Montana Skies (You, Me and the Kids) (Harlequin Superromance, No 1395) (3 page)

Her dad was a good guy, the best. People liked and respected him. Came to him for advice. She knew he only said those things about her mom leaving because he was trying to make
her
feel better.

She dropped to her side and grabbed the photo album next to her bed, cracking the CD case when she put too
much weight on the plastic frame. Ignoring that, she stared down at the proof right there in the album.

Newspaper clippings and photos, announcements. All the stuff her grandma had collected over the years. Her mom had danced, cheered or played sports every season of the year from grade school to high school. She was pretty and popular, a model for local TV and print ads. She'd worn the latest styles, always looked neat and clean and great. Always had a cute boyfriend. Wrote words like “smooches” and “kiss-kiss” in her notes.

Caroline rolled over onto her back and stared up at the poster of Harry Potter tacked to her ceiling. How many times had her mom told her she was a mess? Complained that her hair was too wild, her teeth too crooked, her freckles too dark? She didn't stand right, didn't walk right, always looked weird because she stood out. The only redhead in her class and smart, too.

Sniffling, she pulled her ponytail over her shoulder and looked at the frizzy split ends. Why couldn't she have been pretty like her mom? Like Mandy or the other girls in school?

She swung her feet off the bed and padded over to her computer desk, wishing she'd win a trip to one of those makeover shows. Now
that
would be an awesome birthday present. She bit her lip and found her mouse, clicking on the box to maximize the screen, and going back to what she'd been reading online before her dad had come in. She told herself to forget about it, but she had to know what they said about her. Every day.

Inhaling deeply to get rid of the lump in her chest, she read to the bottom of the chat-room posts, and this time she couldn't hold back the stupid tears no matter
how hard she tried. Caroline slumped in the chair and hugged her knees up to her chest.

Her mom definitely hadn't left because of her dad, she'd left because of
her
. Because of how embarrassed she was to have such an ugly loser for a daughter.

Everybody thought so.

 

“D
ON'T YOU
walk away from me!”

“He's a moron!”

“He's your principal,” Rissa countered, “and he says you've got to get your act together or—”

“What? He'll expel me? I hope you told him to go for it,” Skylar taunted gleefully.

Rissa strove for calm, for patience, knowing without a doubt Skylar would like nothing better than to be expelled from school. Permanently. “What about your future? What happened to becoming a lawyer?”

“Lawyers suck.”

“Lawyers are our only chance at winning this lawsuit, Sky. They play an important role in the world—just like your principal and your teachers
and
you. Regardless of what you do when you grow up, you can't survive unless you're able to support yourself.
Why
are you throwing your education away?”

“Because it's
not
important! What's it all matter if you get nailed in a car crash or—or get a disease? What good is it then?”

“That's just an excuse to live your life in fear. Skylar, the last thing your dad would want is for you to blame yourself for what happened or throw your life away!”

Skylar rolled her eyes and whirled around. She stomped out of the small living area into the even smaller kitchen, her boots thudding every step of the way.

Rissa watched her for a moment before she tossed her purse—found in the passenger seat of her car exactly where she'd left it—and keys onto a table, wishing she could sling them across the room into a wall. But to do so wouldn't quite portray the calm, patient example she needed to set.

“Can we please talk about what happened today without it turning into a shouting match?”

“But we do it so well.” Skylar's lip-curling sneer was back in place once more.

It took two deep inhalations and a count to ten, but Rissa managed to ignore the expression. “You punched a girl and now have detention. Why?”

“She deserved it.”

“
Why?
What happened?” Skylar didn't respond. “Sky, I need you to hear me—to
talk
to me. Tell me what's going on so I can try to help you.”

Her daughter glanced over her shoulder, her black gaze flat. “
Help
me? You just want to
control
me! That's why you moved us to the middle of nowhere.”

“You need control in your life, and if you washed your face and wore your regular clothes, you'd be more readily accepted and you know it.”

“Why should
I
change? I like me this way! It's not my fault you don't.”

“I love you no matter what, but you can't blame me or the school officials for not understanding why you've changed so much! All it took was one look at your old school pictures and grades from New York, and it was obvious to the Klines that you need help.”

“Help, huh?” Skylar shut the refrigerator door with a slam, the force causing a box of cereal on top to fall over. “Go ahead and say what you really think—I'm a freak!”

“I
think
you're hurting,” she snapped, her tone not as sympathetic as it could have been due to Skylar's belligerence. “I
think
you're confused and angry and lashing out, and I'm trying to understand why, but that's hard to do when you act like this! You won't talk to me!”

“Like you talk to Grampa?”

Oh, her daughter knew how to push her buttons. And then some. Her dad's marriage to a much younger woman had rocked her, angered her to no end coming just four short months after her mother's death.

“Of the two of us, trust me, I'm the one you want to deal with. If your grandfather ever saw you looking the way you do—”

“Screw this, I'm going to bed.”

“We're not finished!” Rissa hurried to get to the stairs before Skylar, wondering how she'd stop her. Her daughter might be similar in weight, but Skylar topped her in height by a couple inches.

Thankfully, Rissa made it there first, her arms outstretched to bar the way. “I know how different North Star is from New York City, but I know if you'd only try—”

“You don't
know
anything!”

“Then tell me.” Rissa focused on the psychiatrists' advice to be supportive, open, willing to listen.
Nonjudgmental.
No matter what it took, she'd do it. Somehow. What choice did she have? “Tell me,” she ordered, her voice hoarse with pent-up emotion. “Tell me about the clothes, about the paint. Tell me why you should be held accountable for something you
couldn't
have prevented.”

Skylar's mascara-layered lashes lowered, nearly brushing the tiny black teardrop drawn on her pale cheek, before flicking up again and piercing her with a
pained glare. “It's not paint,” she said dully. “This is
me
, Mom. When are you going to get it?”

“It's not you.” Rissa kept her tone just as soft. “Somewhere under that mask you're wearing is the
real
you. Look at me,” she urged when Skylar turned away yet again. “Sky, why are you doing this to yourself? I miss your dad, too. We didn't always get along, but—”

“Dad was such a
jerk
for cheating on you! If he hadn't cheated and run around on us then—”

Skylar broke off and Rissa opened her mouth to comment, but just as quickly closed it, her focus gone. What could she say? Her very handsome husband
was
a jerk, along with quite a few other foul descriptives she could think of, but dead or alive, she wouldn't bad-mouth him to their daughter. Skylar had witnessed her father's infidelity firsthand, she didn't need to hear her mother spouting anger and pain on top of it. Not doing so was a promise she'd made to herself from the beginning, a way to maintain what dignity she'd had left after learning the truth.

Skylar needed her to be strong. And now that she had finally emerged from her year-long, drama-induced daze, she focused on the task at hand, that of treating Skylar like the child she was instead of the adult she resembled.

“Baby, we've talked about this. You aren't to blame for your dad and I not getting along. We had problems, but they weren't your doing, and telling me about the affair had nothing to do with the accident. Don't feel guilty—
it wasn't your fault.
”

“What if you're wrong?” Skylar turned to face her, every muscle in her body, her stance, her expression, challenging. “What if he
did
try to commit suicide with me in the car because he hated me for…screwing things up?”

Oh Lord, help her. She hated that Skylar carried that doubt in her mind. Hated that she thought her father so angry over their marital situation and separation he'd want to kill her.

Rissa walked toward her. She wanted to hold her, comfort her, but Skylar distanced herself again, the couch now between them. She stopped, her hands at her sides, her arms empty and aching for the little girl who used to snuggle up with her every day.

“It's
not
true, Sky. Your dad wasn't perfect, but if he'd had any thoughts of suicide, he certainly wouldn't have endangered you. He understood why you told me. He
did
. You were hurt and angry and confused, but he understood! Let it go.
Please
. Try to remember what Jake said about the inquiry being normal, and stop blaming yourself. The policy was a large one, and the delays… It's the company's bureaucratic way of holding onto their money as long as possible, that's all.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Beneath the steady weight of Skylar's stare, Rissa faltered. And prayed she'd say the right thing, find the missing piece. “Because your dad was a lot of things, but first and foremost, he was a father. For all his faults, he
loved
you like no one else. You were his princess, daddy's little girl. He loved you so much he'd have died—”

Skylar flinched.

Rissa clamped a hand over her mouth, regretting the words the instant they left her lips, unable to believe she'd said something so insensitive in her rambling explanation. She held out her hands in apology. “Oh, I didn't—Skylar, I'm sorry! That came out wrong. I didn't mean—”

Skylar made a break for the stairs leading to the tiny
bedroom loft. Rissa turned, but knew she didn't have a chance of stopping her this time. “Skylar, I'm
sorry!
”

She kept going, her boots loud on the wooden treads.

“Skylar—”

“God, just leave me alone!
Leave me alone!
”

T
HE NEXT MORNING
Jonas leaned against the outside of his cruiser and lifted a hand in greeting to Ben Whitefeather. The old man drove by slowly, and Jonas watched his progress, wondering if he should stop Ben to chat and discreetly check for alcohol. Depending on the man's arthritis pain, the old saying applied—Ben could be sober as a church mouse, or drunk as a skunk.

Jonas decided to let Ben continue on when the truck didn't waver. He'd never stopped Ben for DUI because the old man typically did his drinking at home, but he had been called out to Ben's house by the man's teenaged grandson when Ben had gotten drunk enough to forget the pain in his legs, and managed to get his helicopter up in the air believing he'd seen smoke in the hills. A flame chaser from years back, Ben was determined to put the fire out before it spread through the forest. Twenty minutes later, he had landed safely a hundred yards from the overgrown helipad, and promised not to drink and fly again.

Jonas sighed and leaned his head back to ease the tension in his neck. He'd parked under the shade tree planted to the right of The Blooming Rose, and it was a good thing he had because Caroline had been inside almost an hour already.

While he waited, he'd chatted with a few of the
townspeople, something he'd done often before Lea had left. But once she was gone, all the questions and nosy busybodies had driven him to not be so accessible, and he hadn't realized how much he'd missed it until now.

Jonas straightened, prepared to walk by the glass door to look inside even though he told himself to give Caroline another fifteen minutes. He was smart enough to know his daughter would be mortified if anyone saw him staring into the clothing store while she was inside.

“Is something wrong?”

He jerked his head toward the now familiar feminine voice so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Rissa Mathews stood a few feet away. Smiling, her blue eyes friendly. Wow.

At five-seven, she was tall, yet had a woman's lush, rounded figure. Full breasts pressed against her blue-green T-shirt, making her eyes appear darker than he remembered. Khaki shorts hugged her hips, her long legs the perfect size and shape for a man to grip without fearing he'd bruise her.

Jonas froze at his thoughts, the temptation, and nearly groaned aloud. “Mrs. Mathews,” he murmured, dipping his head in a nod of greeting that hopefully hid his juvenile reaction. “Uh, no, nothing's wrong.”

“Good. But, please, call me Rissa.”

“Okay.” Was it his imagination or did she seem as nervous to be talking to him as he was talking to her?

“I, um, just wanted to say thank you for letting me off on the ticket.”

She glanced over her shoulder, and Jonas followed her gaze. Maura Rowland and her new sister-in-law, Grace, were strapping Maura's twin boys into grocery carts.

“You didn't call the ranch and confirm my story
about having permission to drive the truck, but I told Maura and Grace what happened.” Her shoulder lifted in an embarrassed shrug. “Want to see my license now? I have it with me today,” she informed him with a soft laugh that sounded a bit rusty. “My purse was in my car, right where I left it.”

Jonas returned her smile, liking the way her eyes sparkled, the way her smile lit up her features even more. She was pretty, no doubt about it. A woman who'd have the gossips gabbing. “You probably won't ever forget it again, will you?”

“Not a chance. Money's, um…kind of tight right now.” Her cheeks flushed. “Anyway, I just wanted to say again that I appreciate what you did. I don't know how I can repay you.”

“Just don't let it—” He broke off and glanced at the store. Still no sign of Caroline. Was it too much to ask? “Would you like to repay me in full? Right now?”

Rissa looked a little taken aback by his questions. “I guess that depends on what you have in mind.”

Unable to help himself, he grinned at her, at the suspicions he saw lurking behind her expressive eyes. The same thoughts in his head. But he warned himself to keep it casual. “I'd like to borrow you for a few minutes, that's all.”

Maura and Grace stood talking to one another by Maura's minivan. The women glanced toward him and Rissa and then started talking again. Matchmaking. He could spot it a mile away.

“Borrow me?”

He shifted his attention back to Rissa. “If you have time. Do they need you?” He tilted his head toward the waiting women. Maybe it was just as well.

“No, they'll be fine. They're grocery shopping for the guests. Grace told us this morning there's a big hot-shot coming from California. He's bringing his entire company and all their families, and rented out the whole ranch.” She shook her head, her smile wide. “I've never seen Maura in such a tizzy. Guess you have to be a chef to get excited over fixing two gourmet meals a day.”

His worry over Caroline was momentarily replaced with interest in Rissa's comment. Every sheriff had to know the goings-on in his town. “Any names mentioned? It's not some movie star, is it?”

She laughed at his horror, the sound not so rusty now. “No, no one like that.”

“Good.” That was a relief. The last thing he needed was a bunch of paparazzi following to snap pictures. “But if you need to go with Maura and Grace to help, I won't keep you. Don't worry about what I said.”

“No, I have time. I wasn't supposed to come at all and only jumped in at the last minute.” She made a face. “My daughter and I had a huge fight last night and it carried over to this morning. Grace and Maura decided I needed a distraction.”

He winced at her words.

“What? Did I say something wrong?”

“Not at all. It's just that's why I, uh, need help—with
my
daughter,” he explained when she looked confused. “But it sounds like you've had enough girlish temperament today.”

Still no sign of Caroline. She'd be mad if he went in, but it shouldn't have taken this long and he had to get back to work.

“No, forget that,” she said, waving a hand in the air
between them as if she were erasing the words. “What's up? Where is she?”

He stared at her a long moment and saw the sincerity in her expression. “She's in The Blooming Rose picking out some…things, and she could use a woman's advice.”

“You mean you want me to—”

“Just check on her,” he begged, desperate to not have to go in the store himself. “If I get within twenty feet of the entrance I'll be blasted for humiliating her.” Jonas hesitated, clearing his throat. “Rissa, I'm sorry to ask this of you, but you'd really be helping me out here because my ex…she hasn't been around for a while now,” he informed her, unsure of exactly why he wanted to make that clear. “And moments like these aren't easy on a single dad's ego.”

She laughed again. Not a little laugh, either, but a throaty, deeply appealing belly laugh that made him want to—

“Oh, believe me, I understand perfectly when it comes to girls and clothes. What does she look like?”

“Red hair, freckles. Five-three, about a hundred pounds. She's thirteen going on thirty. You can't miss her.”

“Got it. Be back soon.”

She started to walk away and Jonas reached out, his hand gently surrounding the warm, soft skin of her arm, the need to touch her overwhelming. “Rissa, thank you. I really appreciate it.”

“You're welcome.”

“Could you…do me another favor and not let her know I sent you in?”

Her smile widened, blinded him and teased him. Made him think things best left alone because she seem
ed completely unaware of the power behind the simple act, the effect of it.

“Working undercover, huh, Sheriff?”

“Jonas,” he immediately corrected, reluctantly dropping his hand and letting her walk away. But not until after he'd slid his fingers down the length of smooth skin to prolong the moment. Rissa Mathews was trouble with a capital
T
.

 

I
F
D'
S WERE BAD GRADES
and A's were good, how come bra sizes were backward?

Caroline fought the urge to run out of the store. How stupid was she that she couldn't figure something like this out? Either the bras were too big around her or she didn't fill them up. The training bras—yeah, like you could
train
them—weren't big enough anymore. They felt like strings pinching her in two. And some were so see-through and thin her nipples showed through her shirt. What good was that?

She shoved a plastic hanger onto the metal rack and grabbed another when the door opened and a woman walked in. Caroline paused with a frown, wondering why she hadn't seen her around. She'd bet
she
wouldn't need help from anyone.

Pretty, blond and put together, the lady had “I used to be a cheerleader” written all over her. Not that that was a bad thing, but they seemed to be a species of their own and completely
un
like her, the walking fashion disaster. Was she missing a gene?

The store manager called to the woman from where she was stocking a shelf near the register and repeated what she'd said to Caroline when she'd walked into the shop.

“No, thank you, I'm just looking.”

Hey, maybe she'd done something right. That's what she'd said, too.

The blonde glanced around the store and headed toward the lingerie section, and Caroline went back to sorting through bras. Some she liked, some she hated and some, well, they looked like something Mandy wore even though it was only gym class.

The woman wound up at a rack near her.

Ask.
She'd know what to buy…the manager would, too. But she couldn't. That would be way too mortifying. And only a moron would even
have
to ask what to get. Caroline glared at the stupid sizes and tried to make sense of them in comparison to herself. She stared at the cup, then down at her chest. Why had she thought this would be easy?

“I hate doing this, don't you?”

She glanced up, embarrassed. Had she been staring at her boobs or the bras when the woman asked her the question? “E-excuse me?”

“Shopping for things like these. Oh, that's lovely.” She indicated the bra in Caroline's hand. “And look at that.” She pointed out another. “I think that would be beautiful with your peaches-and-cream skin tone.”

Peaches and cream? She'd always considered herself a polka-dotted mess, sort of like oatmeal with too much brown sugar in spots.

Caroline didn't acknowledge her comment, and looked at the bra instead. It was light blue with a little lace around the edge to make it pretty. Nothing sexy or skimpy but…that was okay. Until she had someone like Travis in her life, pretty would do. But should she pick up something for later? Just in case?

“I guess. The sizes are weird…aren't they?” She
waited for the woman to laugh. She shouldn't have said that and felt stupid because of it, but the woman didn't even crack a smile. Maybe it wasn't so stupid?

“Most definitely. I wore the wrong size for years until I saw this show on television where this woman told how to pick the right one.”

“Really?” Why couldn't she have seen that?

“Oh, look at this one.” The woman showed her a pretty tan bra with thin straps. “I love it. This would be perfect to wear under T-shirts. It's got a great liner.” She leaned toward her and lowered her voice. “That way no one can see if you're
cold
.”

The woman put the bra back where it came from, and Caroline tried to act casual while she moved to that side. She definitely needed one of those. Some mornings she got chilled going into school, and she'd noticed Travis looking at her even though he was supposed to be dating Mandy.

Travis was cute.
Way
cute. A senior, starting quarterback and a track star. If she could date, he'd be
the one
.

Irritated at her useless dreaming, she glanced at the woman again. “So, um, how did she say they should fit?”

The pretty blonde continued looking at the bras and lingerie sets while she went over the requirements, not making a big deal out of having to talk to an idiot like her while she shopped.

“Have you tried any on yet?”

“A few.” What a humiliating experience that was.

“No luck, huh?”

“Not really.” Caroline bit her lip and wondered if her dad would give her a lecture about talking to strangers. “You, um, think this is about the right size?” She felt her face getting hot and hated how easily she turned red
when she got embarrassed. Mandy always made fun every time it happened in school. Especially in gym class. If only she could show Mandy and steal Travis away. Talk about payback.

Like Travis would date a loser who didn't even wear makeup.

“I think it's close.” The woman paused in what she was doing, her head tilted to one side. “But if you really want my opinion—”

“I do! I mean—” Geez, Caroline, act like a grown-up! “I mean, sure.” She shrugged. “Whatever.”

“Well, I think this one might fit a bit better. Or this one. Maybe try this one, too?” she asked, picking out three bras from the rack. “You look like a B-cup to me. Maybe 34 B?”

“Maybe.” How did she know? They'd just appeared.

And about time, too. Mandy had had boobs for two years now.
And wore a 34 D.

“Tell you what—I've got some time to kill while my friends grocery shop.” She leaned forward and made a face. “I
hate
grocery shopping so you'd be doing me a favor by not making me go over there. If you want, you can try them on and if you need other sizes while you're in the fitting room, I'd be happy to pass them over the top to you.”

“You wouldn't mind?”

The woman smiled the way she imagined a mom would…should. Cheerleader or not, this lady was cool.