An Honorable Man

“Write a story from the angle of an investigative reporter uncovering the mystery of his mother’s death. On the clock, of course.”

Ben felt his muscles bunch. “Why would I do that?”

“Because I know you, Ben. Writing’s cathartic. It’d be a way for you to deal with the past once and for all.” He hesitated, as though unsure whether to continue. Finally, he did. “Not to mention it’d make a really good story.”

Joe’s argument had merit. Ben totally engrossed himself in a story until it came out in print. Only then could he let it go. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe writing the story would exorcise his demons.

“What about that tip?” Ben realized he’d just agreed to his boss’s proposition.

“I’ll have Larry Timmons look in to it.” Joe named an ambitious reporter who had assisted Ben on a few occasions, a young guy hungry to get ahead—Larry reminded Ben of himself. “He’s been hounding me for a chance to take the lead on a big story.”

It went against Ben’s makeup to put anyone else in the driver’s seat, let alone somebody who would fight not to give up the wheel. “Maybe what I need to do won’t take long.”

Joe snorted softly. “With a rottweiler, it usually doesn’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“Rottweiler,” Joe repeated. “That’s what the other reporters call you.”

Ben hadn’t been aware he had a nickname. “Do I want to know why?”

“Once you sink your teeth in a story, you don’t let go.” Joe seemed to relish in the telling. “That Dr. Whitmore doesn’t stand a chance.”

CHAPTER TWO

DR. SIERRA WHITMORE turned away from her reflection in the gift-shop window too late to avoid the image of the long, caramel-brown hair she’d been too chicken to part with.

“Just a trim, please,” she muttered to herself.

That’s what she’d requested when the hip, young stylist who was the new hire at her hair salon asked if she was feeling adventurous. Her intention to have her hair cut boy-short never made it past her lips.

Sierra fished a tie out of her purse and hastily pulled her hair into a loose twist, the way she usually wore it, silently berating herself all the while for her stunning lack of courage.

“Hello, Dr. Whitmore.”

The greeting pulled Sierra out of her daze. The woman passing her on the sidewalk in the heart of the picturesque downtown of Indigo Springs was a patient at the practice where Sierra worked in partnership with her brother.

“Good day, Mrs. Jorgenson.”

The woman gave her a tepid smile and kept walking.

Good day.

Had Sierra really just said that? The woman was roughly her age. She should have uttered a casual hello and addressed her by her first name, like a normal person would have done.

It was time she faced up to the terrible truth her ex-boyfriend, Chad Armstrong, had slammed her with when he broke up with her last month.

She was boring.

Mind-numbingly, nobody’s-in-a-rut-deeper-than-I-am boring.

Even more dull than Chad himself, who could kill a conversation with his pharmacist shoptalk when he bothered to say anything at all.

If the charge wasn’t true, she’d be headed out of town to meet an old college friend for a wild weekend of clubbing. She’d have asked her brother to cover for her rather than refusing the invitation because she was on call.

She didn’t have any firm plans for this weekend at all, which was why she was heading back to the office. Even when Whitmore Family Practice closed early, as it did every Friday afternoon, Sierra could always find some paperwork.

She spotted a flyer advertising next weekend’s Indigo Springs Arts and Music Festival alongside a splashy modern painting in the window of an art studio. The other tourist-themed businesses on the pretty, hilly street—restaurants, bike and ski shops, souvenir stores—sported similar notices. She was wondering why a banner promoting the event hadn’t been strung over Main Street, when she saw the man.

He wore dark shades even though the sun wasn’t particularly bright. In a short-sleeved black polo shirt that stretched across his broad shoulders, he was seemingly oblivious to the slight chill typical of the latter part of April. The section of sidewalk where he stood with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans was shaded by a red maple tree, its vibrant leaves forming a backdrop that caused him to appear ridiculously masculine. The smell of flowers in bloom wafted on a breeze, a further contradiction.

She snuck a glance at him as she approached, appreciating the sensuous line of his mouth, the wave in his thick dark hair and his solid build. He looked to have three days’ growth of beard, which somehow made him seem more sexy. So did his height. She judged him to be at least six feet two, maybe even six-three.

“Excuse me.” The timbre of his voice, soft and deep and without an accent she could detect, reached out to her. “Sorry to bother you, but can you recommend a place to stay?”

That meant he was a visitor, unsurprising in a place marketed as a year-round tourist destination. Besides, if this man lived in Indigo Springs, she would have noticed him before now.

“Try the Blue Stream Bed-and-Breakfast. It’s up the street a few blocks.” She pointed to indicate the direction. “If that’s full, I’d give the Indigo Inn a shot. It’s back the other way.”

“Have you stayed at either of those places?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t. Some locals book a room at the B and B just to sample the blueberry scones the owner serves for breakfast, but so far I’ve resisted.”

“So you live here in Indigo Springs?”

She wished he wasn’t wearing those shades so she could see whether the color of his eyes complemented his long, straight nose and strong jawline, which was partially obscured by dark stubble. “I do.”

“Can you steer me toward me a good place for dinner tonight?”

“Can I ever.” She gestured across the street to a Thai restaurant with a bright red door. “That place has the best pad thai I’ve ever had. It’s so good I could eat it every day of the week.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then how about having pad thai tonight? With me.”

The breeze cooled the interior of Sierra’s mouth, alerting her that it must have dropped open. “You want me to have dinner with you?” she repeated, just in case she’d misunderstood.

“Sure. Why not? You could save me from eating alone.”

A thrill traveled through Sierra before reason took over. “Thank you, but I can’t.”

“Are you married?” he asked.

“Well, no.”

“Engaged?” He didn’t give her a chance to answer. “In a relationship? Wary of strange men who approach you on the street?”

She laughed. “No to the first two questions. Yes to the third.”

“Not much I can do about that.” He gave a small shrug, emphasizing the play of muscles in his shoulders. “Thanks for the recommendations.”