days off. Okay?” She lifted a delicate brow, as though cueing him to agree.
He merely blew out a sigh, giving in—so it appeared. He didn’t usually offer unsolicited advice. It wasn’t normally his style. But then again, he wasn’t reminded of Kelly that often. Of her unnecessary death.
Juliet seemed to accept his silence as acquiescence, which it was. But her weary smile didn’t take the edge off the exhaustion in her expression. Nor did it erase the dark circles he hadn’t noticed under her eyes last night.
“I’ll have two peach cobblers,” he said. “And a glass of milk.”
“I’d think the milk might curdle in your stomach with the bourbon you drank earlier.”
“The milk is for you.”
She nodded, then went after the dessert. When she returned, she took a seat. “How’s your story coming along?”
“What story? This assignment is a joke.” And it was, compared to the bigger stories he’d covered in the past. Important events that made him feel as though he’d reached the professional level he’d strived for, that level where one man—a reporter—could make a difference in people’s lives.
“You think the gold rush is a joke?” she asked.
“Writing a story about a bunch of loony-tune prospectors who’ve flocked to a possible gold rush in Thunder Canyon can’t even come close to a story about a major flood or fire.” He dug into the cobbler and scooped out a gooey bite. Hmmm. Not bad.
When he glanced up, he caught Juliet’s eye, her rapt attention.
“You’d rather write about disasters?” she asked. “Why such depressing news?”
“It touches hearts, confronts our deepest fears. Stirs up emotion.”
“We had a fight in here last Saturday night. There was plenty of emotion stirring then.” Her lips quirked into a grin, and he realized she was teasing him, trying to chip away at the cynical armor it had taken him years to build.
“A fight, huh? I’m sorry I missed the entertainment. But not to worry. I can go down to the E.R. at Thunder Canyon General and watch them stitch up the scalp of some idiot who tripped over a pickax and split his head open.”
“So this is small tomatoes for you.”
“Small potatoes,” he corrected, unwilling to reveal his disappointment, his frustration. His desire to make a difference, to help people—victims of disasters. And to better prepare people who hadn’t been stricken by major calamities yet. He shrugged. “I’ll get the job done.”
“You know,” she said, licking a dollop of peach cobbler from her fork. “There have been some gold nuggets found. So one of the prospectors could strike it rich.”
“Maybe. But I think the biggest story I’ve got is the hullabaloo about the ownership of the old mine.”
“I thought Caleb Douglas owned it. That his great-grandfather won it in a poker game with the Shady Lady.”
“That’s the legend that’s been circulating for years. People have just assumed that Caleb was the owner. But he hasn’t produced the deed.”
She furrowed her brow. “What about the county records?”
“They’re not available right now. Harvey Watson, the clerk who’s been transcribing all the old records into the new computer system, is on vacation.” Mark slowly shook his head. “Can you believe, in this day and age, that Thunder Canyon would be so far behind the times?”
“Like I told you before, I think this historical old town is quaint.”
He leaned back in his chair, watched the innocence dance in her eyes and smiled. “You must have some Amish in your genes.”
“Sorry, no Amish. Just a little Basque, a drop or two of French. But mostly, a healthy blend of proud Mexican and Old World Spanish.” She smiled and gave a little wink. “Maybe I was born in the wrong century.”
She was definitely unique. A novelty. And as far as he was concerned, her bloodlines were damn near perfect.
“So, who do you think owns the Queen of Hearts mine?” she asked. “You ought to have an idea. After all, you’re a local boy.”
Not that local. Mark hadn’t moved to Thunder Canyon until he was thirteen. And he was long gone five years later. “I think Caleb Douglas owns the property, and it’s just a matter of a misplaced deed and some backward record keeping in a land office. Anyway, that’s my guess.”
She took a sip of milk, and he watched the path of her swallow. She had a pretty neck. Regal and aristocratic. The kind of throat and neck a man liked to nuzzle.
When she lowered the glass, she wore a spot of white at the edge of her mouth. Unable to help himself, he reached out and snagged it with his thumb.
Her lips parted, and something—he sure as hell didn’t know what—passed between them. An awareness. An intimacy. Something he hadn’t bargained for.
“I…umm…I’m sorry. You had a little milk…” He pointed to her cheek.
Juliet swiped her fingers across her mouth, trying to remove any trace of milk that still lingered. Or maybe she was trying to prolong the stimulating warmth of Mark’s touch. The flutter of heat his thumb had provoked.
For goodness’ sake. She was acting like a schoolgirl with a crush on the substitute teacher, a handsome young man fresh out of college and thrown into a classroom of adolescents. Or on a guy who was way out of her league. And that was crazy.
With the healthy sense of pride Papa and Abuelita had instilled in her, there weren’t too many people—or men—Juliet would consider above her reach.
Of course, being nearly eight months pregnant certainly left her out of the running when it came to romance.
She glanced across the room, eager to break eye contact, or whatever was buzzing between her and Mark, and spotted Mrs. Tasker sitting in the swivel seat at the register. The older woman wore a frown that made the wrinkles around her eyes more pronounced.
Were her ingrown nails giving her trouble again tonight? Or did she think Juliet had a crush on the handsome older man, that she was trying to strike up a relationship with a customer?
Maybe she was thinking Juliet ought to get back to work.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Mark said. “Tell Attila the Hun to back off and let you have a decent break.”
He was right—not about Mrs. Tasker being a barbarian, but about Juliet needing to quit for today. This darn backache was getting to her. “I’ll take the rest of the night off, all right?”
“That’s better yet.” He caught her fingers in a gentle squeeze before releasing them. But the brief connection remained, humming between them as though he hadn’t let go.
She shook it off, blaming her hormones and the loneliness that seemed to haunt her at times, ever since her brother’s
