The Mountain Between Us (3 page)

Cassie's frigid silence alerted Lucille that Gerald was speaking to her. Her cheeks heated, and she busied herself straightening the stack of newspapers on the counter, avoiding his gaze. They'd had lunch once already—not a real date, just two acquaintances running into each other at the Last Dollar Café and agreeing to share a table. But the encounter had left Lucille feeling sixteen again. Well, maybe not sixteen. Some of the ideas she had when she thought about Gerald wouldn't have entered her head at sixteen. Maybe twenty-six, then. Old enough to know what's what and young enough to get it.

But who said she was too old to get it—whatever “it” turned out to be? Sex? Companionship? Love? Aware of Cassie staring at her, she smiled at Gerald. “Dinner sounds wonderful.”

“About those shelves . . .” Like a Rottweiler who'd grabbed hold of Lucille's shirttail, Cassie refused to let go.

“I'll send someone over to the library tomorrow to take a look at the shelves,” Lucille said, glaring at her.

Cassie ignored the look, offering her schoolgirl smile once more to Gerald. “I was telling the mayor the library is in serious need of new shelving. The ones we have are a danger to the patrons.”

“That does sound serious.” He looked sympathetic, but his eyes found Lucille's and he lowered one lid in the suggestion of a wink.

Lucille coughed. It was either that or burst out laughing, and laughing at Cassie was never a good idea. She had friends in county government who could make Lucille's life uncomfortable. Right now, thanks to Gerald's sympathy, Cassie looked triumphant. “You've got to find room in the budget to replace those shelves,” she said.

“Submit your request in writing and the town council will take it under consideration at our next meeting,” Lucille said. “But if the money isn't there, it isn't there.”

Cassie sniffed. “It was so nice to meet you, Mr. Pershing,” she said, transforming immediately when she faced Gerald once more. “Do stop by the library. I'd love to show you around.”

“If you're sure I won't be injured by falling shelves.”

“I . . . well.” Cassie sniffed again. “Well!” Then she hurried away, glaring at both of them over her shoulder just before she pushed out the door.

Lucille collapsed against the counter, laughing. “Gerald, you are too wicked,” she said.

“It is a persistent fault.” He leaned across the counter toward her, intimately close, his mouth mere inches from hers, eyes shining. She felt a thrill, the excitement of being the center of attention to the person she most wanted to be with. “You are amazing,” he said. “Running a business and taking on the responsibility of overseeing the whole town . . . I don't see how you do it.”

“It's not as if this business is particularly demanding. And I don't run the town—the town council does that. I'm more of an administrator.”

“Still, it's a large burden for one person, especially in these perilous financial times.”

Gerald had a formal, flowery way of talking that some people found off-putting, but Lucille saw it as part of his charm. He behaved like a man from an earlier, more courtly era. “The lack of money does make the job a little more stressful,” she admitted. “We don't have enough money for essentials, much less extras like Cassie's library shelves.”

“Much like many a personal budget, I suspect.”

“Yes, I know a lot of people are hurting, which is why I hate to cut any services residents depend on.”

He straightened, his expression more serious. “In my work I see it often.”

Gerald had told her he was involved in investments some way. “Is your business hurting, too, with the economy?” she asked, then felt stupid for even asking. Of course it was. Whose wasn't? Even receipts at Lacy's—the kind of place people shopped when they were strapped for cash—were down.

“On the contrary. I don't like to brag, but I'm doing very well for my clients. I was lucky enough to discover a few investments that have actually grown, despite the economic difficulties in other sectors. In fact . . .” He paused, his eyes searching hers. She nodded, encouraging him to continue. “I would never presume to take advantage of your friendship,” he said. “But I would love to help you out of your difficulties. I could show you some areas where the town might think about investing, where you could realize a solid return on your money quite quickly. It might be enough to help you out of your current difficulties.”

The idea seemed crazy, but definitely tempting. Right now the town had its small surplus in certificates of deposit with the Eureka Bank. “I couldn't make a decision like that on my own. The town council would have to approve.”

“Of course. And there'd be no obligation.” He smiled, blue eyes sparkling. God, he was handsome. “I'll bring some material to dinner with me for you to look over. You can let me know and if you like, I can make a presentation to the council.”

His interest in her problems touched her. She'd been alone so long—raising her daughter with little help from Olivia's father, coming to Eureka after Olivia left home, and making a life for herself here. She'd enjoyed living on her own terms, being independent. She scarcely knew how to lean on someone else anymore, but it was a surprisingly good feeling. As if the time was finally right for a little romance in her life.

C
HAPTER TWO

M
aggie didn't say much on the drive up to the French Mistress Mine the next day, letting Jameso carry the conversation. She gazed out the window at scenery that still took her breath away, despite its familiarity. Mountains like jagged, broken teeth jutted against a sky as blue and translucent as the finest turquoise dug from the French Mistress. Aspen glowed yellow against the darker green of conifers on the flanks of the mountains, the road a red-brown ribbon wound between the peaks. The truck engine whined as Jameso shifted into low gear to climb a steep grade.

“Most years there'd already be a foot of snow up this high,” he said. “Bob's saying we might not get any snow at all before Christmas. Telluride's making snow on a few slopes, but it's not the same as the real stuff. It ices up too much.”

A native of Houston, Maggie wasn't sure how she felt about snow. The longer it held off, the better, she thought, though Jameso didn't share that opinion and she wasn't in the mood to argue with him.

“You're being kind of quiet this morning,” he finally said as he turned his truck onto the dirt track that led to the mine. “You feeling okay?”

“Just a little queasy.” That was true enough. Between the winding mountain roads and her misgivings about the news she had to give him, it was a wonder her breakfast was staying down.

“Are you coming down with something?” He took one hand off the steering wheel and laid it on her forehead. “You don't feel like you have a fever.”

“I'll be fine.” She blinked back sudden tears. His palm on her forehead had been cool and slightly rough, yet the gesture itself had been quite tender. The kind of gesture she could imagine a father making toward a daughter. Or a son. She swallowed hard. If she burst into hormonal tears here, Jameso might freak out and run the truck right off the side of the mountain. For the sake of her unborn child—and her own dignity—she had to keep it together.

“Let's go by the house first and check on things,” she said.

Her father's house—her house now—was a three-room miner's shack with no two windows the same size. Solar panels, a wood stove, and a cistern provided all the comforts of home. Though her father had lived here year-round for years, the road wasn't plowed in winter and Maggie had no desire to commute to work on a snowmobile, so she'd relocated to a place in town, next door to Jameso.

Three weeks ago, they'd come up to the cabin and drained all the water lines, emptied the refrigerator, and closed everything up tight for the winter. But she felt the need to revisit the place as long as they were here. It had been the first home she'd ever had that was hers alone. She'd gone straight from her mother's house to her husband's apartment. Living on her own had been a heady sensation—a privilege she hadn't been willing to give up when Jameso asked her to move in with him. Judging by the look of relief in his eyes when she'd turned down the invitation, he wasn't ready to give up his independence either, which didn't bode well for their baby.

“I'll go around back and make sure marmots haven't gnawed the insulation off the pipes,” Jameso said as he and Maggie climbed out of the truck, parked on the only semi-flat stretch of dirt in the yard.

“Marmots?”

“They like the way the insulation tastes, for some reason. Porcupines like to gnaw foundations, but since the cabin's built on rock, you don't have to worry about that.”

“Between potential avalanches and rock slides, lightning storms and attacks by wildlife, it's a wonder anyone ever even tried to live up here,” she said.

“Nature's always trying to take back its own,” he said, and disappeared around the side of the cabin.

Maggie climbed the steps of the front porch, the grayed boards creaking beneath the soles of her boots. The house perched on the side of the mountain, the back porch jutting into space. She knew strong bolts kept the foundation anchored firmly to the rock, but on her first visit here she'd been sure she was in danger of sliding down into the canyon. She hadn't known anything about her father, Jake, then, but his choice of a place to live seemed to confirm the picture his lawyer had painted of a first-prize eccentric.

Maggie had spent the first night in the house—divorced, unemployed, and absolutely unsure of the future—disappointed that her inheritance was this ramshackle house and a mine that produced no gold. Yet, she'd found everything she needed to get back on her feet right here in this mountaintop cabin.

Jameso came around the side of the house. “The pipes are okay.”

“Do you remember that first night we met, when you drove up here on your motorcycle?” she asked.

“You threatened me with a stick of firewood.”

“You accused me of trespassing.” Jake hadn't told many people he had a daughter, so when Maggie told Jameso the cabin was hers he'd thought she was lying.

“I was a goner from the moment I met you.” Jameso closed the gap between them in a few strides. “You were so beautiful—and clearly scared out of your skull, but determined to be brave. Even without the firewood, you knocked me for a loop.” He kissed her, his lips firm and warm against hers.

She turned away, heart fluttering wildly.
It's just the altitude,
she told herself. They were above 10,000 feet in elevation, where the air contained less oxygen, making breathing more difficult.

“Is something wrong?” Jameso's dark brows drew together, giving him a foreboding look.

“I'm just”—she looked around for some excuse that would explain her attack of nerves—“it's just sad, that's all, closing the place for winter. I really enjoyed living here. I felt like a real mountain woman.” For the first time in her life she'd made her own decisions, done what she wanted. She'd come to understand why Jake had chosen to live here, surrounded by sky and mountains.

“Jake would love knowing that. This place was always special to him.”

Jake had been a larger-than-life figure to everyone who knew him. The people in Eureka had filled Maggie's head with stories of things he'd done—both heroic and awful. These stories had kept company with the fantasies she'd built up over the years about the father who was only a smiling young man in a photograph to her. He'd walked out on her mother when Maggie was three days old, but before she'd died, Maggie's mother had forgiven him. Maggie had spent months uncovering Jake's story, and though she still didn't know it all, she had learned how his experiences in Vietnam had left scars that wouldn't heal—psychological wounds that made it impossible for him to stay with the ones he loved the most.

“Do you ever think much about Iraq?” she asked Jameso.

“Iraq?” His expression darkened. “Why are you talking about that now? What difference does it make?”

“I was just thinking how Vietnam messed up my dad's life so much.”

He compressed his lips into a thin line. “I'm not your dad. Come on.” He took her arm and they started down the path toward the mine.

The air held a winter chill at this altitude, and the wind blew from the north as they headed up the path. Maggie drew her coat tighter around her. “I'm surprised we haven't seen Winston,” she said. Her father had tamed the bighorn ram by feeding it cookies, and Maggie had continued to hand out the treats.

“He's probably found some pretty little ewe to cozy up with for the winter,” Jameso said.

“No more Lorna Doones.”

“No, but something better.” He looked back over his shoulder at her, his gaze smoldering.

She smiled in spite of herself. Jameso was an incorrigible flirt. And maybe Barb was right about him being a romantic. His declaration at the cabin just now had been unexpectedly tender.

They reached the new gate at the entrance to the mine, which Maggie had ordered to replace the old barrier after Lucas Theriot squeezed through the bars and fell down a mine shaft. “Looks good,” Jameso said, giving the heavy iron a tug. The gate had narrower mesh at the bottom and wider spaces at the top to let the bats who lived in the mine fly in and out.

“That should be good, then.” Jameso started to turn away and Maggie grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him back.

“What?” His gaze searched hers, questioning.

“There's something I have to tell you.” She opened her purse and he took a step back, as if prepared to run.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I had a woman pull a gun on me once after she said those words.”

The image surprised a laugh from her. “No guns, I promise.” She took out the little cardboard box that held one of the pregnancy tests and shoved it toward him.

He stared at the box but didn't take it. “What is it?”

“It's a pregnancy test. It came back positive.”

“A pregnancy test?” He'd gone very white beneath the dark beard stubble.

“A
positive
pregnancy test. I'm going to have a baby. Your baby. Well,
our
baby.”

He didn't say anything. He didn't even look at her, just continued to stare at the box in her hand, his mouth slightly open.

“Dammit, say something,” she said.

At last, he raised his gaze to hers. “I . . . I . . .”

Then Jameso Clark, modern mountain man, ski instructor, rock climber, and all-around tough guy, sank to his knees and keeled over in a dead faint.

 

Olivia had the noon-to-happy hour shift by herself on Thursday. This late in the season it should have been slow, but three couples from Texas came in and all the women ordered dirty martinis, forcing Olivia to use the last of the olives. When lawyer Reggie Paxton came down from his law office next door in search of a Diet Coke, Olivia recruited him to man the bar while she went to the Last Dollar Café next door to borrow more olives.

“Do you want garlic stuffed, pimento stuffed, Kalamata, black, or green?” one of the café owners, Danielle, asked, surveying the metal shelves in the pantry behind the kitchen. Petite and curvy, her dark hair in two ponytails worn high on either side of her head, she reminded Olivia of the heroine of one of the anime novels she'd been fond of a few years back.

“Pimento stuffed,” she answered. “One jar should be plenty. We don't get that much call for martinis. I'll pay you back when we get our next grocery order.”

“No problem.” Danielle handed over the jar of olives.

“Hey, Olivia. You're just the woman we wanted to see.” Janelle, Danielle's partner in business and in life, leaned around the door. Tall and willowy, her white-blond locks cut short and wound with a pink bandana, she resembled a Bond girl, complete with an alluring German accent.

“Me?” Olivia clutched the jar of olives to her chest. Her high-school principal and more than one former boss used to say the same thing when they were about to chew her out, but Danielle and Janelle were both smiling.

“We've decided we want to paint a mural on the back wall of the dining room,” Danielle said. “Something depicting the history of Eureka.”

“We don't want to paint it,” Janelle corrected. “We want to hire someone to paint it for us.”

“That's a good idea,” Olivia said. Not that she'd ever given the décor of the restaurant much thought. And she didn't care much about the history of the town, though Lucas was into that kind of thing. He'd spent much of the summer researching local Indian tribes and mining and stuff.

“So you'll do it?” Danielle asked.

“Do what?”

“Paint the mural. We'll pay you, of course.” The dimples on either side of Danielle's mouth deepened along with her smile.

“You want
me
to paint a mural in the restaurant?” Olivia almost dropped the olives, she was so surprised.

“Sure,” Janelle said. “D. J. said he thought you'd be interested.”

“D. J.?” Her head swam. Why had D. J. been talking to the café owners about her?

“We told him we were looking for an artist and he recommended you,” Danielle said. “He said you were really talented.”

“I've always admired the jewelry you make and the T-shirts you paint and stuff,” Janelle added.

Olivia fingered the dangling earrings she'd beaded, then smoothed the front of her T-shirt, a plain white T she'd decorated with a painting of a columbine. Just last week a tourist had asked where she could get one like it. But instead of thanking Janelle for the compliment, what came out was, “D. J. said I was talented?”

“He did,” Danielle said. “So, will you take the job?”

The thought of having a whole wall to cover with paint—and in such a public place—both intimidated and excited her. She'd always had a secret dream of making a living as an artist, but she'd never told a soul. How had D. J. known?

Both women stared at her, expressions expectant. “Okay. Do you know what you want?”

“We thought you could work up some drawings for us to look at and we'll pick one,” Danielle said.

“And tell us your price,” Janelle added.

“I guess I could do that.” Could she? She hadn't a clue how to begin, but she wasn't about to pass up a chance like this.

“No hurry,” Danielle said. “Maybe some time in the next week or two.”

“Okay.” Numb, the jar of olives still clutched tightly to her chest, she turned to leave. “Thanks.”

D. J. was just climbing out of his truck in front of the Dirty Sally when Olivia came down the walk from the café. Still basking in the warm glow of the girls' flattery, she forgot to be angry at him.