The Virgin and Zach Coulter (7 page)

She'd lost track of the number of times Natasha had needed to borrow first and last months' rent to leave a man. Cynthia couldn't imagine how her mother managed to fall in love several times a year. Each time, she swore that this time she'd found the perfect mate, time after time, year after year.

When she was younger, Cynthia had expected her mother to eventually realize that perhaps the one perfect man she kept looking for might not exist. But Natasha never seemed to reach that rational conclusion, despite
so many failed live-in relationships and male friends that Cynthia had lost track of the names long, long ago.

She rose and went into the kitchen, returning with a glass of wine. Determinedly, she turned up the volume on the movie and tried to forget Natasha and her current problems.

By the time she switched off the television and headed for bed, Alfred Hitchcock's brilliant murder mystery had thoroughly distracted her from her earlier worries.

She laid out clothes for the following morning, and as she got into bed, the upsetting conversation with her mother was forgotten. Zach Coulter's green eyes drifted into her mind, the sensation of his lips against hers making her smile as she fell asleep.

T
he following morning, Cynthia left the house dressed in jeans, boots and a turquoise scooped-neck T-shirt under a gray zip-up hoodie. She'd caught her hair up in a high ponytail to keep it out of her way. Sunglasses protected her eyes from the early sun that was already warming the sage-dotted pastures. She turned off the highway, drove beneath the welded arch that spelled out Coulter Cattle Company and followed the recently graded and graveled ranch road until it ended in a wide ranch yard at the Triple C headquarters.

Recognizing the black pickup truck parked in front of the house as the one Zach had driven yesterday, she nosed her convertible next to the truck and got out, glancing around at the buildings.

Several people stood at the corral next to the barn.

“Cynthia,” Zach called, beckoning to her.

She waved in response and started across the graveled
space between the house and the corral. As she neared, she recognized Mariah Jones from the Indian Springs Café, belatedly remembering she was engaged to Zach's older brother. The tall, black-haired man at her side looked so much like Zach that Cynthia knew he must be Cade Coulter.

Inside the corral, a teenaged boy sat easily atop a beautiful black horse.

“Good morning,” she said as she drew near.

“Mornin',” Zach answered.

He swept her with a slow once-over that had her cheeks heating.

“Hi, Mariah,” she said calmly, smiling at the blonde woman.

“You two know each other?” Zach asked.

“I met her at the café,” Cynthia told him.

“Of course,” he answered. “I should have guessed. Mariah knows everyone in the county because sooner or later, they all show up at the café. Her boss makes the best pies in Montana.”

“That's true.” Mariah laughed. “Good morning, Cynthia. Have you met Cade?”

“No, I don't believe I have.”

“Nice to meet you, Cynthia,” Cade said politely, his voice as deep as Zach's.

But unlike Zach's, Cade's voice didn't make her shiver with awareness.

“I hear you and Zach are looking over the Lodge today,” Cade added.

She nodded. “I understand there's quite a lot of work to be done.”

“That's the understatement of the year,” Mariah put
in with a grimace. “But if anyone can restore it to its former grandeur, it's Zach.”

“And if I'm lucky, I'll talk Cynthia into joining the cause,” Zach said. “Ready to go?”

“Yes, whenever you are,” she told him.

He took her elbow and turned her toward his truck. “We'll see you all later,” he said over his shoulder as they walked away.

“Who's the young man on the horse?” she asked him as she latched her seat belt moments later.

“You mean J.T.? Sorry, I should have introduced you. He and Pete work here.” Zach shifted the truck into gear and they left the ranch yard, following the gravel road past the big barn and the cabin that now belonged to Mariah. Then the road curved to follow the creek bank for a half mile to reach the Lodge.

“As I told you yesterday,” Zach said when the Lodge came into view, “Dad built the Lodge based on Mom's designs. She wanted a mountain lodge constructed of big heavy logs with steep peaked roofs.”

Cynthia drew in a quick breath, her gaze studying the building. The two-story structure was solid but somehow graceful. What must have once been a bright red metal roof had faded to rose and the big logs that made up the outer walls were aged to a mellow gold from exposure to weather. The deep porches that edged the front and three sides were welcoming despite the piles of boards stacked at intervals along the length and the covering of dust and cobwebs darkening the big windows.

Zach parked and he and Cynthia left the truck, climbing the shallow, wide steps to cross the porch and reach the front door.

“The windows and doors had lumber nailed over them. That's where the piles of wood came from.” Zach pointed at the planks stacked at intervals along the porch. “Cade and I ripped them off last week so we could get inside.”

“Did anyone ever break in over the years?” Cynthia asked with curiosity.

“Cade said there was an attempt since he's been home but he thought it was probably kids being curious and not a serious attempt at theft. J.T. came along and scared them off so they didn't actually get inside.” Zach pulled a key ring from his pocket and slid the key into the hole with only minimal jiggling; it turned with a faint squeal. “I have to oil this lock,” he commented as he shoved the door inward and stepped aside, waving Cynthia ahead of him.

She complied and halted abruptly just over the threshold.

Zach joined her, standing silently at her side as she swept her gaze over the big lobby.

Sunlight slanted through the open door behind them, throwing a bar of gold across the dust-covered wooden floor. Cobwebs hung from the wagon-wheel chandeliers at both ends of the long room and festooned the ironwork sconces along the walls. Dust lay inches deep on the wood and leather sofas and chairs, piled atop end tables and lampshades, and layered along the upper curve of logs that made up the walls.

At first, all Cynthia saw was the dust. But as she moved to walk farther into the lobby, she realized mice had used the upholstered furniture for beds. Stuffing poked out of the corners of sofa cushions and was strewn
over the floor beneath. One corner of the thick Oriental carpet under her feet was shredded as if it had been chewed.

“That couldn't have been mice,” she commented, pointing at the corner of the rug.

“No.” Zach looked around. “I suspect raccoons broke in. The damage to some of the furniture looks like their work.”

“Oh, my.” Cynthia caught her breath, staring in amazement at the wall over the long reception counter. “Is the sculpture one of your mother's?”

Beneath a layer of dust and tarnish, a four foot tall, six foot long silver, copper and brass sculpture of mustangs in full gallop dominated the heavy log wall. Even covered in dirt, the horses seemed alive and ready to leap from the wall to race across the room. The breathtaking piece was vivid testimony to the depth and breadth of Melanie Coulter's incredible talent. Due to her research, Cynthia knew Zach's mother had been on the cusp of fully realizing her potential as an artist when the tragic accident took her life. She'd fallen while playing with her four sons in the creek, struck her head on a half-submerged rock and died within a week.

And apparently, Joseph Coulter had never recovered from her death. He'd sealed up her art studio, this Lodge she'd designed and loved, and a warehouse holding her collections of Western memorabilia.

“Yes, that's Mom's work.” Zach's voice was devoid of emotion. “The horses are Kiger mustangs—she bred and raised a herd of them. She used them often as subjects for her art—she loved horses. After she died, Dad rode out early one morning, leading Mom's favorite
saddlehorse. He returned hours later, without the mare. I always assumed he shot her but Dad wouldn't discuss it, so no one knows what he did with her.”

“That's terrible.” Cynthia didn't know what else to say. She guessed Zach must have been around eleven years old when his mother died. The articles Cynthia had read online speculated that Joseph Coulter had gone mad with grief. From the few comments Zach had made about his father and mother, she suspected the speculation might have been too close to the truth.

She turned in a slow circle, her gaze sliding over the lobby interior, amazed that until Zach removed the boards and entered, it would have been more than twenty-three years since anyone had set foot inside the lobby.

She shook her head and glanced sideways at Zach. “Given how long it's been since anyone's been inside, the condition doesn't seem that terrible.”

Zach nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping the ceiling. “Yeah, I admit, I was surprised the damage wasn't worse down here.” He pointed at a stain on the ceiling in the back corner. “The second floor didn't fare as well, though. You can see where water leaked through from the damage upstairs.” He gestured toward the stairs. “Let's go up and I'll show you.”

The upper story with its rooms and suites had multiple problems, chief of which was water damage from several leaks in the roof over the years. In several of the rooms, ceilings had fallen in, wood furnishings were warped and stained, and evidence of mice was everywhere. Several of the rooms were also ransacked, the damage consistent with a raccoon invasion. Cute
though Cynthia thought they were, the animals could be incredibly destructive.

Two hours later, Zach locked the doors behind them and they left the Lodge to drive back to the ranch house, where they found a carafe filled with fresh coffee in the kitchen and a note from Mariah telling them she and Cade had gone into town.

“The Lodge is structurally sound,” Zach continued when they sat at the table. “But as you say, the inside is a wreck. It's going to take a lot of work to restore it to the point where we can reopen it to guests again.”

“And a lot of money,” Cynthia added.

Zach shrugged. “That goes without saying. But in my experience, those two usually go hand in hand.”

“Have you lined up financing?” she asked, accepting a mug from him. When their fingers brushed, she felt the quick zap of electricity she'd felt before, and her cheeks heated with awareness.

“Yes. My boss practically twisted my arm to give him the project.” Zach shook his head, a slow smile tilting the corners of his mouth. “I warned him this is Montana, not San Francisco, but he said he believed in my gut instinct about the Lodge.”

“And what does your gut tell you?” Cynthia asked, eyeing him curiously over the rim of her cup. His eyes were alive with energy, warming as his gaze focused on her mouth for a heart-stopping, intent moment.

“That it can be just as big a draw in the future as it was in the past,” he told her with conviction. “I was at a conference in L.A. a few years ago and ran into an old friend of my parents. He's a movie executive and said he used to stay at the Lodge several times a year with his
friends. They'd fly up from L.A. to take fly-fishing lessons from Dad in the summer and come back in the fall to hunt pheasant and grouse. He told me several times how much they loved coming here and how sorry they all were to hear about Mom's accident.” He paused and sipped his coffee, his eyes going unfocused for a moment as if he were remembering the older man's words. Then his gaze sharpened once more. “And he told me to let him know if Dad ever decided to reopen the Lodge, so he could be the first returning guest. I think Angela still has his card filed away somewhere. I'll bet he could tell us the names of some of the other guests who'd be glad to hear the Lodge was open again.”

“If we could find the old guest register and create a contact list, then let them know you planned to reopen, it's possible the Lodge could have a full reservation schedule this summer.”

“Maybe by midsummer,” Zach told her. “I don't know how long it will take the construction crew to repair the roof, gut the damaged rooms and finish renovations.”

“Given the layout of the Lodge, I don't think we could partially reopen,” she said thoughtfully. “It would be difficult to keep the ongoing construction noise and dust from disturbing the guests.”

“I agree.” Zach leaned back in his chair, long legs stretched, booted feet crossed at the ankle. “You said ‘we'—that sounds as if you've made up your mind to come on board.”

She considered him for a moment. “I guess I have.” She sipped her coffee, noting the glint of satisfaction in his green eyes. “And you knew I would, didn't you?”

“I hoped you would,” he corrected her. “You seemed
like the kind of woman who likes a challenge.” He shook his head. “And the Lodge is definitely going to be a test of endurance.”

“Oh, I can handle the endurance requirement,” she said drily. “I'm just not sure how I'm going to keep my laptop running in all that dust I saw in the office.”

He grinned. “We'll set you up in the dining room here at the house until I can get the guys to scrub out the office at the Lodge. I'll move all the file boxes you need from there to here—and the internet connection is good, so you can have access to the web whenever you need it.”

“You seem to have thought of everything. Tell me,” she said, genuinely curious about his answer, “did it ever occur to you that I might say no?”

“Oh, it occurred to me,” he assured her. “But I never planned to accept it. I would have kept showing up on your doorstep until you either took pity on me or got so tired of answering the door that you gave in.”

She rolled her eyes, but couldn't help smiling.

By the time she drove back to town two hours later, they'd hammered out a compensation package that included an interim salary sufficient to cover her current expenses, a bonus scale based on the Lodge's growth in income once it opened, and incremental increases in her base salary over the next two years.

Cynthia was satisfied with the deal. Zach had been generous but not a pushover—they'd both made concessions, which was exactly how she liked negotiations to conclude.

As she stepped into the shower to wash away the dust that had inevitably sifted onto her during the tour
of the Lodge, she felt good about their agreement and was looking forward to beginning work.

And to seeing more of Zach Coulter on a regular basis.

 

Cynthia's first day of work began at the Lodge two days later, sorting files into boxes before stacking them along a wall in the office. Finished with the preliminary sorting, she carried the first of the cartons through the lobby, heading outside and away from the interior's dust-filled air. A crew of twenty-plus carpenters, plumbers and electricians swarmed over the building as she reached the porch.

“Here, I'll take that.” Zach left a group of men in hard hats studying architectural drawings, and took the box out of her arms. He strode to the back of his pickup, parked across the lot and away from the Lodge, and slid the carton onto the tailgate before shoving it deeper into the truck bed. “Tell me what you want moved and I'll do the heavy lifting,” he told her when he'd jogged back to join her on the porch.