glance in her rearview mirror and speed up. Logan did the same, the two of them racing down out of the mountains and onto the narrow road along the lake.
This woman is crazy, Logan thought when she hit the narrow two-lane highway and didn’t slow down. She wanted to race? Then they would race.
He stayed right with her, roaring up beside her when there was no traffic. She would glance at him, then gun it, forcing him to fall behind her when an oncoming car appeared.
They were almost to the town of Bigfork when she suddenly hit the brakes and whipped off the road onto a wide spot overlooking the lake. She’d barely gotten the car stopped at the edge of the rocky cliff, the water lapping at the shore twenty feet below.
Logan skidded to a stop next to her car as she jumped out and, without a word, climbed onto the back of his bike. Wrapping her arms around his waist, she leaned into him and whispered, “Get me out of here.”
After that exhilarating race, she didn’t need to ask twice. He was all the more intrigued by this woman. He roared back onto the highway headed north toward Glacier National Park. As she pressed her body against his, he heard her let out a sigh, and wondered where they were headed both literally and figuratively.
Caught up in the moment, he breathed in the cool mountain air. It smelled of spring and new beginnings. He loved this time of year. Just as he loved the feel of the woman on the bike behind him.
The sun was warm as it scaled the back of the Mission Mountains and splashed down over Flathead Lake. At the north end of the lake, Logan pulled into a small out-of-the-way café that he knew catered to fishermen. “Hungry?”
She hesitated only a moment, then nodded, smiling, as she followed him into the café. He ordered them both the breakfast special, trout, hash browns, eggs and toast with coffee and watched her doctor her coffee with both sugar and cream.
“Are you at least going to tell me your name?” he asked as they waited for their order.
She studied him. “That depends. Do you live around here?”
He shook his head. “East of here, outside of a town called Whitehorse.” He could tell she’d never heard of it. “It’s in the middle of nowhere, a part of Montana most tourists never see.”
“You think I’m a tourist?” She smiled at that.
“Aren’t you?” He still couldn’t decide if she was visiting the Grizzly Club or lived there with her rich husband. But given the way she’d left that expensive sports car beside the lake, he thought his present-day Cinderella theory might not be that far off base.
Maybe he just didn’t want to believe it, but he was convinced she wasn’t married to some tycoon. She hadn’t been wearing a wedding ring last night or today. Not only that, she didn’t act married—or in a committed relationship. Not that he hadn’t been wrong about that before.
“Don’t you think you should at least tell me your name?” he asked.
She looked around the café for a moment as if considering telling him her name. When those pale blue eyes came back to him, she said, “Blythe. That’s my name.”
“Nice to meet you, Blythe.” He reached across the table extending his hand. “Logan. You have a last name?”
Her hand felt small and warm in his. She didn’t clean houses at the Grizzly Club, that was definite, he thought, as he felt her silky-smooth palm. Several silver bracelets jingled lightly on her slim tanned wrist. But she could still be a car thief.
“Blythe is good enough for now, don’t you think?”
“I guess it depends on what happens next.”
She grinned. “What would you like to happen next?”
“I’m afraid I have to head back home today, otherwise I might have had numerous suggestions.”
“Back to Whitehorse,” she said studying him. “Someone waiting for you back there?”
“Nope.” He could have told her about his five brothers and his father and stepmother back at the ranch, but he knew that wasn’t what she’d meant. He’d also learned the hard way not to mention Chisholm Cattle Company. He’d seen too many dollar signs appear in some women’s eyes. There was a price to be paid when you were the son of one of the largest ranch owners in the state.
“Someone waiting for you back at the Grizzly Club?” he asked.
“Nope.”
Their food arrived then and she dived into hers as if she hadn’t eaten in a week. She might not have, he realized. He had no idea who this woman was or what was going to happen next, but he didn’t care. He liked her, liked watching her eat. She did it with the same kind of passion and abandon she’d shown dancing and driving.
“I’ve never seen that part of Montana,” she said as they were finishing. She wiped her expressive mouth and tossed down her napkin. “Show me.”
He raised a brow. “It’s a five-hour drive from here.” When she didn’t respond, he asked, “What about your car?”
“It’s a rental. I’ll call and have the agency collect it.”
He considered her for a moment. “You don’t want to pick up anything from your house?”
“It’s not my house, and I like to travel light.”
Logan still wasn’t sure she was serious about going with him, but serious or not, he was willing to take her up on whatever she was offering. He liked that he had no idea who she was, what she wanted or what she would do next. It had been too long since a woman had captivated him to the point that he was willing to throw caution to the wind.
“Let’s ride then.” As they left the café, he couldn’t help but notice the way she looked around as if afraid of who might be waiting for her outside. He was reminded of how she’d come flying out of the Grizzly Club. Maybe she really had stolen that car she’d been driving and now he was harboring a criminal.
He laughed to himself. He was considered the rebel Chisholm brother. The one who’d always been up for any adventure, whether it was on horseback or a Harley. But as they walked to his motorcycle, he had a bad feeling that he might be getting into more than even he could handle.
Chapter Two
Sheriff Buford Olson hitched up his pants over his expanding belly, reached back into his patrol car for his Stetson and, closing the door, tilted his head back to look up at the hotel-size building called the Main Lodge.
Buford hated getting calls to come out to the Grizzly Club. It wasn’t that he disliked the rich, although he did find them demanding and damned irritating.
It was their private security force, a bunch of punk kids, who made his teeth ache. Buford considered anyone under thirty-five to be a kid. The “club” had given these kids a uniform and a gun and turned them into smart-ass, dangerous punks who knew diddlysquat about law enforcement.
Buford always wondered why the club had to call him in if their security force was so capable. It was no secret that
