. Lynnette Kent
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look as if he’d spent the night before drunk. His blue shirt, yellow tie and khaki slacks were practically an apology in themselves.
But no one said a word. Thea considered making conversation, but decided she didn’t have anything to say to either of the stubborn men she lived with. As far as she was concerned this morning, the entire male sex—including and especially Deputy Sheriff Rafferty—could kick itself into that deep gorge out behind the church’s cemetery and stay there. How much simpler her life would be then.
The fall morning was gorgeous, with the foliage nearing its peak of color. A small grove of aspens beside the white-sided church building quaked in the breeze, their gold leaves like little pieces of sunlight drifting to the ground. Thea stood for a minute, appreciating the view. As she resumed her progress to the door, a tall, broad-shouldered shadow fell onto the brick walk ahead of her. Her skin prickled and her breath shortened—she didn’t have to wonder whose shade she’d stepped into. Next thing she knew, Rafe Rafferty was walking beside her.
“Do you think,” he said without looking her way, “that if I kept to the weather and the scenery, we could possibly get through a whole conversation without some kind of insult?”
She barely held in her chuckle. “Depends on what you have to say about the scenery. I’m not making any guarantees ahead of time, if you’re planning on insulting Paradise Corners.”
He heaved a loud sigh. “I was just thinking how green Montana is. Even with the leaves turning, there’s some kind of green everywhere you look.”
“That’s the evergreens—white pine and lodgepole pine, the cedars and junipers and spruces. Even when the last leaves fall, there’s still color in the trees.” She watched him out of the sides of her eyes, noticed his nice-fitting chocolate-brown suede jacket and dark green corduroy slacks. She caught herself admiring him and administered a mental slap. Of course a Los Angeles playboy would have a sense of style. “I guess you don’t have as many trees in southern California.”
“Palms and eucalyptus, avocados and scrub junipers. They’re technically trees, technically green. But—” he gestured at the foothills “—not nearly this rich. The air here smells like Christmas every day.”
“Wait until summer. A lot of the time between last July and September all you could smell was smoke from the wildfires.”
They’d reached the church door, where a couple of deacons shook hands in welcome and passed out bulletins. The first, a short, spare man, reached up for his usual kiss. “Howdy, Miss Thea. You’re looking pretty this morning.”
“Thanks, Uncle G.” He wasn’t really her uncle, but she’d practically grown up with him, since he supplied Walking Stones with feed of every kind. “Have you met the new deputy? Deputy Rafferty, George Dillon, of Dillon’s Feed and Tack.”
The deputy held out his hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Dillon.”
Uncle G. took it with the enthusiasm of a man reaching under a rock and expecting a snakebite. “Deputy.”
Rafe saw Thea Maxwell’s straight black eyebrows draw together as she noticed George Dillon’s cool welcome. But after three weeks, Rafe was used to the town’s cold shoulder.
The next greeter Thea introduced him to was a woman. “Miss Barbara, this is the new deputy, Rafe Rafferty. Rafe, Miss Sentry owns the beauty salon.”
Distracted by hearing his first name in Thea’s husky, musical voice, Rafe almost missed the salon owner’s lifted eyebrow.
“Deputy.” Her tone could have shriveled lemons. She did not extend her hand.
He bowed slightly. “It’s a pleasure, Miss Sentry.”
At the door to the sanctuary, Thea glanced back toward the gauntlet they’d just run, her honest eyes troubled.
“Don’t worry about it,” Rafe advised, setting a palm to her waist to draw her inside. “Can you sit with me?”
But that was a mistake. She stiffened under his hand and stepped away. “I…thanks, but no. I’m sitting with my dad and…and Bobby.” With a nod, she left him standing in the middle of the aisle and wove her way through the crowd until she reached the safety of the front pew, where she planted herself between Robert and Bobby Maxwell.
Good thinking, Rafe told her silently. If you weren’t protected, I might attack you right here, right now.
He recognized his own bitterness. And he recognized that meeting Thea Maxwell had done a number on his equanimity. He coped with the distrust, the dislike, of people like George and Barbara, understood that he would have to earn their acceptance. That was okay—he would rather prove himself than simply weasel his way into the job and then not be able to handle it.
But Thea appealed to him, and his pride demanded that she reciprocate the feeling. Every time he tried to approach her on a man-to-woman basis she spooked. Rafe had broken his share of horses, and he’d had more luck with kindness and patience than with force. This time, he couldn’t seem to make the right move. He only wanted to be friends, for God’s sake.
He thought about the inviting curve of her mouth, and amended his intention. Friends to begin with. What could be so threatening about that?
At the end of a service he didn’t pay much attention to, he shook the preacher’s hand at the front door, then stepped a few yards off the walk to examine the small, walled cemetery beside the church. Maxwell headstones stood and leaned everywhere he looked—most members of the family for the last hundred years must have been buried in this spot.
A glance back at the doorway showed him Robert Maxwell greeting the minister, with Bobby and Thea in her bright red jacket just behind. Rafe approved of the straight black skirt she wore, the strong but slender legs her blue flannel pj’s had hidden. Each glimpse he got of her added something positive to the overall picture. The smile she sent him now was downright friendly. Even encouraging, he decided, and went back to try again.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Maxwell, Bobby.”
The rancher turned a rock-hard stare on him. For a second, Rafe wondered if Robert would shoot first and ask questions later. That kind of threat hung in the air.
But the older man settled for a solemn nod. “Deputy.” Then he turned his back on Rafe and strode toward the parking lot, obviously expecting Thea and Bobby to follow.
The boy stared after his father, shaking his head. “You’d think an hour in church would have reminded him that he’s not God.”
“Bobby!” Thea’s cheeks flushed as bright as her jacket, but she laughed. “Maybe we just don’t realize that the Almighty delegated Montana to him.” She glanced at Rafe. “Sorry.”
“No problem. Do you have plans for lunch?”
“Lunch?”
“Both of you, I mean.” The wariness in her eyes had him backing up, slowing down. Make it a family affair first. “Grizzly’s serves pretty decent roast beef on Sunday. I can’t offer home cooking—I’ve only got one plate and one mug.”
Thea looked at Bobby, hoping for some help, but he was surveying the crowd, searching for Megan, no doubt. That left her to deal with the deputy on her own. “Um…why only one plate?”
Rafe Rafferty’s grin should have been a controlled substance. “The moving company has ‘temporarily misplaced my shipment.’ Meaning that they lost my boxes and furniture and haven’t figured out where they are yet.” He shrugged. “I’m trying not to replace any more than I have to.”
“Makes sense.” Which was more than she could say for the butterflies in her stomach. He was going to repeat his invitation. And she would have to turn him down. He would take it wrong, which was a good thing, because she really didn’t want him to think she was interested….
“So, are you free for lunch?”
Bobby had disappeared. Thea gathered