Blackhawk Desires: Blackhawk's Betrayal. Barbara McCauley
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woman wasn’t looking for a commitment or a picket fence. They could have simply enjoyed each other, without worrying about the theatrics or complications of a messy breakup. Olivia could have been an enjoyable distraction.
And Lord knew, right now he certainly needed one.
He’d spent the past three days watching Kiera. Watched her effortlessly memorize the menu and wine list. Watched her skillfully serve a heavy tray of dishes without fumbling or getting an order wrong. Watched her astutely make recommendations, then offer suggestions for a complimentary wine. Already, she not only had people asking for her station but actually waiting for her.
He’d never seen anything like it.
But—to his annoyance—he hadn’t just been watching her. He’d also been thinking about her.
At the most unexpected times, he’d suddenly find himself wondering what the woman’s story was, who or what she was running away from. If she was in some kind of danger.
The bruise next to her eye had nearly disappeared, but he couldn’t get the image out of his mind. Couldn’t stop the raw fury that knotted his gut every time he thought about it. The idea of some man raising his fist and—
Realizing he had balled his own hand into a tight fist, he stopped in front of the barbershop, stared at the swirling red-white-and-blue pole. He loosened his fingers, then shook off the anger bubbling through his blood. Dammit! A walk through town on his day off should have cleared his mind and relaxed him, and here he was, barreling down the sidewalk as if he were looking for a fight.
Maybe I am, he thought with a sigh. Lord knew the woman had frustrated him enough. It was obvious she had a problem, obvious that she’d been scared to death when she’d looked at Rand Blackhawk. Obvious she was lying about something. When he’d asked her if Rand looked like someone she knew, the answer in those smoky blue eyes of hers had obviously been yes.
And obviously, she hadn’t wanted his help.
So fine. Why should that bother him?
He waited for a truck to pass, then crossed the street leading to the courthouse. As long as her problem didn’t become the hotel’s, then he’d keep his nose out of her mess. Lord knew he’d already given Kiera Daniels way too much time and thought. He was a busy man. With the upcoming conferences and events, not to mention the impending construction on the hotel, his focus needed to be on his job, not a pretty waitress.
And then suddenly that pretty waitress was walking out of the glass courthouse doors.
Surprised, he stopped beside a hedge of white blooming roses. Good God, he thought with annoyance. He couldn’t even get away from her here.
Head bent, loose-limbed, she moved down the courthouse steps, her eyes focused on a piece of paper in her hand. She wore denim as if it had been invented just for those endlessly long legs of hers. Her jeans, low on her hips and snug, were faded in all the places a man liked to look. And touch. Her white tank top dipped demurely across her collarbone and hugged her breasts, then rose just high enough from her hips to show the barest hint of smooth, flat stomach.
A drought settled in his throat.
It took a will of iron to drag his gaze upward from that enticing glimpse of skin. A frown drew the delicate line of her eyebrows together and settled into a somber line across her mouth. Her hair flowed like a black river down her shoulders. The sun glinted off the dark strands.
For a split second, he didn’t even know where he was.
He blinked hard, watched her fold the piece of paper and shove it into a black tote bag as she turned and walked in the opposite direction.
He argued with himself, lost, waited a full twenty seconds, then followed her.
The mouth-watering scent of grilling hamburgers drew Kiera toward the coffee shop on the corner. The exterior of the restaurant, shiny chrome, sleek lines and wraparound windows reminded her of the ‘57 Chevy that Mr. Mackelroy, her high school principal, used to drive. Even the color was the same, she thought. Sorbet-blue.
When she stepped inside, life-size cardboard cut-outs of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe greeted her with a sign that said Welcome To Pappa Pete’s. Kiera closed the door behind her, barely heard the jangling of the bells over the drumming of a Beach Boys song playing on an overhead speaker and the lively conversations from the lunch crowd. Locals, Kiera thought, noting the mix of families, town workers and ranch hands.
A tall, thick-boned, platinum blonde carrying four plates of burgers on one arm and two plates of French fries on the other bustled by Kiera. “Set yerself down anywhere you like, honey. Something to drink?”
Kiera smiled. “Lemonade, please.”
“Hey, Madge, what about me?” A slumped-back cowboy sitting at a counter stool held up his coffee cup. “I’m still waiting for a refill.”
“You’re still waitin’ for brains, too,” Madge shot back. “Everyone knows you were in the basement when they got handed out.”
“Yeah, well, everyone knows you were at the front door when tongues got handed out,” the cowboy quipped, which brought a round of laughter from the patrons.
“Least I got something in my skull that works.” Madge plunked the fries down on a table. “If your thinker was a mattress, an ant’s feet would stick off the sides.”
“That’s not all I heard was ant size,” someone in the front hollered, setting off a fresh round of laughter and a volley of replies. Red-faced, the cowboy got up, snatched a coffeepot from behind the counter and served himself.
While the wisecracks continued to fly, Kiera sat down at a Formica-topped table next to a window in the back. A teenage boy who hadn’t quite grown into his long legs and arms set a glass of pink lemonade in front of her. She smiled and thanked the busboy, who turned beet-red, then turned and stumbled over his own big feet. One of the ranchers teased the boy, which set in motion a new volley of quips.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in her own hometown, sitting in the Bronco Cafe, adding her own two cents to the banter and good-natured fun. Even the smell was the same. Burgers, grease and pressed wood paneling. A good smell, she thought. Familiar. Comfortable. Since graduating college, then working her fanny off at restaurants across the country, she could probably count on one hand the times she’d even been back to the Bronco in the past six years.
Living in a small town could be difficult, she knew. The gossip, the politics, certainly the lack of privacy, all of it was a major pain in the butt. The closest city with a mall had been three hours away, the only theater showed movies two months old and the few dates she had been on had felt more like going out with a best friend or a brother.
But the camaraderie, knowing that there were always people who would pull together and help if you needed them, people who really gave a damn, was worth not only the isolation she’d often felt at Stone Ridge Ranch, but the aggravation of everyone knowing her family’s business.
And now the question was, did everyone know?
She certainly hadn’t.
With a sigh, she pulled the piece of paper out of her bag and spread it on the table in front of her, stared at the obituary, felt every word etch into her brain like acid.
William Blackhawk … local rancher, businessman and community leader … died in a small plane crash … survived by his son, Dillon Blackhawk … services to be held Thursday at Wolf River Community Church …
That was two years ago.
Two years.
She closed her eyes against the fresh wave of pain coursing through her. If she’d known then what she knew now, what would she have done?
She honestly didn’t know.
“Mind if I join you?”
Jolted out of her thoughts by the question, the terse “yes”