Blackhawk's Betrayal. Barbara McCauley
green eyes sparkled. âYou finally going to apply for our marriage license?â
âJust say the word, Liv.â Theyâd gone out on a couple of dates, but the chemistry hadnât quite been there between them, so theyâd settled into a more comfortable, flirtatious friendship. âWe could buy one of those tract homes theyâre building in Oak Meadows. Have a half dozen kids and join the PTA.â
Olivia winced. âIâll get back to you one of these decades. Want a ride?â
He straightened and patted his stomach. âWalk will do me good.â
âAs if you need it. Every woman in this town knows you work out from five to six-thirty every morning in the Four Winds gym.â Olivia gunned her engine. âWhy do you think there are so many females in there at that ungodly hour?â
With a wink, Olivia shot away from the curb.
Grinning, Sam watched her disappear around the corner, wished there had been chemistry between them. Like him, the woman wasnât looking for a commitment or a picket fence. They could have simply enjoyed each other, without worrying about the theatrics or complications of a messy breakup. Olivia could have been an enjoyable distraction.
And Lord knew, right now he certainly needed one.
Heâd spent the past three days watching Kiera. Watched her effortlessly memorize the menu and wine list. Watched her skillfully serve a heavy tray of dishes without fumbling or getting an order wrong. Watched her astutely make recommendations, then offer suggestions for a complimentary wine. Already, she not only had people asking for her station but actually waiting for her.
Heâd never seen anything like it.
Butâto his annoyanceâhe hadnât just been watching her. Heâd also been thinking about her.
At the most unexpected times, heâd suddenly find himself wondering what the womanâs story was, who or what she was running away from. If she was in some kind of danger.
The bruise next to her eye had nearly disappeared, but he couldnât get the image out of his mind. Couldnât stop the raw fury that knotted his gut every time he thought about it. The idea of some man raising his fist andâ
Realizing he had balled his own hand into a tight fist, he stopped in front of the barbershop, stared at the swirling red-white-and-blue pole. He loosened his fingers, then shook off the anger bubbling through his blood. Dammit! A walk through town on his day off should have cleared his mind and relaxed him, and here he was, barreling down the sidewalk as if he were looking for a fight.
Maybe I am, he thought with a sigh. Lord knew the woman had frustrated him enough. It was obvious she had a problem, obvious that sheâd been scared to death when sheâd looked at Rand Blackhawk. Obvious she was lying about something. When heâd asked her if Rand looked like someone she knew, the answer in those smoky blue eyes of hers had obviously been yes.
And obviously, she hadnât wanted his help.
So fine. Why should that bother him?
He waited for a truck to pass, then crossed the street leading to the courthouse. As long as her problem didnât become the hotelâs, then heâd keep his nose out of her mess. Lord knew heâd already given Kiera Daniels way too much time and thought. He was a busy man. With the upcoming conferences and events, not to mention the impending construction on the hotel, his focus needed to be on his job, not a pretty waitress.
And then suddenly that pretty waitress was walking out of the glass courthouse doors.
Surprised, he stopped beside a hedge of white blooming roses. Good God, he thought with annoyance. He couldnât even get away from her here.
Head bent, loose-limbed, she moved down the courthouse steps, her eyes focused on a piece of paper in her hand. She wore denim as if it had been invented just for those endlessly long legs of hers. Her jeans, low on her hips and snug, were faded in all the places a man liked to look. And touch. Her white tank top dipped demurely across her collarbone and hugged her breasts, then rose just high enough from her hips to show the barest hint of smooth, flat stomach.
A drought settled in his throat.
It took a will of iron to drag his gaze upward from that enticing glimpse of skin. A frown drew the delicate line of her eyebrows together and settled into a somber line across her mouth. Her hair flowed like a black river down her shoulders. The sun glinted off the dark strands.
For a split second, he didnât even know where he was.
He blinked hard, watched her fold the piece of paper and shove it into a black tote bag as she turned and walked in the opposite direction.
He argued with himself, lost, waited a full twenty seconds, then followed her.
The mouth-watering scent of grilling hamburgers drew Kiera toward the coffee shop on the corner. The exterior of the restaurant, shiny chrome, sleek lines and wraparound windows reminded her of the â57 Chevy that Mr. Mackelroy, her high school principal, used to drive. Even the color was the same, she thought. Sorbet-blue.
When she stepped inside, life-size cardboard cut-outs of James Dean and Marilyn Monroe greeted her with a sign that said Welcome To Pappa Peteâs. Kiera closed the door behind her, barely heard the jangling of the bells over the drumming of a Beach Boys song playing on an overhead speaker and the lively conversations from the lunch crowd. Locals, Kiera thought, noting the mix of families, town workers and ranch hands.
A tall, thick-boned, platinum blonde carrying four plates of burgers on one arm and two plates of French fries on the other bustled by Kiera. âSet yerself down anywhere you like, honey. Something to drink?â
Kiera smiled. âLemonade, please.â
âHey, Madge, what about me?â A slumped-back cowboy sitting at a counter stool held up his coffee cup. âIâm still waiting for a refill.â
âYouâre still waitinâ for brains, too,â Madge shot back. âEveryone knows you were in the basement when they got handed out.â
âYeah, well, everyone knows you were at the front door when tongues got handed out,â the cowboy quipped, which brought a round of laughter from the patrons.
âLeast I got something in my skull that works.â Madge plunked the fries down on a table. âIf your thinker was a mattress, an antâs feet would stick off the sides.â
âThatâs not all I heard was ant size,â someone in the front hollered, setting off a fresh round of laughter and a volley of replies. Red-faced, the cowboy got up, snatched a coffeepot from behind the counter and served himself.
While the wisecracks continued to fly, Kiera sat down at a Formica-topped table next to a window in the back. A teenage boy who hadnât quite grown into his long legs and arms set a glass of pink lemonade in front of her. She smiled and thanked the busboy, who turned beet-red, then turned and stumbled over his own big feet. One of the ranchers teased the boy, which set in motion a new volley of quips.
If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine she was in her own hometown, sitting in the Bronco Cafe, adding her own two cents to the banter and good-natured fun. Even the smell was the same. Burgers, grease and pressed wood paneling. A good smell, she thought. Familiar. Comfortable. Since graduating college, then working her fanny off at restaurants across the country, she could probably count on one hand the times sheâd even been back to the Bronco in the past six years.
Living in a small town could be difficult, she knew. The gossip, the politics, certainly the lack of privacy, all of it was a major pain in the butt. The closest city with a mall had been three hours away, the only theater showed movies two months old and the few dates she had been on had felt more like going out with a best friend or a brother.
But