here, with you two jabbering.”
“Sorry. Hang around just a minute, Harry. I’ll be back.” At least she could serve biscuits. As always, she had come in early, baked biscuits and brewed urns of coffee using the special house blends that had become her trademark around Little Lobo.
The tiny Montana town just north of the Bozeman Pass made up for its lack of citified entertainment with stunning scenery, wide-open spaces, a tiny school, the basic stores necessary for survival and Sarah’s Little Lobo Eatery and Daily Grind. Her special and often exotic coffee and her luscious, fresh-fruit tarts drew regulars from as far away as Big Sky and Helena.
After she served the biscuits, she took a menu and water to the stranger and his little boy. He nodded thanks.
The man was far more handsome than she’d first thought. Black lashes fringed eyes the color of rich Creole coffee and dark, thick hair curled over his forehead, giving him a devil-may-care look that suited his faded jeans and well-worn chambray shirt.
“Do you need some time?” Please!
“Sure,” he said, opening the menu to study it. From his smile and his glance around, she knew that he realized he was doing her a favor. “Bring a couple of orange juices when you have time.”
“No problem.” She brought the juice and then made a quick run around the room, refilling water glasses and coffee cups and taking orders from customers who had already been waiting too long.
Ordinarily she would have been overjoyed with the crowd, but today the chatter in the room sounded more like grumbling. Every eye cut her way seemed critical. All she could do was keep smiling and try to get them all fed.
Behind the counter again, trying to cook a dozen things at once on a half-cold griddle, she looked around at Harry. “I want to have Nolan draw up a contract, too. And I still need that estimate I asked for.”
Harry downed the last gulp of coffee and ran a pink napkin across his greasy lips, then belched and said, “Puh, contract. We don’t need no legalese bull. ’Scuse my language, missy. Anyway, you got a contract with your brother to buy that old house from him?”
Sarah shook her head. “Not yet, just a verbal agreement. But I’m going to pin him down as soon as I can get in touch with him.”
“Didn’t think so. Never understood why your uncle Eual split up that property and left the house to Bobby. He shoulda just left everything to you and give Bobby some money to blow. You was the one always spent your summers and holidays here helping him out. Don’t recall Bobby so much as lifting a hand in the café or the fishing end of the business.”
“I think he hoped Bobby would settle down if he had the responsibility of the house. But Little Lobo is too tame for him. He says that house is just a heap of junk and not worth fixing up.”
“He ain’t far off about the house, I’m afraid. But if you want to try, I’m here to do the job. And you don’t need no contract with me, neither. Round here, we don’t do business that way. Just give me the go-ahead and ’fore you know it, you’ll have a real nice bed-and-breakfast.”
Harry shifted a toothpick around in his mouth.
“’Course, I’ll need money up front for the initial supplies.” He threw a ten on the counter and stood. On his way out he stopped to talk to a couple of townspeople, then left.
“Of course, always the money first,” she muttered, rearranging sizzling sausage with another batch of pancakes to try to get them all cooked through. The buzz of conversation behind her began to sound like a hive of angry bees.
She remembered the stranger and his son. Turning around, she found the man watching her. The child colored on a place mat with one of the crayons from a small glass Sarah kept on each table.
“Coming,” she said and hurried around the counter to their table. “I’m so sorry for the delays this morning.”
“Don’t worry about it. He’ll take cereal and milk—” the man nodded toward the child, who didn’t bother to look up “—I’ll have a biscuit with gravy.”
“No problem.”
He glanced toward the griddle. “Your eggs are burning.”
“Oh my gosh! I’ll be right back.” She raced over to the temperamental griddle, squelching an urge to kick the tar out of it. She doubted that would work and besides she might break a toe. Quickly she put together the order and carried it to the table, laying down the bill at the same time. When she thought to look again a few minutes later, the small booth was empty and payment for the meal rested on the receipt.
IN THE CROWDED parking lot shared by the café and a veterinary clinic next door, Cimarron headed for his truck with Wyatt on his heels. Every step he’d taken for the past month, he’d been dogged by this miniature R.J., like the ghost of his brother constantly reminding him that he’d screwed up. Again. And it was driving Cimarron crazy.
He hoisted Wyatt onto the seat in the cab. “Wait here till I get back.”
Wyatt’s eyes widened in dread. “Where are you going?”
“Just right up there to look at that house. I won’t be gone long. Stay in the truck and don’t touch anything.”
This morning didn’t seem to be the best time to talk to Sarah James, but he could at least look at the old house, which was looming in a forlorn state of disrepair on the hillside behind the café. Square and bulky, three stories high, with dormers and tall chimneys sprouting from a slate roof, the structure’s classic bones had been altered over the years by clumsy additions to the sides and a utilitarian porch that hid the craftsmanship of the original molding around the front entrance. The front door stood open, beckoning Cimarron to explore.
“I want to go, too,” Wyatt said, his eyes and voice pleading. He hadn’t liked to be alone for a minute since his daddy died.
An occasional car passed on the two-lane highway leading out of town, the drone of tires on asphalt rising and then ebbing away to nothing as each vehicle disappeared around the bend. Cimarron hesitated with his hand on the door of his truck. Finally, he exhaled hard and put the kid back on the ground again. “Just don’t get in my way and don’t touch anything.”
“Okay.”
Always okay. Never any protest unless Cimarron tried to get out of his sight for two seconds.
Cimarron shook his head and strode off, with Wyatt right behind. When he entered the musty-smelling parlor, a rush of images came to him, some faded, with tattered edges like old photographs long misplaced. This place had been a fishing lodge in its prime and Cimarron could imagine the boom of laughter as fishermen warmed themselves with whiskey and a roaring fire and told tall tales of their day in the stream.
With a practiced eye, Cimarron assessed the condition of the once-proud room, which had deteriorated over time into a shadowy dust-covered ruin. The bad news? Rotting ledges at the bottom of two of the tall windows facing the mountains; holes in the plaster; dry, splintered floorboards that creaked under his weight as he crossed the room. The good news? The house had good bones and the problems Cimarron noticed at first glance appeared to be only superficial. He ran his hand appreciatively along the intricately carved mantel over the parlor fireplace before climbing the elegant staircase
