Cowgirl Come Home (7 page)

“Seriously?”

“What do you mean?”

He looked her up and down, his gaze lingering on her chest.
Like the horn dog I am.
“Did you make that necklace?”

“Of course.”

“It’s great. A little flashy and very classy. Just like you.”

The color came back into her cheeks.

“Thank you. I think.”

“You’re thinking too damn small, Bailey. This is Montana. Big sky, big dreams. You used to know that. And you are
exactly
the reason you need a store—to model your product. My, God, Bailey, you’re hot, young and gorgeous. Why hide behind the anonymity of the Internet?”

Paul’s question hit Bailey like a pony kick to the gut. She had been hiding. How did he know?
Because he knows me?
Was that possible? Most days, Bailey didn’t even know herself.

“I can think of a dozen ways you can open a shop on a shoestring budget. A photographer friend of mine makes poster size prints. Super cheap. Instant wall art for your shop, plus you can plaster them all over your website.”

A buzzing feeling she used to get right before a race started to hum in her chest. How long had it been since she’d felt the thrill of possibility?

Before she could reply, his cell phone warbled. He looked at the name displayed and grinned. “Hey, Troy, when did you get back? What’s happening? A drink? I’d love one. Can I bring an old friend?”

We’re friends again? Really?

He looked at Bailey, a question in his eyes. She nodded okay.

“Great. We’ll meet you in the lobby.”

He listened a moment then replied, “Bailey Jenkins. She was like the last Fair Queen before that whole voting fraud scandal.”

He looked at Bailey and winked—a gesture that took her straight back to their first date. “Winks are goofy. You’re goofy. I don’t date goofy boys,” she’d told him—her upper classman superiority showing.

“I’m only goofy around you because you’re so beautiful I can’t think straight,” he’d confessed, his sincerity winning her heart in a way the cock-of-the-walk cowboys she’d dated in the past couldn’t match.

Paul let out a low, masculine chuckle that went straight to her goofy girl parts. “Yep, OC’s daughter. And, nope, they don’t look anything alike.”

He glanced at her chest again. “In fact, she’s opening a new jewelry shop called B. Dazzled Western Bling. She can tell you all about it when we see you.”

The moisture in Bailey’s mouth turned to sand. Her ankle suddenly started to pulse. Mom had caught her up on all the latest Marietta gossip so Bailey was pretty sure Troy was Troy Sheenan, owner of the Graff hotel. Easily in walking distance unless you were recovering from a broken ankle.

Paul solved that problem when he grabbed his keys off the desk and stood. “Let’s take my car. We can cruise down Main on our way. I’ll point out a couple of empty storefronts to give you an idea what’s out there.”

She followed him through Big Z’s—a place she remembered well from high school. Outwardly, it looked the same, and yet, the atmosphere felt different.

Better lighting, maybe? New flooring?

She put the dilemma out of her mind, focusing instead on what the hell she was doing letting Paul Zabrinski back into her life. Bad enough he occupied center stage in her dreams, was she ready to follow his Pied Piper lead down business lane?

Apparently, yes, she thought, when he opened the passenger door of the same giant black truck she rode in yesterday.

“Your ankle’s better today, isn’t it?”

“Much.”
Liar.

Instead of turning left to travel the two and half or so blocks down Front Street to The Graff, he turned right. They were the third in line to make another right on Fourth Street.

Bailey couldn’t pass the stately spires of the Catholic Church without remembering the Midnight Mass she attended with Paul and his family her senior year.

Her parents weren’t religious. Mom attended church off and on, and belonged to a women’s group at St. James, but her father hadn’t stepped foot in a place of worship in her lifetime to her knowledge.

“Can I ask you something? Why are you helping me? Given our past….”

His cheeks turned a ruddy shade of tan. “I like to think I grew up a little.”

The blinker ticked, ticked, ticked loudly until he added, “Plus, I owe your mother a debt I can never repay. My daughter nearly failed second grade. Thanks to Louise, Chloe’s reading above grade level and is doing great in school. Your mother is a saint in my book.” He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. “No pun intended.”

He pulled over sharply.

“Del’s built a new place out by the mall. This building has been vacant for a couple of years.”

The empty brick-front building that had sold auto parts when she lived in Marietta.

“I remember coming here with my dad. I wonder if it still smells like motor oil?”

“Yeah. Pretty much,” he said. “This must be why I’m not a realtor.” His self-deprecating grin set off a brigade of warning bells. He’d always been able to make her laugh at the dumbest things.

In the next block, he pointed out several stores that were new to her, including Copper Mountain Chocolates.

“You have to try Sage Carrigan’s candy. My mom claims her single-origin chocolate bars are the best in the world, but I like the caramels with sea salt. My mouth starts to water just thinking about it. Do you want to stop?”

“Another time, thanks.”

“Sure, no problem.” He stepped on the gas. “And on the corner is SweetPeas. Risa Grant, the gal who owns it, is new to the area. She could probably give you all the pros and cons of opening a new business in Marietta.”

He turned on First Street, and even from a block away Bailey’s jaw dropped as she eyed the building she’d passed a thousand times in her youth.

“Wow. I can’t believe it’s the same place.”

The classy facelift made her feel hopeful…and intrigued. If someone was willing pour the kind of money this restoration must have taken into a seventy-five-year-old building, maybe her old town had some life in it after all.

An hour later—after a full tour that included a peek at the gorgeous Presidential Suite, Bailey followed Paul to the parking lot, thoroughly impressed but a little overwhelmed, too.

Troy Sheenan, whom she vaguely remembered from high school, came across as committed, ambitious, connected and…miles out of her entrepreneurial league.

“The Graff is gorgeous. My dream venue. Maybe in a few years I’ll be able to afford to work with precious gems. For now, I’m lucky to be able to afford Montana sapphires.”

As he backed out of the parking place, Paul said, “When Troy was talking about that hunting trip OC took him and his brothers on, I thought of a place that might be perfect for you.”

She checked her phone. No texts or messages. Hopefully, that meant OC was sleeping…not dead drunk.

“Okay. I could see one more before I head home.”

He took Court Street to Railroad Avenue. The area predominantly had been residential during Marietta’s early years but like a lot of towns she’d been in, many of the homes had been converted to businesses.

Jenkins’s Fish and Game operated out of one such bungalow. OC bought the place before Bailey was born. Her parents had planned to move into town when Bailey started school, but Bailey’s passion for horses kept them on the ranch.

When OC’s guide business started to take off, he set up an office where sportsmen could come to discuss tour packages. And every summer, he’d hold his annual OC Jenkins’ Fish Fry in the back yard.

“Here we are.” Paul parked in front of the familiar gray-green clapboard building.

The two Adirondack chairs on the porch were new, but the sign hanging below the eaves was the same one her dad bought before she left for college: Jenkins’s Fish and Game. Since 1972.

She looked at Paul. “OC’s place? Are you crazy? He threw a hissy when Mom suggested I set up a couple of tables in the basement.”

Paul shrugged. “If Jack and Marla leave, who’s going to make the mortgage payment?”

“That’s a very good point.”

Before she could say more, her phone rang. A photo she’d taken of her mother a few years earlier flashed on the screen.

“It’s my mom. I’d better take this.”

Her finger shook slightly as she slid the bar to accept the call.
Mom’s really aged since I took that picture. This thing with Dad has taken a toll.

“Hey, Mom, what’s up?”

“The visiting nurse says your dad is on the warpath. I don’t know what happened. I’m the only one here. Paige just stepped out and she’s not answering her phone. Is there any way you can…?”

“I’m on my way home now. Paul is giving me a ride. I’ll call you after I find what’s going on.”

By the time she ended the call, Paul had made a U-turn. “Do you want me to swing by the feed store for some tranquilizer darts?”

She tried not to smile, but wound up grinning—even if doing so made her feel guilty. “Hopefully that won’t be necessary. I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

At the recommendation of several reformed smokers she met during physical therapy, she’d purchased an electronic cigarette. “It might be time to introduce OC to his new pacifier.”

B
ailey could hear
the roar of her father’s voice before she reached the front door. Since his room was at the far end of the house, that meant all the neighbors were treated to his tirade whether they wanted it or not.

She waved a quick goodbye to Paul then walked inside.

When her mother dropped her off at Big Z’s, Bailey had expected to walk away, at best, with a list of possible venues. At worst, she’d expected Paul to say, “Hey, I already hauled your ass home from the airport as a favor to your sweet mother. Isn’t that enough to prove I’m a nice guy who doesn’t hate your guts anymore? Now, leave me the hell alone.”

Instead, he gave her two hours of his time and introduced her to one of his rich, influential friends.

She couldn’t be more confused. Not to mention the fact his touch made her feel more alive than she had in a long, long time. Too bad they were so damn wrong for each other. People didn’t just put their kind of history behind them and play nice again.

Didn’t happen. She had the scars to prove it.

Heart racing, Bailey hurried down the hallway.

“What is all this noise about?”

She stopped abruptly to try to make sense of the scene before her. OC in his wheelchair, robe open to reveal his narrow chest covered in snowy white hair, his good leg trying to push backward while the nurse advanced toward him, a bulky plastic shell of some sort in her hands.

“Tell her to take that torture device away, Bailey. I won’t wear it.”

The woman in teal scrubs with a yellow and orange top looked over her shoulder at Bailey. Her silver hair put her at Bailey’s mother’s age, but Bailey didn’t see a nametag and couldn’t place her.

“The doctor wants your father to wear the boot three to four hours a day.”

“When I’m dead. Not before,” OC snapped.

He’d stopped pushing backwards on the wheels long enough to close his robe. From the smooth, shiny gleam of his hair, Bailey could tell he’d been bathed.

Bailey walked to the nurse.

“May I see it?”

Black webbed straps dangled from the lightweight plastic. A thick spongy padding lined the inside of it. “This thing is huge. Are you sure one size fits all?”

“The physical therapy people were supposed to fit it to him in the hospital. If he was being too ornery for them to get a good reading, that’s his problem.”

Bailey carried the boot to the wheelchair and held it up in front of her father’s partial leg. “True. But if it’s the wrong size and that impedes his progress, then it becomes your problem, right?”

The woman crossed her arms belligerently. Bailey could tell she was ready to draw a line in the sand and die before giving an inch, so she tossed the plastic thingee on the foot of the bed and said, “Why don’t we call it day? You’ve already accomplished so much. I’m sure you and OC are both wiped out.”

“Will you call the doctor and get this squared away?”

Bailey held up her hand. “I promise.”

“Okay.”

The nurse glared at OC. “A nice wife
and
a nice daughter. How’d a cantankerous old coot like you get so lucky?”

“It’s a blinkin’ miracle.”

The fact he didn’t say his favorite cuss word gave her pause until the nurse chuckled with obvious satisfaction. “Well, at least, I got the no profanity rule into your thick head.”

The comment made a connection in Bailey’s mind.

“Mrs. Sharvis? Weren’t you our school nurse back in the day?”

“That’s right. My first job out of nursing school. After they stopped funding the position, I went into home health care. Never did care for hospitals and sick people that much.”

“It shows,” OC muttered. “Can I get some help here? I’m tired. I wanna go to sleep and I need a pain pill.”

Mrs. Sharvis showed Bailey how to steady the bar above the bed so OC could shift his butt from the chair to the bed. She helped him work the remote control to elevate the lower half of the bed and find a comfortable position for his torso. Then, she covered him with a woven cotton blanket and gave him the pill he’d requested.

Bailey eyed her father’s wheelchair longingly but she forced herself to walk Mrs. Sharvis to the front door.

“He’s feistier than he lets on. Frankly, I think it’s good medicine to get your patient sorta riled up. So, don’t be alarmed if you hear us shouting at each other. His stump looks good. I think he’s going to be okay.”

“Really?” She agreed. Too bad she didn’t hold the same degree of optimism for his business.

“We’ve got a great prosthetics guy. Builds every piece himself. Old school. He’ll be out to see your dad in a few days. They have to shrink the stump to fit where it attaches. OC will be in pain until that toughens up, but eventually he won’t even know his old foot is gone.”

Bailey doubted that. Body parts didn’t disappear without regret.

“Thanks for your help today. Did he ask for a cigarette?”