Secrets in a Small Town
“As long as it takes,” she countered.
He shook his head. “No open-ended deals. One hour.”
“Two.”
“Woman, what on earth could you possibly want to talk about for two damn hours?” he said, annoyance getting the better of him. “An hour and a half. Final offer. Take it or leave it.”
“Deal.” She smiled. “And I get to pick the topic. And you have to cooperate.”
She drove a hard bargain. “Fine. Now get the hell out of here.”
She frowned and opened her mouth to protest, but the dark look he sent her snapped it shut pretty quickly. One thing was for sure—she wasn’t dumb. Whatever she was after, she was likely to get. He wondered if she approached relationships the same way. Heaven help the man caught in her crosshairs. He wouldn’t stand a chance.
When I envisioned Owen Garrett, the gruff but deliciously sweet logger, I knew right away the woman of his dreams was going to be the last he’d expect. And Piper Sunday didn’t disappoint. Immediately I loved her quirky sense of humor and easy acceptance of things that might make others balk. I also loved that she refused to let Owen push her around even when he was blustering. Who wouldn’t love a pair like these two?
As the last of Mama Jo’s Boys, it’s a bittersweet ending. I’ve loved these “boys” as much as my ever-lovin’ Mama Jo. I hope you’ve enjoyed the journey. I know I certainly have!
Hearing from readers is one of my greatest joys. Feel free to drop me a line at my website, www.kimberlyvanmeter.com, or through snail mail—P.O. Box 2210, Oakdale, CA 95361.
Happy reading,
Kimberly Van Meter
1433—FATHER MATERIAL
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1469—RETURN TO EMMETT’S MILL
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1485—A KISS TO REMEMBER
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1513—AN IMPERFECT MATCH
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1577—KIDS ON THE DOORSTEP
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1600—A MAN WORTH LOVING
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1627—TRUSTING THE BODYGUARD
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1694—THE PAST BETWEEN US
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1700—A CHANCE IN THE NIGHT
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1638—GUARDING THE SOCIALITE
of Big Creek in Davenport, California.
My husband and I thoroughly
enjoyed your crash course on logging practices
in the Santa Cruz Mountains.
Without your help, I surely would’ve been
floundering. Any deviations from true practice is
no reflection of your teaching,
for you were a great resource!
Thank you!
WEN
G
ARRETT TRIED TO KEEP
it cool but he’d already crumpled the newspaper in his hand because he couldn’t stop imagining it was the neck of one nosy journalist who’d decided making his life miserable was her single goal in life.
Dayton Tribune
’s office and went straight to the receptionist, with a demand to see the editor.
“She’s not here.” The woman, her name plaque identifying her as Nancy, arched her brow at his tone. “Perhaps I could take a message?”
He ignored her suggestion and barreled forward, too hot to follow the advice circling in his head. “Then, I want to see the general manager. And if that person isn’t available, I want to see the publisher. There ought to be rules about what can and can’t be printed without verifying the facts. Oh, wait, there are. If I don’t see someone right now about this—” He thrust the mangled front page in front of Nancy’s face and she scowled but took the paper from his hand. He pointed at the lead story. “Then the next call I place is to my lawyer. This is slander and I want a retraction.
Now.
”
Nancy exhaled softly and she plainly didn’t appreciate his tone or his attitude but he didn’t care. This was the third article that reporter, Piper Sunday, had written about his logging operation that basically painted him to be the “big bad logger” out to clear cut the forests without any consideration for the environment, which was complete and total
crap.
He’d tried to take the high road, but she’d pushed too far this time.
“The editor is out for the day and the managing editor is on vacation until next week. However, Ms. Sunday is here in the office. Perhaps you’d like to speak with her?” she asked in a voice so perfectly bland it could be taken only as a rebuke for his own hotheaded blustering.
Speak with Ms. Sunday? Hell yes. He tried to school his face into some semblance of calm, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “I would
love
to speak with Ms. Sunday,” he said.
Nancy picked up the phone. “Ms. Sunday, you have a gentleman up front to speak with you regarding a story you wrote in this week’s edition.” She returned the phone with a smile. “She’ll be right up. Would you like to sit and wait?”
“It’d be my pleasure.” Except he didn’t sit, he stood, arms crossed and fuming. This morning he’d nearly choked on a chunk of his granola cereal when he’d read the lead story—Logger Proceeds With Flawed Harvesting Plan—printed with big, bold type running across the page and he’d quickly and suddenly lost his appetite as he’d spewed a litany of curse words that made his German shepherd, Timber, cock his head in confusion and then walk away to flop on his bed with a sad expression. Somehow he’d known they weren’t going for a walk after breakfast. Instead Owen had raced into town to deal with lying reporters, which was a waste of a perfectly gorgeous spring day in the Santa Cruz mountains. Yet another reason to want to strangle Ms. Sunday.
He’d only spoken on the phone with her once and she’d taken everything he’d said completely out of context. So when she’d called again, he’d ignored her calls. Well, he’d mistakenly thought if he offered no comment, perhaps she’d find a different story to chase after, but this woman seemed to have an agenda and it was to ruin him. She’d run the story without the benefit of his involvement and it made him look like an evil bastard.
A slim brunette, wearing soft, flowing, white linen pants walked into the foyer with a professional smile on her full lips. “I’m Piper Sunday. How may I help you?” she asked pleasantly.
“You can help me by not slandering me and my company. You have balls of steel, woman.” He nearly amended the
woman
part when he noticed the white bow tied neatly in her hair. When she had little to no reaction, he introduced himself. “I’m the evil bastard you seem to enjoy vilifying in the press.”
“Perhaps you could be more specific…”
“Owen Garrett, owner of—”
“Big Trees Logging,” she finished with a slow smile. “And the man who has an aversion to answering phone calls.”
“You mean, an aversion to having my words twisted,” he countered. “The one interview I gave you turned into a mess in print.”
“That’s your opinion.”
“No, it’s fact. And I’m about to sue this newspaper for slander if I don’t get a retraction.”
“First, if it’s anything, it would be libel, which it’s not. Second, you’d have to have a court order to get us to do a retraction. Out of curiosity, which part of the article did you take exception to?” she asked.
“All of it.”
“That would be a very long correction, if I were of a mind to offer it,” she said, crossing her arms. “And I’m not. Everything I wrote is true.”
“I say it’s not.”
“Well, we’re at an impasse. However, I would be happy to sit down with you for an exclusive interview for your rebuttal. I’m sure our readership would love to read your side of things.”
Owen clenched his teeth. “I’m not kidding around here.”
She held her ground. “Neither am I.”
He caught the round-eyed stare of the receptionist as she enjoyed a front-row seat of their little drama and remembered himself. He was playing right into Ms. Sunday’s game by appearing every inch the bullying blowhard she practically accused him of being in her articles. He dialed back his temper but it tasted like bile going down. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer,” he said quietly, not trusting himself to continue.
There was the tiniest frown that betrayed her surprise when he called her bluff but she didn’t try to placate him in order to make him change his mind. When she gave him a shrug as if to say “go for it,” he swallowed a snarl and stalked from the office.
He didn’t even care if he slammed the door. And in fact, he took perverse pleasure in the hope that the sound rattled the windows and echoed throughout the small building.
