Big Sky Reunion

“So you’re not planning to stay long?”

“I’ll stay as long as she needs me.” In truth, she didn’t have much of anywhere else to go, but she wasn’t going to tell Daniel O’Brien that.

She resumed her efforts with the obstinate key.

“Here, let me help you.”

He reached around her, his hand closing over hers, his fingers long and deeply tanned. His forearm had a light covering of dark hair over corded muscles. He was too close, so close she caught the scent of the prairie on his shirt and the unique masculine aroma that was his alone.

Memories of being seventeen years old and foolish assailed her. Memories she’d never been able to completely bury even when she’d married another boy, the one who had taken her to the senior prom.

She yanked her hand away, her heart thudding like the hooves of a quarter horse galloping across the open landscape.

The lock released its grip on the door. Daniel shoved it open.

“There you go, Goldilocks. Welcome to Aunt Martha’s Knitting and Notions.” With a mock bow, he gestured for her to enter the small shop.

Instead she held out her hand. “The key.”

His eyes twinkling, his lips curved upward, he dropped it in her hand.

“Thank you.” She stepped inside, intending to close the door behind her, leaving him standing on the cracked sidewalk that ran the length of Main Street.

No such luck.

Like a predator on the prowl, he slipped past her and sauntered into the store.

Bins for yarn lined two walls from floor to ceiling, but many were empty. Other bins were a jumble, worsteds mixed with baby weight yarn, variegated and solid colors randomly mingled in the same bin. The display rack for knitting needles, crochet hooks, stitch markers and other notions canted at a precarious angle and the pattern books tucked into a pocket display looked as though they’d been published in the 1950s.

In a back corner of the room sat a table and six unmatched dining room chairs that had been used for knitting classes. Odds and ends of yarn were scattered about the table.

Daniel picked up a skein of merino yarn and tossed it gently in the air, catching it and tossing it again as a young boy might toss a baseball. In no way, however, did Daniel O’Brien resemble anything other than a full-grown cowboy with an attitude.

“It smells musty in here. Better leave the door open and air out the place.” He tossed the skein back in the bin where he’d found it.

Melinda wrinkled her nose. “I don’t think that Aunt Martha has opened the store in weeks.” Martha, even at age eighty-two, had always been lively and energetic, busy in the community and with her church work, until the stroke felled her. Or so Melinda had thought.

From the disarray in the shop and out-of-date stock, she suspected her great-aunt hadn’t spent a lot of time serving her customers in recent years. Assuming she had any customers left.

Her shoulders sank. Not only had she planned to help her aunt during her recovery, but she’d also desperately hoped to turn Aunt Martha’s Knitting and Notions into a profitable business that would support them both.

Apparently God didn’t care what she wanted. Not that she deserved His help.

Still skulking around and poking into things, Daniel said, “I heard you got married a while back. Your husband come to town with you?”

Despite the ten-inch needle of grief that stabbed her in the chest, she lifted her chin. “I’m widowed.”

That stopped him in his tracks. The teasing glint vanished from his eyes and his brows tugged together. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard that.” He lifted his Stetson, ran his fingers through his thick, dark hair and resettled his hat. “You got kids?”

“No.” No husband. No child—not anymore. She’d as much as killed them both with her own hand. Her chin quivered. She bit down on her lip, turned away and walked behind the counter to the ancient cash register.

“If you don’t mind, I’d like to check the inventory and some of Aunt Martha’s records.” She looked at him expectantly, willing him to leave.

He straightened to his full six feet two. “You want me to get lost.”

“Yes, please.” Her teeth clenched.

He shrugged, an easy roll of broad shoulders beneath a blue work shirt that pulled tautly across his chest. He’d filled out in the past ten years and looked as though he was used to hard work. Which, remembering his wildness, the way he’d loved to party and drive at reckless speeds, was hard for her to believe.

“Then I’ll catch you later, Goldilocks.” He winked and ambled to the door.

She watched him walk down the sidewalk past the shop’s dusty display window, all loose limbs and easy gate. His buddies used to call him Swagger.

He called her Goldilocks.

“My name is Melinda,” she whispered to herself. Goldilocks and her wide-eyed innocence no longer existed. That foolish person had endured a painful death along with her son, Jason.

Daniel still had that arrogant swagger that had hooked her the moment he’d walked across Riverside Park to stand two feet in front of her. In a low, husky voice, he’d said, “Hi, Goldilocks. Wanna go for a ride in my truck?”

To her dismay, a part of her still did.

Daniel reached his pickup parked a few doors down from Martha’s shop. He’d driven into town to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy. When he’d spotted Goldilocks, he’d been so surprised that a dust devil racing across the prairie could’ve blown him over.

Opening the truck door, he smiled to himself. He would’ve recognized her golden curls from a mile away. Long and bouncy and woven of pure silk.

A city girl, she’d been sent out west to spend the summer with her great-aunt Martha before her final year of high school. Daniel had spotted her right off then, too. Even knowing she was too young and he ought to keep his distance, he’d been drawn to her like a horse to a quartered apple in his hand.

He’d teased and cajoled and lured her with every bit of charm he had.

But Miss Goody Two-Shoes had won out. She told him no and skedaddled back home to Pittsburgh without so much as a wave goodbye.

That hadn’t done his ego a bit of good. Not that his ego hadn’t needed a good kick in the butt back then.

She was different now. Older. Maybe wiser. A widow with a hint of sadness shadowing her baby-blue eyes. No longer a girl, now she was a full-grown woman.

But she hadn’t given him a single sign that Goldilocks had any interest in a second time around.

He climbed into the cab of the extended pickup, which was baking hot from sitting out in the summer sun.

He wondered how long she’d stay in Potter Creek this time. Long enough for him to get a second chance to prove he wasn’t a worthless cowboy?

Sweat crept down his back and he licked his lips. It might be worth a shot—if she stuck around for a while.

The O’Brien ranch lay a little northwest of Potter Creek, less than thirty minutes away. Daniel and his older brother, Arnie, ran a hundred head of beef cattle on the place and Daniel pursued his passion for breeding quarter horses. His mares had foaled some of the top-ranked quarter horses in the state and he got big bucks for his stallions to service mares owned by other horse owners.

Turning off the highway, he drove under the wrought-iron arch at the entrance to O’Brien Ranch and bumped over the cattle guard. The driveway bordered the horse pasture on the right and led to a two-story white house his grandfather had built.

A house and ranch his father had nearly destroyed in a drunken haze that lasted around fifty years, until his death.