Welcome to Paradise (9 page)

It was way too soon to go to the bar, but she was happy to stroll along in her new boots, her blister covered with new moleskin.

To her surprise, she came across a diner two blocks down the street. Where had that come from? Hadn't she asked about a place like this ? She was beginning to wonder if anything Zeb Bowie said was true—including the story of his broken engagement. It could have been a line to gain her sympathy, though why he'd want that she didn't know.

Like the bar, the place was right out of a Western movie, with a long Formica counter, checkered tablecloths, flowered curtains at the windows and the smell of coffee in the air. Chloe took a stool at the counter and looked around at the other late-afternoon customers—a solitary cowboy at the end of the counter and a couple at a table in the back—until the waitress approached with a green order pad in her hand.

When the waitress brought her order, Chloe swallowed her anger and allowed herself to admire the towering meringue on the lemon pie. So much so she almost didn't notice the two men outside the window until the waitress waved to them. Her heart lurched. Even though she knew he was in town, she wasn't prepared to see Zeb Bowie yet. How did one prepare to see him? By straightening the shoulders. By taking a deep cleansing breath. By digging the toes of the boots into the floor. And clearing the throat so one could speak clearly without stumbling. Then curving the lips into a bland smile.

But there was no need to hurry. Because the two of them stood on the sidewalk waving their arms and talking in an animated manner to each other. As if she didn't exist. For all she knew they hadn't seen her; they were so engrossed in their conversation. She strained to hear their words or to read their lips, but finally gave up and turned to her pie and coffee.

“The Bowie brothers,” the waitress said with a nod in their direction, as if that explained everything.

“Oh, yes. I've heard about them,” Chloe said casually.

“Who hasn't?” the waitress asked. “Actually they're not as wild as they used to be. You know, the detergent in the fountain on the square that foamed all over the streets. And riding their horses backwards down Main Street in the May Day Parade.”

Chloe shook her head in mock despair. “I suppose they come in to the diner from time to time,” she said casually.

“All the time. Whenever they're in town. Everyone does. It may be Margie's pie or it may be the coffee. But sooner or later, everybody comes to the diner.”

Chloe glanced out the window and caught Zeb's eye. The liar. The unprincipled, unscrupulous liar. He waved, but he didn't come in.

“That's her?” Sam asked Zeb as he looked through the glass. “You never said she was young.”

“You didn't ask,” Zeb said.

“Or that she was pretty,” Sam said pressing his forehead against the window for a better look.

“It doesn't matter if she's Miss U.S.A. We have to have that land. Horatio would want us to have it,” Zeb said.

“Then why didn't he leave it to us?” Sam asked.

“Probably thought we didn't need it or want it. Which was true at the time. Before the anthrax epidemic and the flood. Now there's the dam,” Zeb said. “It's a whole new ball game. A new opportunity to save our hides. And those of our herd.”

“So what's the plan?” Sam asked.

“We stick to her like glue. Don't let anybody get close enough to spill the beans. Once she finds out, we're sunk. We haven't got a chance. Not only will she refuse to sell the land...”

“She'll have a bad opinion of us,” Sam suggested.

“To say the least” Zeb said grimly.

“Do you care?” his brother asked with a curious glance.

“I don't particularly like being despised,” Zeb said dryly.

“Why, hello,” he said, feigning surprise. “If it isn't my next-door neighbor.” He slid smoothly onto the stool next to her. “Chloe, meet my brother Sam.”

Sam shook her hand and sat on the other side of her. She turned her head from side to side, carefully studying both men. “Yes, I see the family resemblance,” she said at last “The same grizzled chin. The same bowed legs.”

“About the pranks you two used to play. And about the fact that this coffee shop has been here for thirty years and yet when you knew I was dying for a cup of coffee the other day, you didn't seem to know it existed.”

“Of course I knew it existed. But you asked for a coffee shop. This is a diner,” he said smugly. “Isn't it, Mary Lou?” he asked the waitress, who was standing with her hands on her hips shaking her head at them. But she couldn't deny it.

“So what brings you to town this evening?” Zeb asked Chloe, admiring her profile while she ate her pie. The curve of her cheek, the straight nose, the stubborn chin. It was the stubborn chin that worried him.

“Same thing that brings you to town,” she answered.

“Buying farm equipment?” Zeb asked, noticing a stray curl brush her smooth cheek. He squeezed his fork tightly in his hand to keep from reaching out to tuck that silky tendril behind her ear.

“Going to the bar for the steak dinner and the music,” she said.

“Oh, that,” he said. “I wouldn't bother if I were you. Besides, it might rain tonight and you wouldn't want to be caught on the trail in a downpour.”

“If we're going home,” Zeb said between clenched teeth. “Our plans are up in the air. If we go home at all, it might be very late. Or we might not be alone.”

Chloe looked startled for just a moment, but she recovered with a quick smile. “I understand. After all, you've got your reputation to consider. What would people say if the Bowie brothers went home alone or too early? I wouldn't want to cramp your style. Or impose on you. I'm sure it's not going to rain, but if it does...” She held out one foot “I've got new boots. Waterproof.”

Zeb's spirits fell. Boots. She had waterproof boots. He should never have let her out of his sight. He should have been there every moment to discourage her, to warn her and to hinder her efforts. Now she'd gone and bought these boots. Expensive boots, too, from the look of them.

“Well, we'd better be getting over to the bar, fire up those barbecue pits,” Zeb said, draining his coffee cup and laying some bills on the counter.

“She wants to,” Zeb said, thinking she'd be better off in the kitchen where no random customer would strike up a conversation with her. “She's a great cook.”

Chloe glanced up at Zeb, her gaze dubious, as if she doubted his sincerity. He met her gaze without wavering. It was one of the few truthful things he'd said to her or about her. She must have sensed it because an energy flowed between them. And sparks flew. Right there on the sidewalk of the town of Powderkeg. He couldn't look away. Neither could she.

Sam was talking about something, but Zeb wasn't listening. He was listening to the voice in his head. The one that said, This woman has your number. Don't lie to her, don't try to fool her. She's on to you. And sooner or later she'll make you pay for those lies. He jerked his eyes from hers, told the voice in his head to shut up, and focused on the hills in the distance.

“Will any of your girlfriends be there tonight?” she asked.

“What girlfriends?” he asked. Lord, she could be annoying. What business was it of hers?

“You said you went out with women. They didn't get serious. Neither did you. Worked out fine. I thought they might be there tonight.”

Exasperated, he exhaled loudly. “You have a memory like an elephant,” he said. “I don't know who will be there. And I don't really care as long as they buy a steak and eat it. And recommend Bar Z meat to their friends. Here we are.” He turned abruptly into the swinging front doors to the bar with his brother and Chloe close behind.

Barney was in the kitchen on a stepladder, taking plates off the top shelf of the cabinet when they trooped in.

“Sam, Zeb, thank God you're here. I've got reservations up the kazoo. I hope to heaven you brought a lot of meat. I just wonder... Oh, hello, Ms. Hudson. Sorry about the mess.” He looked around the small room at mesh bags of baking potatoes, slabs of butter and tubs of sour cream and shook his head. “Well, don't just stand there,” he said to Zeb. “Do something. We've got about a hundred people coming here in an hour.”

But Barney was paralyzed. Incapable of giving anyone an assignment. “I should never have done this,” he told Chloe as he climbed down from the stepladder when the brothers had left. “I became a bartender in a small town so I could take it easy. I don't need this kind of stress in my life. And I don't need more than twenty people in the bar at once. This was all Zeb's crazy idea. To sell his meat. To provide entertainment while people ate his meat.” He pressed his hands to his temples.

Chloe hesitated only a moment then wrapped the potatoes in foil, neatly and efficiently, all one hundred of them, stacked them in the oven to bake at 350°. Then she opened the refrigerator and four huge bags of lettuce fell out. “There's the salad,” she murmured to herself. “But where's the dressing?” The answer was there was no dressing. There were, however, bottles of oil and vinegar, a jar of Dijon mustard and salt and pepper. She whisked, she blended, she tasted and she cleaned up the kitchen. Leaving the potatoes behind to do their baking, she went out the back door to find the Bowie brothers bending over the smoking charcoal.

Zeb's eyes glowed like angry, red-hot charcoal, and his polo shirt was covered with black soot “I'm impatient? You think I'm impatient? Wait till you see all those people who have paid twelve dollars waiting for their steaks while you're back here staring at those coals. You're going to have a riot on your hands. And I'm not going to be here to protect you.”

“Since when do I need you to protect me?” Sam asked indignantly, blowing on the coals.

“Since you were ten years old and Rick Russell stole your lunch on the school bus,” Zeb said, fanning the coals from the other side.

“I didn't need you. You butted in, as usual. I had everything under control then, and I have everything under control now. So butt out.”