CHAPTER ONE
“BILLIE DEE?”
The back door of the Stagecoach Saloon swung open. Henry Larson stuck his head in, bringing in a gust of autumn-scented mountain air.
The sound of his voice buoying her spirits, Billie Dee turned from where she had a pot of Texas shrimp gumbo going to wave the cowboy in. She watched as Henry removed his Stetson and wiped his feet before settling his gaze on her.
The bigger-than-life cowboy made her smile with his ah-shucks-ma’am shyness. He often stopped by this time of the day for a cup of coffee and a visit. She looked forward to seeing him. If she didn’t know better, she’d think Henry had a crush on her.
“Pull up a chair,” she told him as he looked around for a place to put his hat and finally rested it on one knee as he took a seat at the table.
She turned down the gumbo before pouring him a cup of coffee and one for herself. Taking the full cups over, she set them down and then hung up his hat on the hook by the door. As she lowered herself into a chair across from him, she breathed in the warm, rich smells of the kitchen, along with Henry’s fresh-from-the-shower scent. It surprised her how much she’d come to love both.
Gilt Edge, Montana, seemed at the end of the earth when she’d driven her old car through town. She’d planned to keep right on going, no place in mind up the road, just making the best of this autumn part of her life as she could.
But as she was leaving, she’d spotted an old stone building with the sign Stagecoach Saloon and Café. Something about the place had drawn her. She’d pulled in and shut off her loud, complaining car engine, thinking she’d have lunch then get on her way.
That was when she saw the sign in the window. She’d laughed since she’d been looking for a sign of where she should light—at least for a while. The sign in the old stagecoach window wasn’t the kind of sign she’d been expecting.
But there she was, outside of an old mining town in Montana, looking at a sign that read Cook Wanted. She didn’t know what could be much clearer than that. She’d hired on and stayed.
“Nice weather we’re having,” Henry said and pushed the sugar bowl over to her.
She smiled as she put four spoonfuls into her coffee, added a little cream and stirred. “It’s what makes me so sweet,” she’d joked the first time he’d raised an eyebrow.
Like now, he only smiled. Henry took his coffee black, saying he was a simple man and sweet enough. She thought he was right about that.
He watched her until she’d finished stirring before he picked up his own cup and took a sip. He was a big rugged man, with broad shoulders and long legs. Henry had a chiseled, handsome face and twinkling blue eyes. His dark hair was still thick, but there was gray at his temples. Billie Dee figured they were about the same age. Her own hair was fiery red. It went with her temper, she’d always say, though no one believed it because of her usual easygoing disposition.
But then, no one around here had ever seen her mad. She hoped they never did. It was a side of her she kept hidden, just like her past.
Henry put down his cup. “You weren’t singing this morning,” he said, eyeing her closely. “Usually I can hear you the moment I pull in at the back. I was worried.” He had the most intense blue eyes she’d ever seen. “Everything all right?”
His question surprised her. Usually they talked about the weather or the price of beef or what she was cooking that day for the café. She liked to cook what she knew. And what she knew was Tex-Mex with a side of Cajun. Which in this part of the country seemed exotic—and often too spicy.
“Do I sing that much?” Half the time she didn’t even realize she’d burst into song. Must have been all those years singing in church growing up. She still loved hymns.
“I like your singing,” he said shyly. “You have a wonderful voice. When you don’t sing, it worries me because I know something is wrong.”
She gave an embarrassed laugh and took a drink of her coffee, avoiding Henry’s gaze. She’d never taken compliments well, but maybe especially from this cowboy. The first time she’d met him, he’d come back to the kitchen to compliment her on her chili. Like today, he’d been dressed in clean boots, jeans, a canvas jacket and a Stetson. He’d told her he was a retired rancher.
He had a confident air about him that she’d liked from the first. She’d warmed to him, just the way she’d warmed to this place, to this job and to the family that came with it.
“I love this warm fall weather, but I heard it’s about to change. I’m not sure I’m ready for winter. What about you?” she asked, changing the subject. Henry had sensed something off about her, sensed it because normally she sang while she cooked. Except this morning. Was she worried about something? Yes. But should she be? Maybe it was nothing.
Henry smiled almost sadly. She hadn’t fooled him in her attempt to change the subject. But he was too polite to call her on it. “Your gumbo smells delicious. You mentioned green chilies the other day. My daughter, who lives in New Mexico, said she would send you as many as you would like. Just let me know.”
“Thank you.” Normally the thought of fresh green chilies would have made her day. But Henry was right. She wasn’t herself today. And it was silly. So she’d spotted some man standing in the shadows last night across from her small house she rented. She hadn’t gotten a good look at him. It had just been the way he was standing there in the dark before he moved away, but she could tell that he’d been watching her house. It probably meant nothing.
Henry finished his coffee. “I should let you get back to work,” he said, rising.
“I’m glad you stopped by.” She hadn’t meant it more than she did today. She looked forward to his visits although she often wondered if he wanted more than coffee. Or if she did?
Henry was just lonely, she told herself. Along with the daughter in New Mexico, he had two sons, who ran the ranch now. He’d lost his wife five years ago, his three children were raised and he was retired. He was probably just at loose ends and she was a distraction for a while in the mornings.
“It is always good to see you,” he said now as he took his Stetson from the hook and settled it on his thick head of hair. That he was handsome for his age was an understatement. She often wondered why some local woman hadn’t snatched him up already. Or was he just not interested in another relationship? Sometimes—like at the moment—the way he looked at her stirred up old passions that she’d channeled into her cooking.
“Enjoy your day,” she said around the lump in her throat. Sometimes she wanted to just flat out ask him what he wanted from her. But she was afraid he only needed coffee and a little conversation.
“You too, Billie Dee.” He hesitated at the door, turning back to give her a look that sent her heart racing. “If you ever need...anything, I hope you know that I’m here. All you have to do is ask.” With that he opened the door and left, leaving her feeling shaken. Henry Larson seemed to know her better than she knew herself. And that scared her, especially given what she was hiding.