Czytaj książkę: «The Men of Thunder Ridge»

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Thunder Ridge, Oregon

Izzy Lambert considered herself an honest person, and she’d bet her last dollar that most people who knew her would agree. In her whole life, she’d told only two whoppers. And if you wanted to get technical about it, the first was really more a lie of omission than an outright fib.

She’d spent a whole lot of time afraid her secrets would be discovered and nearly a decade and a half on the lookout for the man from whom she’d withheld the truth. Sometimes she’d think she was seeing him...

...at the Thunderbird Market, reaching for a quart of creamer in the dairy aisle...

...in line at the bank...

...in the car behind hers at the Macho Taco drive-through in Bend...

And once she’d nearly choked on a Mickey Mouse pancake at Disneyland, because she thought he was there, pushing a double stroller.

In reality, it never had been him—thank you, God—but each time Izzy thought she saw Nate Thayer, her heart began to pound, her pulse would race, she’d feel hot and dizzy, and flop sweat drenched her in seconds.

Kinda like right now.

“Join us for lunch at The Pickle Jar. A joke and a pickle for only a nickel,” she said distractedly as she handed a flyer to a group of tourists. Her eyes darted from their sunburned faces to the tall, dark-haired man at the far end of the opposite side of the block.

One of the women waggled the flyer. “Is this a genuine New York deli?”

“It’s a genuine Oregon deli,” Izzy murmured, squinting into the distance. She remembered a headful of thick black hair just like on the man down the block. And broad, proud shoulders like his.

“Where is it?” one of the other women asked.

“About a hundred feet that way.” Taking several mincing steps, Izzy made a half turn and pointed. As she turned back, a tour bus pulled up, blocking the man from her view. Dang it!

“Is that why you’re dressed like a pickle?” asked an elderly gentleman who was perspiring in the sun almost as much as she was.

Admonishing herself to concentrate on the prospective customers, she forced a smile. “I’m not just any pickle—I’m a kosher dill.”

Yeah, she was dressed in a foam rubber pickle suit, the latest in her series of desperate attempts to scare up some new customers for the aged deli. “The Pickle Jar has quarter-done, half-done and full dill pickles, all homemade from a secret family recipe. You can take some home in a collector jar, too.”

According to her online class, Branding is Your Business, having a mascot emphasized the idea behind the product, built connections with customers and humanized the company. Although one could argue that a pickle was not human.

It wasn’t as if she enjoyed dressing as a giant briny cucumber. Once upon a time Izzy had imagined herself in college, studying business, then having an office of her own and wearing beautiful professional attire. Of course, once upon a time she’d imagined a lot of things that had turned out to be nothing more than fantasies. She’d learned several years back that you couldn’t move forward unless you were first willing to accept reality. So with The Pickle Jar losing potential customers every day to the newer, hipper eateries in town, Izzy had succumbed to desperate measures, even going online to purchase this warty green pickle suit, only “slightly” used.

It was swelteringly hot and dark inside the costume, and the cylindrical interior could use a good steam cleaning. None of the other deli employees would even consider putting it on. But she did, because the costume was a marketing tool and allowing the business to close was not an option.

The tourist to whom she’d been speaking, dressed in the same Keep Portland Weird T-shirt as his wife, crossed his arms. “Can we really get a joke and a pickle for just a nickel?”

“Absolutely.”

She spared one last glance across the street, but the tour bus was still in the way. With perspiration trickling below the wimple-style head of the pickle suit, she swiped her brow. The man she’d thought she recognized was probably gone, anyway. Believing she saw Nate Thayer was nothing more than a weird function of her overanxious mind. For some reason, it was almost always in times of personal stress that she would imagine she saw him. Probably because she could think of few things more stressful than having to confront him again.

Focus on business, she counseled herself. Business is real.

The Pickle Jar wasn’t only her place of employment; it was her home. It was where she’d discovered family for the first time in her life. She was the manager of a failing restaurant, but she could fix it. She would fix it.

Forgetting about everything else, Izzy returned her focus to the tourists and gave them her most gracious smile. “I’ve got a million jokes, but the pickles are even better. Follow me to the best little deli west of the Hudson.”

* * *

So far, Nate Thayer’s trip down memory lane was proving bumpier than anticipated. Seated across from Jackson Fleming, who’d quarterbacked for Ridge High back in the day, Nate listened with half an ear as his former teammate complained about...ah, pretty much everything, from the boredom of driving a milk truck for a living to the pressures of raising four kids who sucked up every penny he made, to the slowness of the service at The Pickle Jar, where, in fact, they hadn’t been seated for more than a couple of minutes and were currently perusing the plastic-coated menus.

In Thunder Ridge on business, this was Nate’s first trip home in fifteen years. It had been his suggestion to have lunch here, and while Jack griped about life post high school, Nate allowed his attention to wander around the deli. On the surface, not much had changed. He remembered sitting at that chipped Formica counter, studying for his final high school exams, nursing a drink and eating his fill of mouth-puckering pickles until Sam Bernstein started sending over free corned beef on rye. “Eat,” the older man, short of stature but huge of heart, had insisted when Nate refused the gratis meals at first. “I see you in here all the time, studying hard.” Sam had nodded his approval. “The brain needs food. I’m making a contribution to your college education. You’ll thank me by having a good career.”

He did have a good career, a great career actually, as a commercial architect based in Chicago. Over the years, when he’d thought of Thunder Ridge, he’d found himself hoping the Bernstein brothers would approve. Today Nate didn’t see either of the two old men who owned the deli. The force of his desire to find them alive and well surprised him. He had written once or twice after he’d left for college, but there’d been a lot of water under the bridge, too many complicated feelings for the communication not to feel awkward; soon it had fallen away altogether. Nate wouldn’t be in town long, but it would feel good to mend that particular fence.

His relationship with the brothers was not the only casualty from his past, of course, but the other issue was unlikely to ever be repaired. Isabelle Lambert had left town shortly after he had. In high school, he and Izzy had been in different grades and had run with different crowds; he hadn’t so much as heard her name in a decade and a half. More than once he’d thought about looking her up but had always talked himself out of it.

Nevertheless, it was impossible to return to Central Oregon and not think about the girl with the caramel hair, skin soft as a pillow and lake-colored eyes so big and deep Nate had wanted to dive into them.

When he noticed his fingers clutching the menu too tightly, he forced himself to relax. After fifteen years, his feelings still had jagged, unfinished edges where Izzy was concerned.

“Are you ready to order?”

Distracted by his thoughts, Nate hadn’t noticed the waitress’s arrival. She filled their water glasses, then set the plastic pitcher on the table and stood looking down at them. Her name tag read Willa, a good name for the petite, fair beauty whose long auburn waves and serene appearance made her look as if she’d emerged from another era.

Jack grinned at the waitress. “What’s special today? Besides you?” Despite being married and having a houseful of children, he was obviously smitten.

Nate winced, but the woman remained unfazed, her cool expression revealing nothing as she responded. “We’re serving a hot brisket sandwich on a kaiser roll. It comes with a side salad. The soup today is chicken in the pot.”

Quickly Nate ordered the sandwich, hoping his friend would do the same without further embarrassing himself, but Jack had other plans. “I’ll take the sandwich, and bring me a cold drink, too, gorgeous. ’Cause the more I look at you, the hotter I get.”

“Jack,” Nate began in a warning undertone, but the former Thunder Ridge Huskies football hero—emphasis on former—clearly thought he still had the goods.

Jack grinned at Nate. “You’re in town awhile, right? Maybe Willa’s got a friend, and we can double-date.”

Willa picked up the pitcher of water, murmuring, “I’ll get your sandwiches,” but Jack, who had clearly lost his mind, patted the woman’s butt, then reached for her wrist. The redhead tried to jerk away. Jack held on.

What came next happened so quickly Nate wasn’t sure exactly what had occurred. He was aware of a voice hollering, “Hey!” and the next thing he knew, a large green...cucumber?...appeared at the table concurrent with a tidal wave of ice-cold water washing over him and Jack. Mostly Jack.

Jack yelled, the cucumber yelled back, and then it slipped in the puddle of water, falling in a heap of flailing green arms and legs.

“Pickle down!” a busboy shouted.

Ah, it was a pickle.

Nate rose to help.

“You threw that water on purpose,” Jack accused.

“Shut up,” Nate suggested as he knelt next to what appeared to be a life-size vegetable mascot. “Don’t move,” he said, unsure of where to check first for injuries. At least there was an abundance of padding. “Let’s make sure you’re not hurt before you try to get up.”

Ignoring him, the irate dill pointed toward Jack. “You need to leave this restaurant. Now.” Then it turned back to Nate. “And you. You—”

She stopped—it was definitely a she.

Half a lifetime fell away.

“Izzy?” Her name escaped on a rush of breath.

It took her longer to say his name, and when she did, her voice crackled. “Nate.”

“You know her?” Jack glared. “She got water on my Wallabees.” He raised a leg, pointing to his boot. “These are suede, man, and I haven’t Scotchgarded them yet. I want to see the manager.”

Because he found it impossible to break eye contact with Izzy, Nate felt rather than saw the small crowd that was gathering around them. He heard someone say, “She is the manager,” and then people started talking over one another, their voices seeming distant and irrelevant.

Izzy.

That’s what was relevant. The fact that Izzy Lambert was here, right where he’d left her—despite her avowal that she would leave this town someday and head for a big city with opportunities that were bigger and better than anything she’d known in Oregon.

“What happened?” he murmured.

“I slipped on the water.”

He shook his head. Not what he’d meant. But he hadn’t intended to speak his thought out loud, anyway.

He’d been told she left town and recalled his tangled emotions at the time. It had taken some work, but he’d finally made peace with the fact that they’d been kids when they’d dated, that their relationship had been meant to last a summer not a lifetime and that, thankfully, the only people they’d truly hurt were themselves. Still, Izzy Lambert remained the big unanswered question of his life.

“Coming through. What happened here?”

Khaki-colored trousers appeared in Nate’s peripheral vision. He glanced up to see a sheriff, who stood with his hands on his hips, looking amusedly down at Izzy.

“Izz. You hurt?”

“No.”

“Okay. Up you go, then.” The lawman, a big, good-looking guy, extended a hand.

“Wait a minute.” Rising, Nate faced the sheriff. Now that he was standing, he realized the man was about his height...maybe a half inch taller...and roughly the same weight. Nate didn’t like the slight smile around the other man’s lips. “She shouldn’t get up until we know for sure she hasn’t broken something.”

To the casual observer, the sheriff’s smile appeared friendly, but there was a distinct challenge in the dark gaze that connected with Nate’s.

“Sheriff Derek Neel.” He introduced himself with a nod. No handshake. “And you are?”

Nate glanced at Izzy. Her eyes looked huge. “An old friend,” he responded, not above a twinge of satisfaction when the sheriff’s brow lowered a bit.

“Must be really old,” Sheriff Neel surmised. “I’ve known Izz twelve years. I can’t recall ever seeing you around.”

It was Nate’s turn to frown, and it felt more like a scowl. “Izz” must not have left Thunder Ridge for very long. She’d gone without getting in touch with him, without leaving a forwarding address. And back then she hadn’t had email or a cell phone. Nate had already moved to Chicago to attend college, was already deeply immersed in that life. Other than phoning Henry to ask if he knew where Izzy was—and Henry had claimed he had no information about Izzy—there had been no way, really, to track her down.

Out of nowhere, the feelings he’d had half a lifetime ago came rushing back, brief but surprisingly powerful. The tight throat, the sick gut, the confusion, even the desire to punch something when he’d heard Izzy was gone—all those sensations were there again, despite the years and the experiences between then and now.

Izzy seemed frozen in place, but his glance unlocked her, and she struggled to sit up. The bulky costume impeded her efforts.

The sheriff grabbed her beneath the left elbow the same moment that Nate’s fingers closed around her right arm. She looked at him, not at the other man, her eyes alarmed. Her soft, perfectly formed lips parted...and damned if he didn’t feel it again—the old desire, the possessiveness he’d never felt about anyone or anything except Izzy Lambert.

She seemed to be primed to say “thank you,” but no sound emerged. Instead, she stared back at him, breathing through her open mouth, silky brows arched, and he recalled the way she used to look at him, as if she’d been hungry for the very sight of him.

His glance dropped to her torso. Couldn’t help it. Though he couldn’t see it, he knew that beneath the bulky costume was the body he had gotten to know well. Too well, let’s face it. He had seen it in sunlight, moonlight and the stark light of a doctor’s office. He remembered it all.

Did she?

He shouldn’t feel a damned thing for Izzy Lambert after all these years. Their relationship was a cold case. It had begun as a summer love and ended the way most everyone had predicted it would—with Nate leaving for college in another state and Izzy...

Well, he wasn’t certain exactly what had happened to Izzy. All he knew for sure was that between the beginning and the end of their relationship, they had lived a lifetime, bonded in ways some couples never did. In one summer they had been forced to grow up, whatever innocence they’d once enjoyed gone for good. Maybe that was why the feelings weren’t completely dead, at least not for him. In all the years since, he hadn’t lived with that much intensity. Or passion.

With his blood feeling too hot for his veins, Nate wondered if he should have stayed away despite the passage of time. Then, just as suddenly, as if someone had turned on the air-conditioning, the heat of resentment cooled.

She’d planned to make a mark on the world, yet here she was: a pickle.

An angry pickle, coming to the defense of her coworker. Suddenly, he couldn’t prevent the quirk of his lips. Izzy, Izzy... Somehow, the ridiculous situation suited her. She’d always been unpredictable, always surprising.

Nate glanced again at the sheriff. Who was he? Friend? Lover? Something more? Maybe. But if she is, I wouldn’t want to be in your boots, pal. Izzy was still looking at him, not at the lawman.

Nate’s relationship with Isabelle Lambert might be fifteen years dead and buried, but he could feel the current running between them right now, and suddenly Nate knew in his gut: returning to Thunder Ridge was either a mistake or the best decision he’d made in a long, long time.

* * *

Gridlock. That was the state of Izzy’s brain.

Nate’s fingers were wrapped around her upper arm as he and Derek lifted her to her feet. It might have taken one second or ten minutes. All she could feel was Nate...and fear.

His touch ignited a flash fire of memory. The years disappeared and once more she was standing between his arms, her back against his truck, feeling his heartbeat and his heat, inhaling the amazing, perfect scent of his skin as he pressed against her, his whisper warm in her ear: “Do you know what the feel of you does to me?” He’d been the only person who’d ever made her feel truly special. More than a decade later, parts of her body that had been in hibernation a long, long time suddenly woke up. That was not good.

To regain her composure, she tore her gaze from his. She needed time to think. Even after all the years of looking for him, of fearing she might run into him somewhere, he’d still managed to catch her completely off guard now that it had actually happened.

And then, the worst...

Big Ken, the affectionately named clock tower in front of City Hall, struck two. Boom...boom...

Oh, dear Lord. She didn’t have much time at all. Seven minutes if she was lucky.

Her heart galloped as one thought rose above all others: Get rid of him!

“Nice to see you, Nate. I have to get back to work. Meal’s on the house.”

Izzy considered that a nice touch...friendly, but Nate’s blue eyes narrowed. “We haven’t eaten yet.”

“Oh. Not a problem. We’ll get you a sandwich to go.”

Nate’s frown deepened.

“You know what I’d like?” Jack, the jerk Izzy had seen groping Willa, stepped forward. “An apology for ruining my boots. Maybe even a reimbursement.”

Izzy stared at the man. She’d caught him fondling her employee, a woman so buttoned-up and proper that Izzy never told a blue joke in front of her.

Nate’s friend was a big hulk of a guy. Izzy didn’t recognize him, but she knew his type. Her mother had dated men like him: big, arrogant and dumb as rocks. Convinced you were as impressed with them as they were with themselves. Forget the jerk. Get rid of Nate, her brain counseled wisely. Her temper, however, which tended to get the best of her under stress, kindled.

“A reimbursement. Sure.” She nodded. “Check’s in the mail.”

“All right. That’s more like it.”

“I was being facetious.” Forgetting that from the neck down she was still dressed as a dill, she waddled up to the man to take him down a peg. “You know what I think? I think you need to apologize to Willa.”

“To Willa?” Derek was beside her in a flash. “What happened?”

“Nothing!” Twisting a ring on her right hand, Willa shook her head. “It was all just a misunderstanding. It won’t happen again.”

“What won’t happen again?” Derek squared off, ready for a showdown, which made Izzy realize instantly she should have kept her big mouth shut. Derek’s history was dotted with confrontation, and he tended to be even more mulish than she.

“The lady said it was a misunderstanding.” Nate stepped in. Unintimidated by Derek’s badge, his stature or his expression, Nate spoke in a tone at once mildly appeasing and strongly cautionary. “Let’s take her word for it. Jack, apologize to Willa.”

Jack spoke up from safely behind his friend. “Why should I apologize?”

“To save your life.” Nate tossed the wry reply over his shoulder while maintaining eye contact with Derek, who now directed his glower toward Nate.

“Who are you again?” Derek demanded, his hands on his hips. “And how do you know Izzy?”

Izzy’s heart began to pound. She and Nate had kept their personal business private. Because of her home life, Izzy had not socialized much, and because she and Nate had both had jobs, they’d reserved their limited time together strictly for each other. With the exception of Henry and Sam, who owned the deli and knew almost everything about her, most people had assumed she and Nate were just a fleeting high school crush. Here today, gone tomorrow. Which was exactly what she wanted them to assume.

I should use Gorilla Glue instead of lip gloss. If she’d kept her mouth shut, Nate and his friend might be out of here by now.

His gaze fell on her as he answered Derek. “Izzy and I are...old friends.”

Was it her imagination, or had Nate hesitated a hair too long before he said “old friends”? In addition to Derek, half her crew had rushed over to help when she fell. She did not want to court their curiosity.

Addressing herself to Jack, she said, “Never mind. You know what? Check is in the mail.”

“No, it’s not.” Nate turned toward her, his expression uncompromising. “He owes Willa—and you—an apology.” The steadiness of his gaze made her skin prickle inside the hot costume.

“Whose side are you on?” Jack complained. “She got water on you, too, man.”

Nate didn’t glance his friend’s way. His attention and low, intense words were all for Izzy. “Stand your ground, Isabelle. Don’t let some jackass push you around.”

“Hey!” Jack protested behind them.

Locked in a battle of gazes with Nate, anger blazed through Izzy like a brush fire.

Fifteen years ago, she would have given almost anything to have Nate Thayer on her side. To hear him stand up for her, stand up for them. But his supportive words were a decade and a half too late.

“You’re giving me advice, Nate? No, thank you. What I want is for you to take your friend and go.” She wasn’t a weak, starry-eyed girl any longer. “I want you to go right now.” The last words were so choked, so intense, Nate may have been the only one to hear them.

The surprise on Nate’s face offered a modicum of satisfaction. He seemed to be on the brink of saying something more before his expression shuttered, concealing his thoughts.

Slowly, he turned to his loudmouthed friend. “Apologize, and let’s go.”

“Apologize? For being friendly?”

“Do it,” Nate said. “I’m sure the sheriff would like to kick your ass, Jack, and if he doesn’t, I might. Stop arguing and start apologizing.”

“Fine. Who do I have to apologize to? The cucumber or the waitress?”

Hands resting just above his gun belt, Derek got in Jack’s face. “She’s a pickle.”

Nate shook his head. “Apologize to both of them,” he ordered.

Face reddening, Jack turned first to Willa. “Okay. Sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it.” He raised his hand to show off the gold band. “I’m married.” A resounding “ugh” circled through the small group of onlookers. Redder still, he looked at Izzy. “I apologize for making a big deal about the Wallabees. But they are new, and—”

Nate’s hand clamped down firmly on Jake’s shoulder. “I think you can stop there.” His gaze returned boldly to Izzy. He nodded. “Good to see you, Isabelle.”

With her heart pounding against the foam costume, she gave a jerky nod.

He seemed to hesitate a moment longer, which made her nerves flare, then apparently deciding there was nothing else to say, he turned and walked toward the deli’s glass door.

“Time to get back to work,” she muttered, feeling slightly out of breath.

Her busboy Leon, and Oliver, the cook, returned to their jobs. Willa hurried after them.

Derek watched the petite redhead for several seconds, then looked at Izzy. His eyes narrowed. “Explanation, please. Who was that guy? ’Cause your face is as green as that ridiculous costume.”