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“True enough.” He was still fussing with his computer.
“And I know you’ve expressed an interest in getting this town back on its feet. You’ve been meeting with the mayor, along with other leading members of the community. I don’t know how many ideas you’ve come up with, but if you’ll take a look at some figures I’ve put together to support what I have in mind…”
Mr. Trudeau finally opened the folder, but his expression didn’t change.
Laila cleared her throat. “I think the bank is in a position to make more loans to struggling local homeowners and small businesses in Thunder Canyon and, as you’ll see, I’ve proposed some avenues to do that, while benefiting our business in the long run.”
“Interesting,” he said, paging through the folder.
Laila couldn’t stop looking at the top of his silver head, and when she realized that her fingers were clutching her skirt, she loosened her hold.
Mr. Trudeau closed the folder. “Looks like that college business degree did you some good, Laila.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Beats getting an MRS degree, like the girls in my day used to do.”
Laila kept her mouth shut. Even though she’d decided to major in business because she thought she should, rather than out of a love for the subject, she was proud of her accomplishments. So were her parents, who’d always emphasized a firm work ethic in their household.
Her boss sat in his chair with a sense of finality. “I’ll go over it, Laila. Thanks for your work.”
She almost said, “But…”
Yet she didn’t, even if, so many times before, she’d heard Mike Trudeau use the same brush-off.
Sometimes, when she talked to him, she felt as if there was no substance in her at all. But maybe this time he would believe that there was more to her than what he saw—something she’d tried, and failed, to prove all too recently at Miss Frontier Days.
Holding back that frustration, she got up, thanking her boss again, then headed for the door.
She shut it behind her, adapting a pleasant expression for the customers who greeted her on their way to the tellers’ windows.
In spite of what had just happened, as long as Laila could use her brain, she was going to keep putting proposals on her boss’s desk. She would keep on fighting the good fight… .
On her way across the tiled lobby, a woman’s voice stopped her.
“Laila!”
She turned to find Jacey Weidemeyer, one of her friends from high school who patronized the bank. She was dressed in jeans and a thick sweater that almost hid the reminder of a recently pregnant belly.
And she was holding a baby.
For some reason, Laila’s heart twisted at the sight of the newborn in Jacey’s arms, an infant swaddled in a pink blanket with a tiny knit hat covering her head, her eyes closed in sleep, her skin smooth and rosy.
“Oh,” Laila whispered. “She’s beautiful.”
Jacey stroked her daughter’s cheek. “Meet Hannah. This is the first time we’ve gotten out of the house since I gave birth.”
Laila touched the baby’s little hand. Tiny nails. Tiny fingers.
Her heart seemed to sink inside her for some reason.
Jacey said, “We’re going to have a reception in a few weeks. I’ll email you an invitation.”
“I’d…” What, love to go? It was the last thing Laila thought she would ever have said. She amended herself appropriately. “I’ll be there.”
After they finished chatting and Jacey left for the teller’s window, Laila looked after her and Hannah, pangs invading her deep and low.
Was it because of what Cade had said last night about how he could give her children before it was too late?
Having no idea, Laila went back to her office, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her.
By the time a chilly, star-pinned night hushed over Thunder Canyon, Jackson had left the brick office building that his brother, Ethan, had established for Traub Oil Montana in Old Town and arrived at the Thunder Canyon Resort to meet some of his family for dinner at DJ’s Rib Shack.
He shed his coat and hat in the hostess area and walked into the restaurant, with its family-style benches and booths filled with customers, pictures of sepia-toned cowboys and a visual history of Thunder Canyon revealed in a mural painting.
It wasn’t two seconds before Ethan came over to him.
“So I hear you’ve already gotten busy here in town,” his older brother said.
Jackson was tall, but Ethan had a couple of inches on him, and he was dressed for the field in boots and jeans since he’d returned from the Bakken Shale today.
It would seem that Big Bro was talking to Jackson about work, yet that wasn’t quite the case.
Ignoring Ethan’s jibe, Jackson headed for a private back dining room where special events were often held, including tonight’s family gathering that DJ had called, though no one knew the reason yet.
Ethan followed. “Weren’t you the one who said that you’d probably be in Thunder Canyon only long enough to work on this project and then you’d be going back to Midland?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Well, it sure looks as if you’re settling into this place fine enough to me. You’re dating a local girl.”
Jackson sat at a dining bench. The aroma of DJ’s famous rib sauce was already making his stomach grumble.
“It’s just a date,” he said lightly. “And Laila Cates is fully aware that it’s not going to turn into anything more. And just so you know, my social activities won’t affect my work here.”
Ethan sat across from him. “If you had the kind of track record that didn’t include a string of heartbreaks for your dates, I wouldn’t be worried. From what I know, Laila Cates is the town sweetheart. You mess with her, you mess with every man who’s had his eye on her. Traub Oil Montana doesn’t need that kind of PR. It’s your job to see that this town wants to work with us.”
It was obvious that Jackson still had a lot of work to do when it came to earning his family’s trust, but he was going to accomplish it. His real dad would’ve wanted that. Even Pete, his stepfather, would be proud of that sort of determination, and Lord knows that after what Jackson and the rest of his brothers had put Pete through, the man deserved some consideration.
Good thing that the rest of the Traub kids were coming around to seeing that these days, too, after Pete’s heart attack and recovery.
“I don’t aim to make trouble,” Jackson said, meeting his brother’s dark gaze.
Ethan seemed to realize that Jackson meant it—at least for the moment—so he let it go.
That didn’t sit right with Jackson, though. He wanted his brother—all his siblings—to know that he was going to come through for them, that he wouldn’t screw up again.
He wanted them to have some faith in him.
More of his relatives arrived—Dillon, Corey, their cousins DJ and Dax. A waitress took their orders, then left to place them while everyone made small talk, chatting about their work and lives as well as the latest gossip about ex-town councilman Arthur Swinton and his heart attack and death in jail. He’d been incarcerated for embezzling funds from Thunder Canyon, and his mere name left a sour note in the room.
Drinks were served. Jackson had ordered a soda, showing his brothers that he wasn’t such a wild man that he needed a drink in hand at all times. The champagne at Corey’s wedding had done enough damage.
Whether or not his siblings noticed the gesture, they ate in peace when the food came.
That was, until DJ brought up some unsettling news.
“Get your fill while you can,” he said. He was a quiet man most of the time. Didn’t dress flashy, preferring flannel shirts and jeans to a cowboy hat, boasting the same dark eyes and brown hair that seemed to be the hallmark of the Traub family.
Ethan said, “What do you mean?”
DJ put down his fork, then wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I mean that LipSmackin’ Ribs is making a play for all the business in town.”
And that was obviously the reason he’d brought them together tonight.
A chorus of support for DJ filled the room. Everyone knew that his ribs had a stronghold in Thunder Canyon, as well as other joints sprinkled throughout the country. An upstart rib outfit in the new part of town didn’t have anything on DJ’s.
Jackson was still taking in the announcement. Strange, but when he’d met Woody Paulson, the manager of LipSmackin’ Ribs, a time or two at the Hitching Post bar, the man had never let on that there was an underhanded takeover afoot. He knew that Jackson was a Traub, too.
Had Woody been laughing to himself the whole time, thinking about how he was working over the family right under Jackson’s nose?
DJ tried to seem as if he wasn’t too worried, but something about his gaze belied that. “LipSmackin’ somehow got in tight with the Hitching Post, and they’re providing the ribs for them now.”
Jackson just shook his head. DJ was decent. Real decent. Never one to screw over a competitor. And Jackson felt protective of that sort of nobility in his cousin.
In his family.
“Let me get this straight,” Dax, DJ’s brother, said. He was the true rebel of the group and had always reminded Jackson of James Dean in a brooding way. “A tavern that’s been in Thunder Canyon for generations has turned its back on one of its own in favor of a bunch of strangers?”
Jackson knew that by strangers, Dax wasn’t including the Texas Traubs, who had strong family ties to Thunder Canyon. And he could tell that Dax’s blood was boiling for the sake of his brother, too.
“This is what they’re telling me,” DJ said. “I had an exclusive contract with the Hitching Post, but had is the operative word.” He carefully set down his napkin now. “I’m not going to lie to you all. This is hitting the Thunder Canyon branch of the Rib Shack hard, and it hurts the bottom line of my entire business.”
Jackson could see how this affected DJ personally as well. His cousin’s skin was a shade of red, as if he was angry, maybe even embarrassed at being treated so shabbily by a neighbor.
And if their neighbors were treating DJ like this, then that left the Traubs to back each other up.
Jackson’s jaw had gone just as tight as Dax’s appeared to be.
“I can’t believe the Hitching Post did this,” Dax said.
Dillon, the levelheaded doctor, stepped in. “Maybe there’s a good explanation.”
“Sure,” DJ said. “LipSmackin’ Ribs undercut me on cost in a way that the Hitching Post couldn’t say no to—not in these economic times. I can’t really blame them for accepting the offer, either. It’s just good business.”
Corey interrupted. “And bad loyalty.”
DJ shrugged. “Either way, LipSmackin’ Ribs can’t possibly be making a profit, from what I can gather. There’s just no way.”
“Then why the hell are they doing this?” Dax asked.
No one at the table knew.
But all Jackson could gather was that his cousin was hurting, and that was an affront to him.
It was something worth fixing.
When he left that night, he didn’t go straight home. He drove through Old Town, intending to drop by the Hitching Post since Woody Paulson often stopped there around this time for a drink.
The way Jackson had it figured, brokering a better understanding of the situation would be simple: He was acquainted with the manager of LipSmackin’ Ribs in a friendly manner. Why not ask him what was going on?
And who better to do this than the community relations guy for Traub Oil Montana?
Jackson felt good about this constructive method of going about it. He was turning over a new leaf—a diplomatic one.
A helpful one.
He tried to mellow the memory of DJ’s wounded expression that kept niggling at him as he walked into the Hitching Post, spying Woody at the bar nursing a brew as the silent jukebox sat sentry in the corner.
Jackson approached the man, a fortyish refugee from Vegas. He still carried some of that old-school air about him in his creased brown trousers and a tan long-sleeved silk shirt that had seen better days.
When he saw Jackson, he raised his mug.
“Evening, Traub,” he said.
Jackson kept on his coat and declined to order a drink when the bartender approached. Then he greeted Woody right back.
The other man went back to his beer, and that struck Jackson as just being wrong. Here the manager was, part of a scheme to undermine DJ, and he didn’t seem to mind at all. It even occurred to Jackson that perhaps Woody had only made a habit of grabbing a drink at the Hitching Post because he’d been making LipSmackin’ deliveries all this time.
“I heard about your new contract with the Hitching Post,” Jackson said in a civil enough manner. “I suppose congratulations are in order.”
Woody froze for the briefest second, then muttered a thanks, but didn’t meet Jackson’s gaze.
That didn’t sit well, either. Jackson didn’t like weasels. Didn’t like dishonesty on any level.
“It’s only unfortunate,” he said, doing a fine job of keeping himself in check in spite of his rising dander, “that your business has to be at the expense of my family’s.”
“It’s a cutthroat world out there, Traub. You’re a professional man. You know how things are.”
“Sure, but as far as memory serves, I never did draw blood from anyone. No one in my family has.”
Woody surveyed Jackson, his gaze bleary. “Aren’t you the honorable bunch.”
Drunk. And just this side of ornery.
Had someone had a bad day?
If Woody hadn’t sounded so mocking—as if he’d pulled one over on DJ—and if Jackson hadn’t been so swayed by his cousin’s genuine sense of concern about his business, he might’ve let Woody’s attitude slide.
Woody stood away from the bar and walked off, and Jackson was about to let him go for the time being.
That is, until Woody looked over his shoulder and bellowed, “Tell DJ that he shouldn’t be afraid of a little healthy competition. Tell him to just man up, for God’s sake.”
Everyone in the bar had gone still, turning to Jackson to see if he was going to stand up for DJ.
Still thinking he could settle this constructively, Jackson followed Woody outside to the boardwalk, near the hitching post that had given the tavern its name.
“Listen, here, Woody,” he said. “There’s no need to—”
“You’re just itching for a fight, aren’t you?” the man said, slurring even more.
“No, thank you. But—”
The punch came out of nowhere—a slam of numb pain that blasted into Jackson’s jaw.
Instinctively, he punched back, connecting with Woody’s eye, sending the man to his rear.
Jackson’s knuckles throbbed and he shook them out, sighing. Goddamn it. And he wasn’t cursing from the emerging pain in his jaw or hand, either.
“Hellfire,” Jackson said. If his dad had been around to see this, he’d be shamed, all right. Awfully shamed. “Now why’d you have to make me go and do that, Woody?”
Woody put a hand over his eye, groaning as Jackson left him, knowing that there would be hell to pay, not only with his conscience, but with his family, too.
Chapter Three
“So how does it feel to be the scourge of Thunder Canyon?” asked Jason Traub on the other end of the cell phone line.
Jackson moved the phone to his other ear while grabbing a coffee from the Town Square cart. The late-morning air nipped his skin as he put a tip in the server’s jar, nodded at the man’s thank-you, then strolled away, working his sore jaw before answering.
“Being a scourge here doesn’t feel any different than being one anywhere else,” he said to his twin, who’d called him from Texas after hearing about last night’s little scuffle with Woody Paulson.
“You’re just damn lucky the man didn’t go to the cops. That’s all Traub Oil Industries would need, Jackson.”
“I know.” He’d been beating himself up about it, and he was willing to take his own punches. He’d already gotten a few verbal ones from Ethan when he’d shown up in the office early this morning as well. When his older brother had inspected Jackson’s jaw, not even finding a bruise, he’d said that Jackson could’ve used some black and blue to remind him of his misstep.
“Needless to say,” Jackson told Jason, “last night wasn’t my finest moment. But, believe me, it’s not gonna happen again.”
“Isn’t that what you said after Corey’s wedding?”
Duly chastised, Jackson wandered to the edge of Town Square, to where a wrought-iron bench waited under an autumn-leafed oak. Around him stood Old West storefronts, comfortable and weathered.
Maybe it was the sight of those old buildings that made Jackson say, “I swear, Jason—I’m making a new start here.”
“Beginning when?”
“Now.” It was a vow, and he’d never meant anything more in his life.
He really had been fortunate that Woody Paulson hadn’t made a bigger deal out of last night. Then again, the other man had thrown the first punch, so it wasn’t as if he was innocent in all of it.
But that was no excuse.
Jason wished Jackson the best of luck and signed off, back to his own duties in the Midland offices. Back to his own better-brother-than-Jackson life.
After stuffing his phone into his coat pocket, Jackson took a drink of the black, bracing coffee. He peered farther down the street, knowing just what he would find.
Solace of a sort.
The bank where Laila was working right at this moment.
He smiled, picturing her—blond, blue-eyed, beautiful Laila—and the world seemed right for a moment.
Then again, that was how it always was with him. Women made him feel better, that’s all there was to it. And Laila wasn’t any different than the rest.
On a whim, he accessed his phone again, dialing what he knew to be her cell number. He’d charmed it out of a friend of a friend of hers after neglecting to have asked her outright for it the other night.
What fun would that have been? The chase was always the best part.
Her phone rang, and when she answered with a curious “Hello?” his heart gave a surprising flip.
Then he reminded himself, No different than the rest, and went on.
“Morning, sunshine,” he said, taking the chance that she would recognize his voice, even though his number wouldn’t have been identified on her phone screen.
When she didn’t answer right away, he wondered if he’d been wrong about her remembering him. Laila Cates probably had a hundred men ringing her every morning and calling her “Sunshine.”
“Jackson?” she finally asked, and he could’ve sworn that there was a sparkle in her voice.
But, just as his heart was turning another one of those odd flips, her tone cooled again.
“What can I do for you?”
He laughed. Yup—hadn’t he pegged Laila for a challenge right off the bat? “I believe we’ve got a date to plan.”
“Oh?”
“Did you think I forgot?”
“I imagined it wasn’t high on your list of priorities. It sounds as if you’ve been busy with other matters around town.”
“Ah.” He propped one booted foot on the bench, touching his jaw. “So you heard about last night.”
“I told you—news travels fast around here.”
Shooting another look down the street, to the stately bank, he pictured Laila at her desk, all polish and prettiness in a business suit. His heart gave a tug.
All he wanted was to see her again.
“Did you ever stop to think,” he said, “that if I were to be kept busier, I wouldn’t get into so much trouble?”
“Sure. And I can suggest a few things for you to do around Thunder Canyon. You can hike, ride ATVs in the mountains, shop at the resort…”
“I didn’t mean to imply that I’d like to do any of those things alone.”
He thought he heard her shuffling some papers, and his gut tightened at the image of her being businesslike. He had a thing for serious women, because it was a lot of fun to make them less serious.
“Which one of those would you prefer doing?” he asked.
“With you?” She paused just long enough to set him up. “None of the above.”
“You’re sore at me because I didn’t call sooner.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You don’t have to say it. A woman like you is probably used to guys falling all over themselves to set up dates and I neglected to follow protocol.”
She huffed out an exasperated sigh, and he grinned.
“Know what sounds good to me?” he asked before he pushed her too far. “A picnic. A good old-fashioned afternoon at the lake. I’ll get it all together and pick you up at your place tomorrow at noon.”
“But—”
“It’s a Saturday, Laila. The best date day of the week.”
“I was going to say that there’s a chance of rain in the forecast.”
He glanced up at the wide, fairly clear Montana sky. He wasn’t sure that, besides Texas, he would ever get such a fill of gorgeousness anywhere else.
“I’m willing to take a chance on it,” he said. “How about you?”
Of course, he wasn’t talking about the weather, exactly, and she seemed to know it, as several seconds meandered by.
For a moment, Jackson actually thought she was going to turn him down, and the mere possibility shot him straight through with a disappointment he’d never felt before.
But that’s why he’d chosen Laila Cates—because she wasn’t easy. And because…
Hell, because she did something to his libido.
She finally came back on the line. “Okay. Noon.”
Excellent. “See you then, Miss Laila.”
As Jackson hung up, he smiled. He’d told his brother, Jason, that he was going to be on his best behavior from now on.
But that didn’t necessarily include being a good boy with the woman who’d said yes to spending tomorrow with him… .
Silver Stallion Lake sat in a secluded spot in the mountains. Surrounded by pine trees, it was in October limbo—between the time when winter would bring out the ice skaters and when summer filled the water with swimmers.
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