“Don’t forget your hat,” I remind Dad as I shut off the truck and stow the keys in my purse. “Go on ahead of me; it’s freezing out here. I’ll check on Rosie and Stern, then meet you inside.”
Dad grumbles under his breath.
Something about being perfectly capable of looking after himself, but he puts on his wool-brimmed hat to humor me. I smile as he pulls the side flaps down over his ears, giving me a firm look that says happy? before opening his door.
I dig around on my lap and find my green-and-gold stocking cap, and then tug on my thick, fur-lined, made-in-Duluth Chopper mittens. The wind coming in through Dad’s passenger door is so bitter it rips my breath away.
When I open my door, the cold makes me shiver from head to toe.
“Winter, bite me,” I say, mostly to myself because I don’t think Jack Frost is listening. And if he is, well, the sweeping chill he flings in my face is worse than a middle finger.
Tucking my chin into the collar of my coat, I pull the fur-lined hood tighter around my face to help block the wind. I hate every single big fat snowflake stinging my cheeks and catching on my eyelashes as I waddle past the truck in my boots to the trailer.
Thankfully, it only takes a few minutes to check on the horses. They must be freezing, but they aren’t showing any signs of distress from the ride or bad weather. I feed them a couple carrots they wolf down like starving beasts before my own stomach growls.
If my lucky streak continues tonight, maybe this place will have something that isn’t oozing grease. A girl can hope. It’d be nice to keep my blood sugar levels in the happy range where I’m not hankering to chew my own arm off.
By the time I enter the bar, I’m ready to call the weather a winner.
I’m chilled to the bone. The dense snow packed on my boots makes my feet feel like they’re twenty pounds heavier. It’s a workout as I go stomping through the door.
The Purple Bobcat isn’t nearly so colorful inside.
Too bad.
It’s smaller than it looked on the outside, dark and dingy, but fairly clean. No ripped-up seats or rickety tables or cracked tile floors. No ugly crowd of guys missing teeth or gals with their boobs hanging out of their shirts over pool tables, either.
The wood-paneled walls are covered with metal signs advertising retro beers and off-color jokes. Dad’s found a table where he’s parked himself to look over a menu.
One of the only occupied tables tonight, it seems.
If this place has regulars, or newcomers, or even long-haul truckers looking for a nightcap and a side of bawdy conversation, the storm has kept them all away.
Who could blame them in this blizzard?
There’s an older man and woman in a booth near the frosty windows, picking at what looks like plates of gyros and fries. The table Dad chose is in the center of the room, surrounded by other empty ones.
At the bar, I count four guys on stools. A couple big blue-collar guys in stained coveralls—oil workers, maybe—plus two tall figures at the far end with several seats between them and the other men.
The maybe-oil-workers are quiet, focused on their tall beers, but the two on the opposite end are talking loudly.
Well, one of them is.
He’s tall. Built. Ginormous. Loud.
A tiger of a man stuffed in a red-and-black flannel shirt. I’m a little embarrassed when he whips around with a smile meant for the bartender.
Maybe he sensed the weirdo staring, and with said weirdo being me, looking like Jack Frost just kicked my butt up and down the playground, I...
I can’t hold it against him for wondering who the miserable, crazy lady is who just dragged herself in from the cold like a wet cat.
Am I still staring?
Maybe.
Because maybe I’m suddenly feeling a whole lot warmer taking in the handsome face perched on his wide shoulders, a jaw so defined it was cut by a mad sculptor, over six feet of defiant muscle that looks like it’s ready to burst right out of that flannel corral barely holding it.
Maybe he’s sporting just the right sandy-dark stubble to sear a woman’s skin, like this otherworldly, beautiful freak who just leaped out of a fashion ad.
Oh my God.
Um, and maybe he’s staring right back. Turning the most obscene blue-eyed lightning I’ve ever been struck with on my bewildered face.
It’s a look that bites.
A gaze that’s too intense, too assessing, too ready to reach down inside me and dredge up feelings I have zero time for and even less energy to give.
It’s a fight to tear my eyes away. I stomp my boots on the rubber mat out front again, taking my sweet time, saying a quick prayer that the next time I look up, the tiger will have moved on to other things.
Oh, thank hell. I let out that breath I’d been holding in.
He’s not facing me anymore, and he’s back to telling his boisterous, animated story that’s got the bartender laughing away. Seems they’re two giant, steely-eyed peas in a pod. The bartender is also a wall of a man with a thicker beard and a rougher look in his eye.
The other guy seated next to Tiger, on the other hand...
He’s just out of place.
Lean, older, and his button-down shirt and tie look far too posh for a bar called the Purple Bobcat. Whatever they’re saying, he’s just nodding along, looking bored out of his mind.
I flip my hood down while giving my boots one more good shake, then pull off my hat and mittens. I walk to the center of the room and sit down next to Dad.
“The horses are fine,” I tell him, remembering how to speak.
“Figured they’d be. And what about you?” He covers his mouth as he coughs.
“Still kicking,” I whisper, reaching to slide his menu across to me. “Anything good here?”
He can’t answer while he’s busy fighting his own lungs.
God. We’ve been on the road for over twelve hours, but with this weather, we still have a good four or five more to go to Miles City.
That concerns me a lot. Dad’s beaten, worn out, drained.
It’s hard to keep my eyes glued to the menu for the sake of being polite. But he hates it when I fuss over his health, even if I have every reason to.
With a soft sigh, I set my hat and mittens on the table while he takes a long drink of water.
“Listen...I think we need to call it a night. I’ll check to see if there are any motels nearby,” I say, pulling my phone out of my pocket.
“No, Grace. The horses can’t stay in that trailer overnight. They’ll freeze their rears off.” He inhales sharply. “I...I ordered us both some coffee, and he’s making a fresh pot so we’ll have plenty more to go. We’ll wait for the snow to let up and then press on. We can handle a few more hours. Noelle’s place isn’t far.”
He’s so wrong I bite my tongue.
Jesus, I’m not sure if I can even handle a few more hours, but if he’s this determined...
I nod, but now there’s a new reason to be concerned when I look at my phone.
Three missed calls and a flurry of texts. They’re all from Noelle, and they say the same thing.
Grace, call me ASAP.
She’s my cousin, my mom’s side. I haven’t seen her since Mom’s funeral, but when I’d called in a nervous fit last week, she’d invited us to come to Montana and stay with her until our trouble gets sorted.