Montana Hearts (4 page)

He winced as the pressure shot a painful twinge up to his knee. But with a small hop his weight shifted back to his good leg and the pain subsided. He drew a deep breath and repeated the process three more times before stopping to catch his breath.

Luke found if he leaned his hip against the upper rungs after each climb, he could utilize his good leg more efficiently. Keeping his eye on the two-­by-­four running across the top of the exterior cabin wall, he gritted his teeth and pulled himself up one more rung.

That would do it. After taking one hand off the ladder to swipe a bead of sweat off his brow, he retrieved a nail and his hammer. The top beam needed a little more reinforcement before they could hang trusses for the roof. At that point he'd be forced to ask for help, but not before then. He was determined to do this on his own.

“Luke!”
Bree's voice.

He turned his head to see his father and sister hurrying toward him, each wearing identical scowls.

“What the blazes do you think you're doing?” his father demanded.

“Exactly what I said I'd do,” Luke told him. “Pulling my weight around here.”
Literally.

“This is crazy!” Bree exclaimed. “You're lucky you didn't fall and break your neck. How do you think you're going to get down?”

Luke's gaze dropped toward their feet. “The same way I got up here.”

The ladder slid sideways, due to the fact he was placing most of his weight on one side, and he had to quickly drop the hammer to grab hold of the top beam of the cabin wall with both hands. Then as if losing the tool wasn't bad enough, the entire ladder fell away beneath him.

“Luke, hold on!”
his sister screamed. Then turning around, she called to Ryan, who had mounted his horse across the way.

It only took a few seconds for Ryan to ride up, rein his horse to the side, and grab Luke with one arm so he wouldn't fall. “I've got ya, buddy,” Ryan said, his voice strained as he braced sideways to balance his weight. “You can let go.”

Luke released his fingers from the top beam and Ryan lowered him to the ground onto his good leg as if he were some feeble old woman.

Heat flooded into his face as he then had to look his future brother-­in-­law in the eye. “Thanks for the lift.”

Ryan slapped a hand on his shoulder and grinned. “Any time, my friend.”

As Bree picked up Luke's cane and brought it over to him, his father shook his head and started grumbling under his breath.

“Stop being such a hothead and accept you can't do it,” his father barked.

Luke held his gaze. “I can. None of this would have happened if you didn't come out here and distract me.”

“We're still paying off my hospital bill,” his father argued. “We don't need to pay off another one for you, too.”

“I've got military health coverage,” Luke retorted, although the coverage was
very
limited. “No need for anyone to have to pay for me.” He picked up his hammer, intent on finishing his work, but his father wasn't finished with him.

“Your stubbornness is costing us precious time we don't have,” his old man continued. “Either you hire an able-­bodied carpenter to finish these cabins or I'll have your sister call someone.”

Hire his own replacement?

“No need,” said a stout, black mustached, craggy-­faced man approaching with a clipboard in his hands. “Your building permits are expired. All work on this property must come to an immediate stop.”

 

Chapter Three

E
XPIRED?
L
UKE
LOOKED
at the date on the building permit attached to the outside wall. The man who had joined him and his father, sister, and her fiancé was
right
. The date read June 15 and today was July 5.

“My name's Frank Irving, county inspector for the planning department in Bozeman. We heard reports you've been building illegally.”

“We didn't realize the permit was expired,” Luke's father said, casting Luke a swift glance as if it was his fault.

Luke swallowed hard. Maybe it was. He should have checked the date before he took over the job their previous ranch managers had begun.

“You say you heard reports?” Bree asked the inspector, her tone filled with suspicion. “From who? Who reported us to the planning department?”

Frank gave her a haughty look. “I'm not at liberty to say.”

Luke's father let out a growl. “The guests wouldn't report us, and since the Owenses aren't home, that only leaves one person I can think of.”

“Andrew Macpherson,” Bree said, nodding her head. “But why would Sammy Jo's father do such a thing?”

“Yeah, Dad,” Luke said, turning toward his own father. “Why
would
he want to shut us down?”

Luke's father let out a low grunt. “He thinks I stole something from him a long time ago . . . before any of you were born. Something that he's never been able to get back.”

“What's that?” Luke exchanged a quick glance with his sister, and winced when he realized they'd both chorused the words together like Nora and Nadine.

Bree smiled and they both leaned in for their father's answer.

“Your
mother
.”

“You and Mr. Macpherson are fighting over Ma?” Luke gasped. “Is that what your feud has been about all these years?”

“The reason you two won't talk to each other?” Bree added, her eyes wide.

Luke realized with disgust that he and Bree really
did
sound like the twins, but he wanted to know the answers as much as she did.

His father let out another grunt, his way of affirming most questions. “Andy and I used to be friends . . . a long time ago. Andy had his eye on your ma but she chose me over him. Andy said he'd never forgive me and so far he's kept his word.”

The building inspector chuckled. “It's not the first time I've had neighbors turn each other in. Happens all the time. But not usually because one is a jilted lover.”

“But Andrew Macpherson is nearly sixty years old,” Luke exclaimed. “Holding a grudge all these years seems childish. He can't still have any feelings for her.”

“Why not?” Bree mused. “Maybe that's why Sammy Jo's mother left. Maybe she realized he'd never love her the same way he loved Ma.”

“No one ever said he loved her,” their father barked. “I don't think the guy knows what love is. He's just mad he didn't get what he wanted and I did. End of story.”

“End of construction,” Frank Irving said and, walking over to the cabin, he tore the permit off the wall and handed it to Luke along with a letter of cease and desist. “You'll need to reapply online and start the permit process all over again.”

“But that could take weeks.” Luke saw Bree's horrified expression and added, “Isn't there anything we can do to speed the process along?”

The inspector smirked. “Do you know anyone over at the building department?”

Luke tensed. He knew one, but the guy he had in mind could be as stubborn as his daughter and promised to be more of a hindrance than a help.

S
AMMY
J
O HAD
never been so happy to return home after a rodeo. The trip back had taken a ­couple days longer than she'd expected, due to a broken hitch the local garage couldn't fix until after the Fourth of July holiday weekend.

She unloaded her horse, put away her tack, and ditched the idea of getting something to eat so she could hurry over to see her friends. One friend in particular.
Luke.
So she could try once again to win his heart.

Hopefully he'd be more receptive than the last time. And no one else had gotten to him while she was away. She'd pulled her truck into the gas station in town on her way home to fill up and overheard a woman at the opposite pump say she'd decided to pay Luke a visit and bring him a batch of chocolate fudge brownies. Sammy Jo had been so rattled by the conversation that she didn't wait for the pump to finish but tore out the nozzle and drove home as fast as she could, knowing her window of opportunity was closing in with each passing day.

Sammy Jo found her reluctant hero by the unfinished cabins, painting the one that had been roofed and sided with a color that matched dark clover. Smiling, she noted he'd chosen to wear his olive drab T-­shirt and mixed green camouflage pants from his military days. Smart man. Any drips or unintended splashes would blend right in.

Her pulse kicked into high gear as she walked forward, studying Luke Collins further with each step. His golden-­brown hair used to be shorter, but since his return to Fox Creek he'd left it kind of shaggy so that it fell down over his eyes. She preferred a clear view of his face, but didn't dare offer to give his hair a trim. Not until he warmed up to her and allowed her to spend more time with him.

“How's it going?” she asked, drawing near.

Luke scowled. “The county planning department shut us down. One of our neighbors snitched on us, told them we were building with expired permits.”

“One of your
neighbors
?” Sammy Jo asked, and felt her stomach contract. She and her dad were the only neighbors the Collinses had right now, and it wasn't her. “Oh, no. My dad? Are you sure?”

Luke dipped his brush in the bucket of paint by his feet and gave her a quick glance. “Yeah.”

With an inward groan, Sammy Jo's thoughts flew to her father. Why did he continue to cause trouble between her and the ones she loved most? He certainly wasn't helping her to win Luke's favor.

“I'd reapply for a new permit right now,” Luke continued. “Except it's late and the building department doesn't open its doors again till tomorrow. I figured if I can't continue to build, at least I could paint.”

She grabbed the extra brush lying on the tarp he'd spread on the ground. “Let me help. It's the least I can do.”

Luke shook his head. “No, I've got it handled.”

“I want to.
Please.
”

Sammy Jo went to dip her brush into the paint, but he pulled the bucket away from her and set it on the ladder beside him.

“I didn't mean to lay a guilt trip on you,” he said, his tone softening. “We all know you don't agree with your father.”

“I still want to help,” she argued, waving the brush in front of his face. “Why is it so hard for you to let anyone help you?”

“You're not just anyone.”

Sammy Jo tilted her head to the side to catch his eye, arched her brow, and gave him a big smile. “No, I'm not. Glad you noticed.” Then she frowned. “Wait a minute. What do you mean by that? You'll let others help you but not me? Why?”

He hesitated and for a moment she didn't think he would tell her. Then he pinned her with a sharp look. “You don't know what you're doing.”

Not one to let anyone intimidate her, Sammy Jo raised her chin and stood her ground. “I know how to paint.”

“That's not what I meant.”

Was he referring to the way she made him feel? If that was the case, then he was wrong. She knew
exactly
what she was doing. But was it having the effect she wanted?

Luke's body tensed the way it always did when their conversations turned personal. Okay, so maybe he didn't feel the same as she did, not yet, but she wouldn't let that discourage her.

Smiling, she took the clean brush she held in her hands and swept the soft bristles across his shoulder and down the length of his fine muscled arm. “What
did
you mean?”

“Don't play games,” he choked out, and glanced away from her.

She stepped around, bringing them back face-­to-­face. “I'm not. I just want to spend time with you. There. I've said it. What's wrong with that?”

“Your motives.”

Sammy Jo froze as he met her gaze, and it seemed as if he could see right through her. But could he see the love she had for him swelling her heart? Sometimes when they stood this near she thought her chest would explode with the emotion she fought so hard to restrain. But if she gushed like a schoolgirl and told him how she really felt, he'd never believe her. Not that he did now. And she'd only shown him a quarter of the affection she'd been hiding.

“Okay,” Luke relented, “you can help. But keep your eyes on the job.”

“Where else would my eyes be?” she teased.

Luke shot her a look of amusement, but didn't reply and she didn't dare push the subject any farther. Determined to show him she could be of value, she shot out her arm to retrieve the bucket of paint he'd placed on an upper rung of the ladder.

Except Luke reached for it at the same time and the double movement made the bucket wobble, tip, and then . . . dump the five gallons of thick, clover-­green liquid right over both their heads.

Sammy Jo let out a screech, jumped back as the bucket hit the ground to avoid another splash, and brought her hands up to her face to keep the paint from streaming into her eyes. The chalky latex enamel substance smelled as bad as it tasted and she had to spit several times to get the wretched stuff off her lips and out of her mouth.

She glanced down at her white T-­shirt and denim cutoffs coated in green, as were her arms, legs, and what used to be her blue canvas shoes.

Then her hands flew to the top of her head where gobs of the green goo weighted down her long dark curls and left them hanging limp over her shoulders. She tried to separate the icky green strands with her fingers and let out another cry. Returning her hair to its natural color would be no easy task. No easy task at all! Maybe next time she'd think twice before offering to help for the sake of spending time with him.

She glanced at Luke, also covered in green, except she'd been right—­his clothes hid the paint better. Holding her breath, she waited for his reaction. Would he be mad? Blame her for wasting the gallon of paint?

No . . . he grinned. As if this was funny. As if . . .

“Did you do that on purpose?” she demanded.

“Of course not,” he said, inspecting the new color of his cane. “If I had, I would have stepped back so the paint didn't get
me
.”

“Then why are you laughing?”

“I'm not.” He broke into another grin. “Although you
do
look a lot like the wicked witch from
The Wizard of Oz
.”

Sammy Jo sucked in her breath. “And you look like a cow has spewed all over you with a whole day's worth of green cud!”

This time Luke
did
laugh. He laughed for several long seconds, harder than she'd ever heard him laugh since he'd been back home.

“You know that Emerald Isle shade becomes you,” he teased. “Matches your eyes.”

“Not funny,” she shot back. “How am I going to get all this paint out of my hair?”

“You can't. You'll have to cut it all off.”

The thought of styling a bald head didn't hold much appeal. She'd rather sport her clover green curls until the color grew out, although that image, too, was almost enough to bring her to tears.

Then his amused expression made her realize he wasn't serious and she pointed her finger at him. “Now who's playing games?”

Luke shrugged. “It'll wash out with a good shampoo. You'll just have to scrub real good. For now, we can rinse off with the hose in the wash room.”

She patted the front pocket on her denim shorts. “I hope the paint didn't go through to my cell phone. What if I lost all my contact numbers? Or my photos?”

“Would be a shame,” he said with mock concern.

Luke did not appreciate the finer aspects of having multiple apps available at one's fingertips 24/7. A fault she could easily forgive him for if he'd only pick up the phone to call her for a date.

A real date. Not just hanging out at the barn, or attending a rodeo together with the rest of their friends, or even roasting marshmallows by the fire with his sisters. But one-­on-­one time with just the two of them.

Luke led her toward the open double doors of the stable to the large cement wash room where they usually gave the horses a bath. When she envisioned a date, this setting had never come to mind either.

“Stand over the drain and I'll hose you down,” he said, turning on the water.

She took her phone out of her pocket and set it on a shelf holding the horse shampoo, a sponge, and squeegee. Then stood ready to embrace the oncoming shower.

“Tip your head back and close your eyes,” Luke instructed.

“So you can kiss me?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “So I can do
this
.”

The water burst out of the end of the hose and Sammy Jo squeezed her eyes shut to avoid the fresh onslaught of paint running off the top of her head.

This was a disaster! This was not what she'd had in mind when she'd come running over here today. This was . . .

She felt his hand cup the back of her head and his strong fingers tangle in the back of her hair. To help rinse the paint out, she supposed. But the sensation sent tingling shock waves of awareness down her spine and she wished she could open her eyes, just for a moment, to see the look on his face. She tried, but it was impossible with the thrust of the torrent.

When the water stopped, Sammy Jo found parts of herself still green, but at least the main bulk of the paint had washed away. She pasted on a bright smile and said, “Your turn.”