The Lost Sheenan's Bride (Taming of the Sheenans Book 6) (2 page)

“Are you Dutch?”

“Both sets of grandparents emigrated from Holland, some before WWII, and some after.” Handshake over she slid her hand beneath her leg, trying to ignore all the crazy butterflies filling her middle, making her resent him for turning her into a gum-smacking teenager who couldn’t handle herself.

“Did your parents speak Dutch at home?”

“To their parents, yes, but only a little bit with us kids. But our grandparents would only speak Dutch to us, which proved useful when I was traveling this year.”

He nodded at the stack of papers in front of her. “You’re a teacher.”

She grimaced. “It’s that obvious?”

“You’re always grading papers.” He paused. “Which grade?”

“All grades, K-8.” So he’d noticed her before. Another shiver coursed through her. “I’m a long-term sub,” she added, “at a one room schoolhouse in Paradise Valley. And you? What do you do? I always see you with a stack of books and papers.”

“I’m a writer.”

He had to be the Shane Swan renting the old Sheenan homestead then. She sat up a little taller, aware that the Sheenans were not happy he was in their home, but she didn’t know why.

She’d like to know, though. “What kind of writing?”

“Nonfiction.”

“That’s a pretty broad subject area. You can squeeze a lot into that…biographies. History. Crime. War.”

“Exactly.”

“And so you write…?”

“History, crime, war.”

Her eyebrows arched. “Pretty dark stuff.”

“Can be. My job is to try to make it personal. Make people care.”

“And do you?”

He laughed, flashing white teeth. “Sometimes.”

“Have you been published?”

He hesitated. “I should have something out next year.”

“That’s great. Congratulations. I’ll have to look for it. I like nonfiction. That’s kind of my thing to read.”

“Oh, yeah? Any favorite authors?”

“Jon Krakauer… Sean Finley… too many to name them all.”

For a moment there was a flicker in his eyes and then it was gone. His expression turned thoughtful. “Which Sean Finley?”

She frowned, thinking. “I’ve read virtually everything by Finley, but my favorite is probably the first one I read by him, the one on Custer’s last stand.
Heartbreak & Heaven
.”

“Why?”

“It was brutal. Sad. But really powerful. It’s like reading about the Alamo. You know what’s going to happen ahead of time, but the details in the retelling brought it to life and made the massacre that much more painful.”

His mouth curved, and yet his dark eyes held hers, intent. “So you are Team Custer.”

“No. More like Team Crazy Horse, but I feel for Custer. I do. He was foolishly brave and I had to respect him even though I didn’t want to. The whole thing was tragic.”

“He was in over his head.”

“But I think most people are! I think most of us learn on the job…and we just kind of hope no one knows that we’re wildly underprepared.”

His smile widened. “Are you speaking from personal experience?”

Jet grimaced. “I might be in a little over my head at the school, but I can promise you that no one will die on my watch.”

“That’s good.”

A table was suddenly open across the café by the bay window. Jet watched Shane’s face. He was going to head over there and grab the now empty table.

Her heart fell a little. It was absurd. She was absurd. There was no reason to like this man so much. She still knew virtually nothing about him. “I can watch your stuff if you want to claim it,” she said.

He turned to look at her, amusement in his dark eyes. “I’ve worn out my welcome already?”

For a second she couldn’t think or breathe, too lost in his dark eyes. He was really ridiculously good-looking. Too good-looking. She didn’t like feeling so shallow.

“I just know you like your space,” she said, and then blushed as one of his black brows lifted. “I mean, you never talk to anyone,” she added quickly, “you just work.”

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, biceps bunching beneath the smooth fabric of his gray Henley. “Is that why you never said hello?”

For a long moment she couldn’t think of anything to say. “I’ve kind of sworn off men.”

He looked at her, waiting.

She hurriedly added, “Not forever, obviously, but for awhile. Just until I have my confidence back.”

“So it’s not my tattoos. I thought maybe you weren’t a fan.”

Jet’s cheeks burned hotter. A dozen different emotions swamped her. But being the youngest in a big family had taught her some basic survival skills, and so she held his gaze, and kept her chin up. “I think you know you’re…appealing.”

He stared right back into her eyes for what felt like endless seconds before he lifted his cup, and took a sip, all without breaking eye contact. “I think you have plenty of confidence. You just need a little nudge.”

Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart thumped. Tattoos and muscles and long, dark, wavy hair and ass-kicker boots…

Jet swallowed hard.

The black eyebrow lifted quizzically. He set the cup back down. “So what happened? Who stomped on your heart?”

Jet wished the floor would open up and swallow her whole. But it didn’t. And Shane just watched her and waited for a response as if he had all day.

The silence stretched. Her heart thumped harder. Clearly he had all day.

“He’s not important,” she finally managed, struggling to sound careless and not at all sure she pulled it off.

“He must be if you’ve sworn off men.”

“Maybe I am a little banged up.” And then, dammit, her eyes filled with tears and she looked away and blinked hard and cursed him for making her cry.

She was so sick of being sad. So sick of being hurt. Ben McAllister wasn’t worth it. He wasn’t. She should be over him by now. But kind of hard to be over someone she loved deeply…

She swallowed hard and forced her attention to Shane. She looked him in the eyes. “Hearts get broken all the time. I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, you will.” He smiled then, but the smile was kind.

Reaching into his leather satchel he pulled out a card. He placed it on the table between them before beginning to gather his things. “Should you ever want to get a cup of coffee, or talk books, or teaching—I used to be a high school history teacher—call me.”

Jet watched him walk away, and take the still empty table by the bay window. He put down his tea and pulled out his laptop.

She turned to look at the business card he’d left on the table.

Sean S. Finley

Writer.

Stunned, Jet picked up the card. Sean S. Finley.
The
Sean Finley?

The card included a url for a website, a New York City PO Box, and a phone number.

She looked across Java Café to where Shane was spreading books around his laptop.

Couldn’t be.

Could it?

She left her table, crossed the café to reach his table. “You’re Sean?” she asked, flashing the business card at him.

“Sean is my pen name.”

“You’re him.”

“Yes.”

Her mouth opened, closed. “You could have told me.”

“I did.”

“Before I kept gushing.”

He flashed a lazy white smile. “It was kind of nice to hear.”

“I feel so stupid.”

“Don’t. Writers need feedback.”

“Hmph.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. At least she tried to glare at him but it was impossible when he smiled up at her like that. “Were you really once a teacher?”

“I was.”

“Were you a good one?”

More white teeth. His dark eyes flashed. “I’d like to think so.”

“Why did you stop teaching?”

“I sold my first book.”

“
Heartbreak & Heaven
?” she asked.

He nodded.

“Was that really the first one you wrote, or just the first one you published?”

“First one I wrote and published.”

“Do you ever miss teaching?”

“Sometimes.” His lips curved. “Like now. I always enjoyed the teacher staff room.”

“Yeah, me, too.” She knew she sounded mournful. “But when you’re the only teacher in a one room schoolhouse, there isn’t much of a staff room.”

“Let’s go to dinner Friday and you can tell me all about it.”

Her pulse leaped. Her stomach somersaulted. The Sheenans would not be happy if they knew she was having dinner with him but, at the same time, this wasn’t just any writer, this was Sean S. Finley. A literary rock star. A literary rock star that looked like a
real
rock star.

His dark eyes gleamed. His lips curved up in what could only be described as wicked. “We can swap teacher stories,” he said.

Her heart was out of control. Doubt and misgiving warred with curiosity and fascination. “I’m still pretty new.”

“And I’ve been out of the classroom for quite awhile. But we can talk books. And ideas. And what brought you to Marietta.”

She shouldn’t say yes.

She shouldn’t.

And not just because Harley and the whole Sheenan clan would have a fit if they knew, but why risk making a fool out of herself? God knew she’d probably gush again, and talk about his books until he wanted to crawl under the table and die, but at the same time…she couldn’t say no. He was one of her favorite writers. His books lined her keeper shelf back home in Visalia. How could she not want to talk to him more? Learn more about what he was working on now?

She smiled ruefully. “Okay.”

“Where do I pick you up?”

“This isn’t a date. Maybe I should meet you there.”

“I was thinking we could go to Livingston. Have dinner at the Gallatin Steakhouse. Heard it’s good. Have you eaten there?”

“No. But I’ve heard good things about it, too.”

“I’ll make a reservation, and there’s no point driving separately. Unless, you’re more comfortable, and if that’s the case—”

“It’s fine.” She hesitated. “I’m not uncomfortable. I’ll text you my number and my address and then you can let me know what time the reservation is for, and when you’ll pick me up.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

He shouldn’t be
doing this.

He shouldn’t involve her.

Shane gave his head a slight shake as Jet walked away and he opened the Word document on his computer, the one labeled
DR 17
, his personal shorthand for Douglas Ranch, Chapter 17.

But he didn’t start working immediately. Instead he found himself staring blankly out the window, at a distant point across Main Street.

She wasn’t what he’d expected.

He wasn’t sure
what
he’d expected. It was obvious to all, she was pretty—cheerleader, homecoming queen pretty—with thick, gleaming, brown hair that hung past her shoulders, and light golden brown eyes with very black lashes. Her cheekbones were high and her lips were full and she had a flawless cream complexion. He’d anticipated that she’d sound much the same…a sweet, rather bubbly young woman without much to say.

But the moment Jet had opened her mouth she’d talked books and writing, and she proved to be well-read, too.

She had a mind of her own. Opinions. He liked that she was interested in history, as well as the world around her.

He liked her.

Which made him kind of hate himself for using her.

He was taking her out Friday to get information. Their dinner wasn’t about her, but about her connection to the Sheenans, specifically Brock Sheenan.

Jet’s sister, Harley, had married Brock Sheenan, the oldest of the five brothers, a couple years ago. The Sheenans were a wealthy, ranching family and had been ranching in Paradise Valley since the turn of the century, and Shane was living in the Sheenan homestead now, having leased it for a year. The lease would be up end of March, and at that time Shane would return to New York to finish his book. The book hadn’t come together yet, there were pieces missing, but Shane was finding it difficult to focus on the Douglas ranch murders when there was another story surrounding him, one far more personal, one that had begun to haunt him night and day.

Shane exhaled slowly, aware that his pulse had quickened.

The Sheenans.

He could never think of them without a hard, tight knot forming in his gut. His chest was just as tight. Anger rolled through him, but then it was always there these days…simmering.

He hated them. Despised them. And yet after nine months living in their house, he was almost consumed with them.

They were far too compelling. But after all this time he shouldn’t find them so compelling. Their mystery should be gone. The strangeness and novelty fading.

But the opposite had happened.

After spending nine months in Montana, he was more intrigued—and conflicted—than ever.

The family was universally admired. Well, maybe not Trey. He was the Sheenan who’d spent four years locked up after a fistfight killed a man. But the rest of the family, they were liked, and celebrated. Troy had given back the town the historic Graff Hotel, and Cormac had shifted his publishing and media companies from California to Marietta, filling a huge, old brick building on Main Street with the corporate offices.

Shane had learned a fair amount about the Sheenan brothers, and yet it was Brock, the eldest Sheenan, that remained the biggest puzzle. He was elusive, and distant, and yet he was the one that might be able to unlock the Sheenan secrets…that would possibly know what Shane wanted to know.

But Brock lived high in Paradise Valley and rarely came to town. If the Sheenan brothers wanted to see him, they went to him, on his ranch. Brock was the first to have moved out of the Sheenan homestead, and it was Brock who’d cut his father off as soon as he’d left home.

For eleven years there had been little communication between Brock and his father, and it wasn’t until he’d married Harley that his new wife brought the two together again. By that time, Bill Sheenan was dying, and Harley managed to bring about a reconciliation between her husband and father-in-law, but from what Shane understood, it was probably too little, too late.

Shane wanted to know about the feud between Brock and Bill Sheenan.

Shane wanted to know about Brock’s relationship with his late mother, Catherine Sheenan.