Montana Dreaming. Karen Rose Smith
he was seriously dating someone, he’d maintained a distance. He didn’t like the idea of having his toothbrush and razor claim space on someone else’s bathroom counter or on a shelf inside a medicine cabinet. Unless, of course, it was in a hotel room on a lover’s getaway weekend.
But this was different.
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to check out of the inn completely. It wasn’t a matter of saving money. It was saving his space. His privacy. His ability to slip away before things got complicated.
“No, I’m keeping the room at the inn.” As an explanation, he added, “With all the fortune hunters who’ve clamored into town, rooms are limited. And if I give up my place across the street, I might not be able to find another one.”
And that was true. Mark sure as hell wouldn’t ask his folks if he could stay with them. Not at the small mountaintop home they owned. Not even on a couch in the office of The Big Sky Motel.
“If you’ll be okay for a while,” he said, “I’ll go across the street and bring over a few personal items. A change of clothes.”
She flashed him a battle-weary but confident smile. “I’ll be fine. Remember, I’m the one who wanted to stay alone.”
He nodded, waiting as she turned her back and slipped the key in the lock. After she opened the door, he followed her inside.
The scent of cleaning products mingled with a hint of paint, as he entered a living room that didn’t have any walls separating it from the kitchen or dining area. He glanced around, eyes adjusting to the darkened interior.
She flipped on a switch, turning on a goofy wagon wheel chandelier that lit the room, revealing a brown tweed sofa, a black recliner and a maple coffee table.
A trace of old cigarette smoke that a good scrubbing and a paint job hadn’t been able to hide lingered in the gold drapes and the green shag carpet.
“Why don’t you lie down,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”
As he turned to go, she grabbed the sleeve of his shirt, those rich mahogany eyes snaring his, setting his nerves on edge, making his heart rumble in his chest.
“Thanks…for…you know…” She gave a little shrug. “For everything.”
“No problem.” But as he stepped into the crisp, cool morning air, he wasn’t so sure he’d done anything commendable.
Juliet wasn’t in a hospital—where she belonged.
And Mark, who had volunteered to be her private duty nurse, didn’t know squat about pregnant women, childbirth or babies.
What in the hell had he set himself up for?
Juliet stretched out on the sofa, her head propped up on two pillows. As she thumbed through a Parents magazine, a knock sounded at the door.
She glanced up from an article on breast-feeding that had caught her eye. “Mark?”
“Yeah. It’s me.”
“The door is unlocked. Come on in.” She fingered the fringed lapel of her blue robe, hoping he wouldn’t give her a hard time because she’d taken a shower and shampooed her hair. But she’d been careful and had taken it slow and easy.
Mark, who looked shower-fresh himself, strode into the room with a newspaper tucked under his arm and carrying a gray duffel bag in his hand. His gaze zoomed in on her, and he frowned. “Why is your hair wet?”
“I took a quick shower. No strain, no stress.”
“I don’t think that’s what the doctor meant by extreme bed rest.”
“Maybe not, but I’ll rest easier if I’m clean.”
He scanned the interior of her apartment, as though noting the Early-American-Garage-Sale decor, the mismatched furniture, the decoupage wall plaques that served as artwork.
So the apartment was a little drab. She was happy here. She lifted her chin, prepared to defend her home from a remark that didn’t come.
He nodded toward the wagon wheel chandelier that hung over the dinette table. “Those are low-watt bulbs. Do you mind if we have some more light in here?”
“No, go ahead.”
She expected him to turn on another lamp, but he strode toward the window and paused in front of the ugly gold drapes.
The droopy, rundown condition wasn’t her fault. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it. The rod was missing some of those little plastic thingies the metal hooks poked into.
But, hey. As long as she had privacy, she could live with them. After all, she’d lived with worse and been happy. When love and laughter filled the interior of a home, nothing else mattered.
He glanced over his shoulder. “You need to ask your landlord to replace the curtains.”
“I’m not going to push for anything like that right now. Not when Mrs. Tasker is going to be shorthanded in the diner and might have to replace me.”
He started to say something, but turned toward the curtain rod. He fiddled with the cord until he opened the drapes a couple of feet.
“I rented this place furnished,” she told him. “So I can’t be too fussy.”
Again, he withheld a comment, although she wished he hadn’t. She was prepared to argue. There was no need for him to feel sorry for her. She was glad to be in Thunder Canyon. Glad to have a job and a home for her baby. There was a lot to be said for counting one’s blessings.
She reached for the soft green covijita that draped over the back of the old sofa and pulled it close, brushing it against her cheek. Her abuelita had crocheted the small blanket, and Juliet cherished it.
“How many bedrooms do you have?” Mark glanced at the two doors along the east wall.
“Just one. The bathroom is on the left. The other door is the bedroom. Go ahead and put your bag in there. I’ll take the sofa.”
“No way.” He crossed his arms, standing sentry-straight, brow furrowed as though she’d suggested they run naked in a snowstorm.
“Shall we compromise?” She figured they could share turns.
“Sure. You take the sofa by day, and I’ll take it by night.”
She could argue, but what was the use? Mark was only looking out for her best interests. Besides, there would probably be plenty of times in upcoming days when they’d disagree. It was best if she chose her battles with this man.
Mark moved toward the bookcase where Juliet displayed her family photos instead of books. Her father had built it years ago. As far as quality, the wood was rustic and slightly flawed, but the piece of furniture was priceless.
He lifted a silver framed photograph of Abuelita holding Papa when he was a toddler.
“Did these pictures come with the place?” he asked.
“No. That’s my father when he was just a little boy. And that’s his mother. My abuelita.”
He replaced it and chose the one of Manny in his baseball uniform.
“That’s my brother, Manuel. He loved sports.”
Mark studied the photo for a while. “What kind of accident did he have?”
“It happened at the warehouse where he worked. A freak industrial accident, they told me. Involving a forklift.” She laid the magazine across her lap and tried to focus on something more pleasant. Something that didn’t remind her of her brother’s death, the lawsuit. Something that didn’t trigger thoughts of Erik Kramer, the attorney who’d volunteered to handle her interests in the workman’s compensation case. The jerk.
Mark replaced the silver frame, then turned away from