Dark Paradise (13 page)

Hollywood was all anyone knew for sure, and God knew big money didn't

get made down there by the sweat of any man's brow.

He has more money than God. God was exactly the role Bryce wanted to

play here, J.D. thought bitterly.

Bryce fielded questions from the audience with all the paternal

benevolence of a supreme being, telling them everything would be

wonderful, their financial cups would runneth over, and all would be

bliss in Eden.

To the credit of the citizens of New Eden, not everyone bought the

routine. People rose readily to debate the issues. When one person

pointed out that development would bring jobs to the valley, another

countered that the jobs would be low-paying service occupations. When

one charged that the influx of tourists was a disruption to a way of

life, another argued that the town would die without those tourist

dollars. Cattlemen spoke out angrily about the political clout wielded

by radical left-wing environmentalists who owned second homes here and

were fighting to stop everything from grazing on federal land to eating

red meat. Environmentalists fought back, slamming the cattle industry

for overgrazing and destroying wildlife habitat.

Jim Ed Wilcox, chairman of the committee, cut in as the debate edged

toward an exchange of blows. He broke in again when a new argument

heated up between a Mormon rancher from over on Bitter Creek and the

owner of the New Age rock shop, or whatever the hell it was - a tall,

fierce-looking woman named M.E. who was some kind of Broadway actress

when she wasn't playing around in Montana. The rancher accused her of

practicing witchcraft. She accused him of having a negative energy field

and a constipated mind. Wilcox shouted them both down and, when order

had been restored, introduced another of the people at the front table.

Colleen Bensen was a squarely built woman with a cap of soft brown curls

and large tortoiseshell glasses.

She was dressed in a blue silk tunic and slacks with a wildly patterned

scarf swathed around her shoulders and pinned in place with what looked

to J.D. like a chunk of welder's solder. She took her place behind the

podium as two men carried a draped object in from a side door and set it

on the table beside her.

"Good evening, everyone," she said so softly that Jim got up and bent

the neck of the microphone down, making it screech in protest.
 
A blush

bloomed on the woman's cheeks. She cleared her throat demurely and

started again. "As many of you know, I am a sculptor. I came to New Eden

two years ago and made this my permanent home. It troubles me to see so

much dissention over the issue of new people coming here. I feel what we

all need is a spirit of cooperation. As a symbol Of that spirit, I have

decided to donate to the town a sculpture that embodies the theme of

cooperation and blends barmoniously the rough elements of the ranching

community with the influx of sophisticated and artistic qualities from

the outside."

She unveiled the model with a flick of the wrist, snapping the white

cloth from it. Half the room gasped in awe and wonder. The other half

stared in dumbfounded astonishment. J.D. fit squarely into the second

group. It didn't look like anything to him but a big hunk of smooth

metal and a big hunk of jagged metal twisted together, like something

that could be found on the road in the aftermath of a major car wreck.

There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause for the piece, which,

Miss Bensen said, would stand as a focal point in front of the county

courthouse. She would begin work on the project immediately, and would

create the piece on the site so people could witness the progress.

"I expect that's a nice gesture, Miz Bensen," J.D. said neutrally,

drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. "But I don't see how a big ol'

hunk of metal is gonna help me pay taxes that have been raised to the

moon because of inflated land prices. A gesture doesn't keep my

neighbors from selling out prime ranch land to people who think food is

manufactured in a room out back
 
of the A&P. Bottom line here is, we dig

our heels in now and hang on to what's ours, or in five years we'll all

be steppin' and fetchin' for rich folk. That's not what my ancestors

came west for a hundred-some years ago."

While the sculptress turned scarlet with embarrassment, Bryce rose

gracefully from his chair, steepling his bony fingers in front of him in

a scholarly pose. His pale eyes locked on J.D. "Mr. Rafferty, are you

saying that only natives should be allowed to live in Montana?
 
That

this land and freedom you so cherish shouldn't be offered to anyone born

in another state?"

J.D. narrowed his eyes. He didn't raise his voice above its usual low

growl, and yet each word snapped in the air like the crack of a whip.

"I'm saying I won't sell MY heritage to some slick-ass smart-mouth rich

boy so he can impress his witless friends from Hollywood. I can't stop

people from coming here, but they can damn well respect my way of life

and leave me to it in peace. I won't be bought out. I won't be run off.

And I sure as hell won't stand by and smile while speculators turn this

place into some kind of snotty elitist ground."

He settled his Stetson on his head, signaling to one and all that the

argument was over - as far as J.D. Rafferty was concerned. "If I want to

live in an amusement park," he said softly, firmly, "I'll move to

Disneyland."

Will sat at the bar, one arm on the polished surface, fingers absently

stroking a sweating mug of imported beer.

He swiveled sideways on his stool to survey the place. It was a little

tony for his tastes. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace, chasing off

the chill of the spring evening. Soft guitar music drifted out of hidden

speakers, calm enough to lull a man to sleep.

Will preferred the Hell and Gone down the street for its noise and

truculence and nightly mouse races. The juke there played country as

loud as thunder and nobody talked below a shout. The liquor was better

in the Moose, but hell, after two or three, what difference did it make?

About half the tables in the Mystic Moose lounge were filled with

newcomers and vacationers, pretty people in expensive clothes. One

exotic-looking blonde sitting alone at a nearby table caught his eye,

returning his stare with open boldness, but Will looked past her. He

hadn't come in to get himself picked up by some rich bitch looking for a

cowboy to lay. He had come in because his wife moved among the clientele

with a serving tray and a smile that was softer than silk and warmer

than the sun.

Damn, but she was a pretty thing. Somehow, he hadn't managed to realize

just how pretty until after they had split up. He had always thought of

Sam as cute - when he thought of her at all. A cute kid, a tomboy with a

crush on him. Now he looked at her as she bent to set a glass of wine in

front of a customer and her jeans snugged up tight against her bottom,

and he wished to hell they'd never gotten married. He would have loved

nothing better than to charm his way into her bed to night, but he

couldn't do that, things being what they were.

He shook his head and swilled his beer. He liked his life a whole lot

better without complications.

He watched as Sam made her way back to the bar, head bent over her order

pad. Her waist-long black hair was in its usual utilitarian braid. Will

pictured it loose, falling around her naked shoulders so that her

nipples peeked out from between the silken strands. He shifted

uncomfortably on his stool and took another pull on his beer to dull the

sudden throbbing in his groin.

Samantha felt his eyes on her the instant she set her tray on the bar,

and her heart jumped up into her throat.

Two weeks had passed since Will had moved back out to the Stars and

Bars. She hadn't seen him up close since their last fight.

The memory of the blonde from the Hell and Gone warred with the image of

him sitting there on the bar stool, looking too handsome for his own

good, his eyes too blue and his smile too tempting. The pressure made

her heart feel as if it were swelling and cutting off her air.

"Aren't you even gonna say hello, Sam?" he said softly.

She turned her head to look at him squarely, wishing he would see cool

indifference in her eyes, knowing he would see pain instead. "What are

you doing here?"

Good question. He bit the inside of his lip and tried to think of

something clever, something that didn't sound as screwed up as he felt.

He was the one who wanted out of the marriage; he couldn't very well

tell her he missed her.

"It's a free country," he said at last, all but wincing at how lame that

sounded.

Samantha tightened her expression into a glare, hoping the hurt wouldn't

show through. In her heart she had wanted him to say that he missed her,

that he needed her, that he wanted to try again to make their marriage

work.

Over and over she had envisioned him coming to her and begging her

forgiveness, telling her with tears in his eyes that he wanted her more

than anything, that he wanted her to have his baby. That was what she

wanted. And she kicked herself for it. She wasn't a dreamy young girl

any more; she was a woman with a husband who cheated on her without

compunction.

"Well then, you're free to go on down to the Hell and Gone," she said

sharply. "I'm sure there's a bimbo or two waiting for you."

Will's protest caught in his throat as she wheeled around and stalked

away with a loaded tray in her hands. Heaving a sigh, he laid his elbows on

the bar and hung his head.
 
"Hey, Tony," he muttered to the bartender,

"gimme a shot of Jack in the black, will you?"

J.D. intercepted the whiskey. He tossed it back, slammed the glass down

on the bar and fixed his brother with a steely glare. "We're leaving."

Will shot him a look. "What's your problem?"

"Besides you?"

"That meeting can't be over yet."

"It is as far as I'm concerned."

"Oh, well, then," Will drawled sarcastically, stretching his arms out in

an expansive gesture. "Then we can all go home. St. John has spoken."

His declaration met with a thunderous scowl. "Save your lip for someone

who wants to hear it. Let's go."

Will shook his head, only mildly incredulous at his brother's

high-handedness. "Contrary to what you seem to think, big brother, you

are not my keeper. I have my own truck, you know."

"Yeah. And some night you might even be sober enough to drive it home."

"I'm driving it home tonight," Will said tightly.

"Before or after you lose another grand or two in Little Purgatory?"

Will squeezed his eyes shut. "Oh, shit."

"Yeah," J.D. said, his gaze cutting around them to make certain no one

was within earshot. He signaled the bartender for a refill on the Jack

and leaned heavily against the bar. "Jesus, Will," he whispered. "How

could you?
 
Sixty-five hundred!"

"I had a straight, J.D.," he said, cupping his hands in front of him as

if he could call up a vision of the cards across them. "I had it right

there and I kept looking at that pot and thinking, Judas, that's the

loan on my truck, that's three payments to Stark Implement, that's a

down payment on that hay ground across the valley."

"It's sixty-five hundred dollars you could just as well have flushed

down the toilet."

Will glared at him. "Thanks, J.D. Make me feel worse about it than I

already do. I was trying to win."

"But you didn't, Will." He held his tongue as the bartender refilled his

glass. He tossed the whiskey back and set the glass down with a dull

thunk. "You never do."

Will reached for his beer mug and J.D. slid it beyond his grasp. His

temper was simmering. He felt as if everything in his world was slipping