Moon Over Montana

“Yes,” Tag said solemnly. “I can see how those things could take up an entire day. But maybe you could squeeze out fifteen or twenty minutes to see me? I should say to check out my work. You wouldn’t be stopping in just to see me, after all.”

Linda cleared her throat. He was the biggest flirt she’d ever met. But he was also the nicest flirt she’d ever met. And he was so cute. For some reason, telling herself that Tag’s brand of good looks meant zilch in real-life situations wasn’t doing a bit of good—she still felt breathless sitting this close to him and listening to his line of hooey.

But that was the bottom-line problem. She liked his line of hooey.

“Will you try to make it?” Tag asked quietly, boring a hole in her with his penetrating gaze.

She flicked a glance at him and immediately looked away. “Yes, I’ll try.”

“Great!” Tag picked up his coffee and took a swallow. “So is it all right if I start working in here today?”

“How can I say no?”

“You can always say no, Linda,” Tag said softly.

A frisson of sensual awareness traveled down Linda’s spine, giving her a tiny shiver. His voice did that to her, she realized, and when he combined it with sexual innuendo, the result was even more intense. Not that she couldn’t stop this…this thing building between them from growing too huge to control. At least she was pretty certain that she could. But did she really want to stop it? She had never felt so womanly before, so warm and fuzzy and tingly because of a man. And being a voracious reader, she knew that women should feel something during lovemaking. Although she’d never told a soul, she never had.

“All right,” she said without looking directly at Tag. “You can start today.”

“You’re a sweetheart.” Getting off his stool, Tag bent over and planted a brief kiss to her right cheek.

Shocked to speechlessness—no one had ever kissed her without provocation before, and she would swear that she had not invited any such familiarity—she sat there all the while he hauled in cans of paint, brushes, rollers, a tool chest and so many other items that she stared in amazement. Her kitchen floor was practically covered with the tools of his trade.

Shaking her head over the tornado called Tag—Tag who?—that had suddenly infiltrated her comfortable little world, she got off the stool and departed the kitchen. Tippy stayed. He had to sniff everything the nice man brought into his home, after all.

Chapter Two

Linda restlessly roamed her apartment. Every few minutes she heard Tag whistle a few bars of a song. Her Saturday was ruined, as far as she was concerned. Maybe she should be able to ignore having a man in her kitchen and go about her own business, but she just couldn’t seem to relax.

Finally, deciding to get out of there for a while, she ran upstairs, changed from her slacks and blouse to fleecy gray shorts and a comfy old top, put on her walking shoes and returned to the first floor. Wishing she kept Tippy’s leash anywhere but where it was, she took a big breath and headed for the kitchen with what she hoped was a look of irrevocable indifference on her face. Every time she’d thought of Tag’s brash kiss to her cheek, she’d suffered a hot flash. She didn’t like the confusion she felt over the incident, mostly caused by the fact that she hadn’t disliked the kiss. It had been rather sweet, actually.

“Pardon the interruption,” she said as she forced herself to enter her own kitchen. “But I need to get Tippy’s leash from the laundry room.”

Tag turned and looked at her, and her determined expression completely deserted her. He had such marvelous eyes, she thought, suddenly feeling a bit weak in the knees.

“You’re not an interruption.” Tag’s features softened into what Linda perceived as just about the nicest smile she’d ever seen on a guy’s face. “Drop in anytime,” he added. “I like the company.”

He was flirting again! Linda swallowed hard. “Oh, well, I…I just need the leash…for, uh, now.”

Tag nodded. “Sure thing. Help yourself.”

“Thanks, I will.” Stepping around drop cloths and the other things with which Tag had all but filled her small kitchen, Linda went into the laundry room and came out with the leash. Tippy perked up his ears and began dancing around.

“Looks like he knows what that means,” Tag said with a laugh.

“Yes, he always gets excited when he sees his leash.”

“That’s an associative response. You taught him that without even trying. Did you raise him from a pup?”

Linda bent over to attach the leash to Tippy’s collar. “No, I’ve only had him since my move from California about two months ago.”

“Did you get him from the local vet?”

“I guess you could say I found him.”

“Or he found you. Well, he’s a lucky pooch. Looks to me like he got himself a good home.”

“He deserves to be treated well. I don’t think he was before I found him. He was begging for scraps of food at a place in Nevada where I stopped for gas. He was filthy, dirty and a pitiful sight, but he won me over the second I saw him. I talked to the only person around, a grouchy old man running the place who said that Tippy had been hanging around for a week, bothering customers and disturbing his thriving business. Believe me, the place wasn’t thriving. It was in the middle of nowhere, and I remember thinking that a nice little dog just might do wonders for that old guy’s nasty disposition. In any case, he didn’t want him, no one had come looking for him, and he told me to take him.”

“So you adopted him on the spot.”

“I had to. Look at that adorable little face and those trusting eyes. No way could I have driven away and told myself he would be all right on his own. He was hungry and frightened, and he probably wouldn’t have lived very long if I had left him there. I gave him a bath in my motel room when I stopped that night, and…well, you can see how white his coat is.”

“All except for that little patch of black on the tip of his tail.”

“After seeing that, could I call him anything else?”

“Nope. Tippy fits him to a tee.”

Linda was suddenly embarrassed over her unnecessarily detailed story. For one thing, her rambling had kept Tag from his work much longer than an abbreviated version of the story would have. For another, it wasn’t like her to make mountains out of molehills when relating a simple incident.

“I’m going now. See you later,” she said almost sternly, although any chastisement in her voice was for herself and her ridiculous urge to impress this man.

“I’ll be here,” Tag said cheerfully.

Tippy ran ahead of her to the front door. Pondering Tag’s extraordinary effect on her, Linda took Tippy outside.

At the street she automatically went to the left. In that direction State Street led to Lake Monet. It was only about three miles away, and Linda had been smitten by the pretty little lake on her first visit. The water level was lower than normal for June, people kept telling her, as the area had had very little snow last winter, followed by pathetic little rainfalls instead of the hard, drenching rains that spring usually delivered.

But even if the water was shallow in Lake Monet, Linda saw great beauty in the bulrushes, pussy willows and lily pads along its southern curve. There were also amazing light patterns and colors in the water itself, and she understood very well why some romantic had named the small body of water after the great artist Claude Monet. Still, her thoughts weren’t on art today, or the lake, and she only walked about a quarter of a mile when she turned around and went in the opposite direction. When she came to Main Street she crossed it and kept walking. Tippy was happy. He didn’t care where they went, as long as they were outside.

Linda had driven every street in Rumor, just to acquaint herself with the town. She knew where the businesses were located, and she could put together most of the people she’d met with their homes. But until today there had been no reason even to notice the striking, lightly varnished wooden house that sat on a large lot with a number of evergreen trees. The name on the mailbox read Taggart Kingsley, and while Linda slowed her steps so she could take a really good look at his home, Tag’s last name registered. He was a Kingsley!

But he was a carpenter—such an honest, basic, simple vocation—and why would one of the incredibly wealthy Kingsleys paint and renovate apartments?

Frowning, Linda pondered that puzzle and decided it made no sense. She’d heard about the Kingsleys. They were wealthy from decades of successful cattle ranching even before they’d created MonMart, which was a huge superstore on Kingsley Avenue that sold groceries, clothing, household goods, tools, garden supplies and almost anything else a Montana resident might need. MonMart was, by all accounts, extremely profitable. Gossip had it that many more MonMart stores were planned for Montana, and some predicted that the Kingsleys wouldn’t stop until the whole country was peppered with their stores.

But that image didn’t coincide with Linda’s impression of Tag. Could he be a shirttail relative of the more ambitious Kingsleys? Should she ask around and find out?

No, Linda thought vehemently. She was not going to pry into anyone’s affairs, family or otherwise. Everyone deserved some privacy, which, she had already been warned about several times, was difficult to preserve in this small town.

After another thirty minutes of walking, Linda turned around and headed for home. When she passed Tag’s place, though, she slowed down again, and this time she spotted the building in the trees that appeared to be his shop.

She admired his yard and from her present viewpoint was able to see the swing set in back, some scattered toys and what appeared to be a sandbox—all evidence of a child. Thinking of Tag’s personal life—widowed so young and with a little daughter to raise—Linda walked on.

Past his place, she picked up her pace. Inside her front door she freed Tippy from the leash and the dog ran for the kitchen yapping a “Hi, I’m back” for his new friend’s benefit. Linda hung the leash in the foyer closet and then started up the stairs for a quick shower. She hadn’t done any running, but she had walked fast and worked up a sweat. The day was warm, bordering on hot. According to longtime residents, it was much too hot and dry for this time of year. Actually, Linda thought the weather was just about perfect, but she knew that a lot of people, including the U.S. Forest Service, were concerned about the tinder-dry conditions throughout the area.

She was halfway up the stairs when she heard Tag say, “Linda, a friend of yours came by. A man.”