Montana Passions. Allison Leigh
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“I did have a nice boyfriend or two. Nothing that serious, but they were good guys. I actually enjoyed high school. How many people can say that?”
“Good point.” The way he said that made her sure he was one of the ones who couldn’t.
“And I went to both proms—junior and senior. For my senior prom I wore a—”
He made a loud snoring sound.
She sat up and the bed creaked in protest. “I might have to unscrew one of these pineapple finials and throw it at you.”
He sat up, too. “Please don’t hurt me.”
They looked at each other through the darkness. For pajamas, he’d found a pair of cheap black sweats in the storage room. In the minimal light, he was hardly more than a broad-shouldered shadow. But then his white teeth flashed with his smile.
She flopped back down. “I promise to let you go to sleep. Soon.”
His blankets rustled. “No hurry. As it happens, I don’t have any early appointments tomorrow.”
“Okay, then. But remember. I offered to shut up…”
“And I turned you down.”
She raised her arms and slid her hands under her hair, lacing them on the too-fat pillow, cupping her head. “Sheesh. I’m starting to feel as if I know you so well. But I don’t even know where you live—in Bozeman, right?” He made a noise in the affirmative. “Your house…what’s it like?”
“Four thousand square feet. Vaulted ceilings. Lots of windows. Good views.”
“And redwood decking, on a number of levels—with a huge hot tub, right?”
“How did you know that?”
“Oh, Justin. How else could it be? And come on. Fair’s fair. Women?”
He let out a big, fake sigh. “Okay. What do you need to know?”
She thought of the way he’d kissed her out in the shed—and when they got “married.” And she realized it had never occurred to her that there might be someone special in his life. A live-in girlfriend, or even…
A wife.
No. No, that couldn’t be. He could never have kissed her like that if there already was a special woman in his life—not the way he had when they’d pretended to get married.
And certainly not the way he’d kissed her out in the shed.
And if he could…
Oh, God. Here she’d made such a big deal about asking him if he was after her money. And she hadn’t bothered to find out if he had a wife.
“It’s too damn quiet over there.” His voice was deep and rough—and teasing.
“Justin, are you married?”
There was dead silence, and then, “What the hell made you think that?”
“Nothing. It’s just that I never asked—and you never said.”
He swore under his breath. “I’ve done one or two things I’m not…thrilled I had to do, I’ll admit.” She wondered what, exactly. But before she had time to ask, he said, “But I never will do that—play one woman when I’m married to another.” He sounded totally disgusted with the very idea.
Which pleased her greatly. “Er…that would be a no?”
“Yeah. A no. A definite no—and let me guess your next question. Do I have a steady woman in my life?”
She was grinning again. “Yep. That would be it.”
“That’s a no, too.”
“Well.” She put her arms down on the blankets again. “Okay, then. Were you ever married?”
“Never. Too busy making something from nothing. Serious relationships just didn’t fit into the equation.”
“You’re career-driven?”
“I guess one of these days I’ll have to slow down and get a life. But I like what I do.”
“What about…a high school sweetheart?”
A brief silence, then, “High school. Now, that was a long time ago.”
She realized she didn’t know his age. “You’re how old?”
“Thirty-two. And as I think I told you, when I was growing up, we moved around a lot—no chance to fit in. I dated now and then. It never went anywhere.”
“You make yourself sound like a lonely guy.”
He grunted. “No need for a pity party. There have been women, just not anything too deep or especially meaningful.”
There have been women…
Well, of course there had. He had those compelling good looks. That kind of dangerous, mysterious air about him. A lot of women really went for the dangerous type. And yet, he could be so charming, so open, about himself and his life. And then there was the way he could kiss…
Katie slipped her hand up, to touch her lips, remembering.
Oh, yes. A guy who could kiss like that would have had some practice.
But there was no special woman. No secret wife.
In spite of that aura of danger he could give off, Justin Caldwell was an honest guy—and Katie really did like that in a man.
The next day was Monday. They woke to find the snow still coming down, though not as thickly as the day before. On the ground, it reached halfway to the porch roof. After they’d dressed and had their fresh coffee and two-day-old sandwiches, they both went out to the front porch, though the door could barely clear the spill of snow that sloped onto the boards of the porch floor.
“Shoveling our way out of here will be a hell of a challenge,” Justin said.
She nodded. “If it would only stop coming down. Give us a chance to take a crack at it, give the snowplow a break. It’s piling up faster than anyone could hope to clear it.”
Back inside, the phone was still out. And the boom box picked up the usual crackling static.
They made their way along the narrow covered path to the shed, where they spent a couple of hours cleaning up after Buttercup and keeping her company. Twice, the horse got feisty with Justin. She tried again to head-butt him into the hay. And once, in a deft move, she actually got the collar of his jacket between her teeth. She yanked it off him.
When he swore at her, she instantly dropped it. White tail swishing grandly, she turned for the doors that led out to a wall of snow.
“See?” he demanded. “That horse hates me.”
“Could be affection,” Katie suggested.
“Yeah, right.” He picked up the old coat and brushed it off.
“Hey, at least it didn’t land in a pile of manure.”
He made a low sound, something halfway between a chuckle and a grunt, and slipped his arms into the sleeves. “Are we done here?”
She agreed that they were.
Back in the museum, Katie decided to get busy on the day’s main project: clean hair.
Over her baggy tan pants, she put on a wrinkled white T-shirt with a boarded-up mine shaft and Stay Out, Stay Alive! emblazoned across the front. The rummage sale bags didn’t come through with a bath towel. But hey. She had plenty of personal-size bottles of shampoo—in herbal scent and “no tears.” And there was a stack of dish towels in the kitchen cupboard. She’d make do with a few of them.
Then