Trouble in Paradise (4 page)

“Don’t like well-done beef?”

She looked up to find Ian O’Connell leaning his hip against his pickup, his arms crossed over his chest. A half smile curved his mouth, and his eyes twinkled with amusement.

Well, it figured he would be here to see this. He usually showed up during her worst moments, didn’t he?

“The oven overheated,” she explained.

He pushed off the truck and strode toward her.
“The whole place isn’t going to burn down while we talk, is it?”

“No.” She glanced over her shoulder. The smoke was beginning to clear. “But maybe it should,” she added with a note of disgust.

“Why don’t I check it out?”

“Be my guest.” She didn’t bother to rise. Merely slid over to one side so he could get past her.

One more thing needing repair. One more drain on the inheritance that had seemed bountiful when she received it but now seemed so inadequate. She could almost hear her mother saying,
Come home, dear, where you belong.

She pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyes, her elbows resting on her thighs.

“I opened the windows,” Ian told her a short while later. He sat down on the step next to her. “It’s the thermostat, I think. Or maybe the element. Shouldn’t be too expensive to replace.”

She straightened and looked toward him. “Even for a stove that old?”

“We’ll get it fixed. Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry. Easy for him to say.

“I’ll run into town as soon as the hardware store opens in the morning. With luck, Ed will have the part in stock. Plenty of old stoves in this valley.”

“You don’t have to do that. If you just tell me what I need—”

“Glad to do it.” He patted her shoulder and smiled. “And since you’ll be busy cleaning my house all this next week, you sure aren’t going to have time for it.”

Her heart started doing a little soft-shoe routine in her chest, then burst into overdrive. Her body felt too warm, the heat radiating from the place where his hand rested on her shoulder.

“Nearly forgot what brought me over.” He straightened, removing his hand. “I was thinking this afternoon about you being in this cabin all by yourself and wondered if you might like some company.”

Was he saying
he
wanted to be with her? Her pulse quickened even more.

“I’ve got some sheltie pups that are just weaned and thought you might like to have one.”

Of course. He was offering her a pet to be her companion, not himself. How could she have thought otherwise? Even for a millisecond. Worse. Why had she wanted to think otherwise?

“You like dogs, don’t you?” he continued, oblivious to her thoughts.

“Yes, I like dogs.”

“Good.” He stood. “I brought one with me, just in case.” He headed for the truck.

Shayla’s sister Anne was the classic beauty in the family. If it was beautiful Anne living in this cabin, Ian wouldn’t be bringing her a puppy for company. He’d be bringing flowers.

She clenched her teeth. She
had
to get off this pity-me kick.

Ian opened his truck door and reached inside. A few moments later, he returned to where she sat, carrying with him a little orange-and-white ball of
fur with big golden-brown eyes and a shiny black nose. Shayla couldn’t help laughing as she accepted the quivering, tail-wagging, whimpering pup, her disappointment instantly forgotten.

“Oh, she’s adorable.” She met Ian’s gaze. “Is it a she?”

“Yup.”

“What’s her name?” She rubbed her cheek against the puppy’s soft coat.

“That’s up to you. She’s yours if you want her.”

“I probably need my head examined, but yes, I want her. How could I give her up after seeing her?” The puppy licked the tip of Shayla’s nose, and Shayla laughed again. “Is this how you find homes for all your puppies, Mr. O’Connell?”

“Hey, whatever works.”

She looked at him, feeling his warm smile all the way down to her toes. “That’s dirty pool.”

He shrugged even as his grin broadened. “So shoot me.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

But shooting him was the last thing she wanted to do.

They made a cute picture, the tiny sheltie and the curly-haired woman. Ian liked the way Shayla’s dark blue eyes sparkled with pleasure. He’d bet she was the type to stop and smell the roses.

Although he knew he should head back to the ranch, he settled once again onto the steps. “So what’re you gonna call her?”

“I don’t know.” She held the puppy at arm’s length and studied her. “What are her parents’ names?”

“The mother is Paradise Belle. Her sire, Lakeside’s Shadow Boy, lives up in the Coeur d’Alene area.”

Shayla’s eyes widened. “This isn’t just
any
puppy, is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean those are fancy-sounding names for regular pets.” She frowned, her gaze suspicious. “How much are you selling the rest of the litter for?”

He got up. “The usual.” To avoid more questions, he headed for his truck to retrieve a temporary supply of puppy food and dog necessities. “Feel free to bring her with you tomorrow. No point leaving her alone all day.” After leaving the supplies on the deck, he got into the pickup, held his arm out the window, and waved. “See you in the morning.”

B
leary-eyed from a sleepless night—thanks to the cries of a puppy separated from its mama—Shayla followed the two-mile driveway toward the ranch house, a cloud of dust rising in the compact’s wake. Beside her on the car seat, Honey Girl, as the sheltie had been christened, dozed, muzzle on front paws.

“Sure,
you
can sleep,” Shayla muttered while stroking the pup’s head.

As she drew closer to the house and outbuildings, she caught a glimpse of gray out the corner of her eye. She turned her head and saw Ian cantering his horse toward a small herd of grazing Herefords. She let up on the gas and allowed the car to coast to a stop so she could watch.

It was a beautiful sight, observing the way horse and rider moved as a single unit rather than separate entities. She’d attended a few rodeos in
her lifetime, so she wasn’t totally ignorant of the way cutting horses worked. But this was different. This was the real thing, not some show for a stadium full of greenhorns. She was left almost breathless by the sight.

Ian rode with skill and ease, even when the horse set its front legs, then changed directions. He held a lariat in his right hand while holding the reins with his left. His black cowboy hat was pulled low on his forehead, shading his eyes from the bright morning sunshine.

“I think I could watch him all day long.”

As soon as the words came out of her mouth, she felt the heat of embarrassment rush to her cheeks. That sort of thinking had to be driven straight out of her mind. Murder and mayhem, not inspirational romance, should be occupying her thoughts. She was a mystery writer, not a rodeo groupie.

Resolutely she turned her gaze onto the road ahead and pressed on the gas pedal. The car jumped forward, the four-cylinder engine whining its usual tune.

Ian must have heard it, because he rode into the barnyard a minute or two after she arrived at her destination.

“Morning,” he called.

She got out of the car, Honey Girl in her arms.

He reined in his horse, then swung down from the saddle, leaving the reins trailing on the ground as he strode toward her.

“Good morning.” Her mouth felt dry as cotton. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue.

“How’s the pup?”

“Noisy and messy.”

He grinned. “Yeah, aren’t they though? Did you give her a name yet?”

“Honey Girl.”

“Good choice. It fits her.”

Whimpering, Honey wriggled, trying to get down. Shayla set her on the ground. For a moment, she watched the puppy scampering through the tulips and daffodils that bordered the porch. But eventually her gaze returned to Ian. He was still looking at her, still smiling.

“I’ve got a small kennel off the back porch where you can keep her while you’re working.” He tipped his hat back slightly. “That way you can stop and play with her whenever you like.”

Oh, her reckless heart. Thumping away like a bongo player. This was too incredible for words. And it was unlike her. She wasn’t given to longing after handsome men like Ian—and certainly none had ever given her the time of day.

“Murder and mayhem,” she repeated to herself. She had to think of Ian O’Connell as nothing more than potential research material. Nothing more than a model for Chet Morrison, her protagonist.

“Something wrong?”

She realized she’d stared at him for the longest time. Her cheeks flushed hot for the second time in less than fifteen minutes.

“No. I was just thinking. About my book.” She hurried after Honey Girl, glad for a distraction.

Ian shook his head in bemusement as he strode toward the barn a few minutes later. Shayla was a strange one, all right. He couldn’t quite get a handle on her. One minute she was all smiles and laughter. The next she was as flustered as a wet hen. One time she’d seem real sure of herself. The next she didn’t have a lick of confidence.

And then there was the way she talked to herself. A hundred years ago, they would’ve locked her up in an asylum. Or at least in the attic of the family home. They’d have thought her loco for certain.

Well, maybe that’s how city folk were nowadays. Living with air pollution from millions of cars probably did something to their brains. All that traffic and all those people everywhere you turned would be enough to drive anyone crazy.

He opened the gate to the kennels to let Bonny and Coira out. Then he fed and watered them, as well as Belle and her pups. When that was done, he entered the barn to saddle a new horse. A glance at his watch told him he’d better hurry. He was supposed to meet Ty out by the irrigation ditch in another half an hour.

Dragging his saddle off the saddle tree, he wondered again why anyone would want to live like people did in the big cities. If it was him, he’d head for the hills as quick as he could. Maybe that’s what Shayla had done. Maybe this was where she’d come running
to.

No. That wasn’t likely. It almost always worked the other way around.

If he was smart, he’d quit thinking about the little flatlander and get on with his day. What she did, the reasons that had brought her here, were her own business and no concern of his. Best he remember that.

Three hours later, Shayla knelt on the kitchen floor, scrubbing for all she was worth. Perspiration beaded her forehead and dampened her underarms. Straggly curls fell forward into her face, refugees from her ponytail, and she constantly had to push them away with the back of her hand.

She was just about finished when she heard the creak of the rear screen door opening, then closing. She sat back on her heels and glanced over her shoulder. But instead of Ian, as she’d expected, there was another cowboy standing there, this one with golden hair, brown eyes and two-day-old stubble on his jaw.

And dirty boots on her clean floor!

“Hey!” she shouted at him. “I just mopped.”

He stepped backward, into the small mudroom adjacent to the kitchen. “Sorry, ma’am.”

“It’s all right,” she mumbled, not meaning it.

He removed his hat. “I forgot the boss said he had someone coming in to do the house cleanin’. I’m real sorry ’bout my boots, ma’am.”

Ma’am?
The word made her feel ancient. She wished he would quit using it.

“We’ve been irrigatin’ all mornin’. Again, I’m right sorry about dirtyin’ your floor.” He looked it,
too. Then he grinned. “My name’s Ty. Ty Sheffield. What’s yours?”

“Shayla Vincent.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

She couldn’t stop herself from laughing softly as she rose to her feet. “Shayla will do.” If he called her ma’am again, she was going to throw the scrub brush at him.

“You’re the one living over at the Erickson place.”

“It’s
my
place now.”

“Well, if you need any help, all you gotta do is ask me.”

“Thanks.”

The screen door creaked again. A moment later, Ian appeared behind Ty. Shayla felt her heart flip in her chest. Like flapjacks on the grill.

Oh my. Now she was starting to
think
like them.

“Careful, boss.” Ty held out an arm to stop Ian from going around him. “She’s likely to wallop you if you track mud all over the place. You know how women are about their clean floors.”

Shayla supposed a true feminist would be offended by his remarks, but try as she might, she couldn’t summon indignation.

“The kitchen hasn’t looked this good in years,” Ian said in agreement, drawing her gaze to him. “I didn’t expect you to get so much done in one morning.”

“I come from a big family,” she answered, hoping to shake off the spell he seemed to cast over her. “You learn how to clean things fast.”

“We were coming in for a bite to eat.” Before she
could reply, Ian added, “We’ll use the bootjack first so we don’t track up the floor.”

Shayla envisioned how she must look, standing there with her messy hair, sweaty shirt and soapy-water-dampened Levi’s. So what was new? She always looked dreadful when he was around. It was preordained or something.

“Care to join us for lunch?” he asked as he entered the kitchen in his stocking feet.

She ran a hand over her hair. “Well, I hadn’t—”

“No point you driving back to your place. There’s plenty to eat here.” He headed for the large refrigerator. “You like tuna salad sandwiches? It’s all ready except for spreading it on the bread.”

“Tuna salad?”

“Bet you thought us cowpokes only ate beef and beans,” Ty said as he came to stand beside her.

“Yes, I suppose I did.”

Ty pointed toward Ian. “The boss here’s somewhat of a gourmet cook.” He winked at her. “Comes from livin’ in this big ol’ house all by his lonesome for so many years, I reckon. Nothin’ else to do but learn to cook.”

She wanted to ask how many years he’d been alone. Instead she bent over and lifted the bucket of soapy water. “I’ll get rid of this, then freshen up a bit.”

“You’ll find whatever you need in that first bathroom at the top of the stairs,” Ian told her.

She carried the bucket into the mudroom, dumped its contents into the extradeep sink, then beat a hasty retreat to the second-floor bathroom.

A few minutes after Shayla disappeared, Ty leaned a hip against the counter, watching as Ian prepared a plateful of sandwiches. “She’s cute.”

“Is she?”

His young friend chuckled. “As if you haven’t noticed.”

He ignored that.

“Well, then, I guess that means she’s fair game. Always did like tiny gals with curly hair.”

Ian shrugged, at the same time pressing his lips together.

“What d’ya know about her?”

“Not much.”

“C’mon, Ian. Spill, will you?”

“Okay. Okay.” He snapped the plastic lid onto the container and shoved it into the leftover-crowded refrigerator. “She’s a writer. Came here from Portland to write a novel. A Christian murder mystery, she says. Got a passel of brothers and sisters.” He carried the platter of sandwiches to the oak table against the wall opposite the windows. “That’s it. That’s all I know.”

“And no steady boyfriend?”

He felt unreasonably irritable. “I guess not, given she’s here alone.”

“Couples have been known to keep those long-distance relationships. Silly notion, if you ask me. When you love each other, you stay together.”

Ty’s words sent Ian’s thoughts speeding back in time, back to the day Joanne packed her suitcase to leave….

“It doesn’t mean the marriage is over, Ian.” His wife turned toward him. “I just need…some time away. That’s all. Some time to myself. I’ll spend a few months at the artists’ colony, and then I’ll come back.”

She was lying—and they both knew it.

“We’ve been married eight years, Joanne. Don’t you think—”

“That’s just it!” Her voice rose in frustration. “We’ve been married eight years and we’ve never done anything but raise Herefords and quarter horses and collies. We never go anywhere, except down to the café for breakfast and an occasional movie in McCall. I need more than that!”

Ian raked his fingers through his hair. He wanted to tell her they should be raising kids by now, but he resisted the impulse.

“Jo, you know how hard it is for a rancher to take time off.”

“Yes, I
do
know. That’s the problem.” Her words came out like a sigh. Her green eyes were filled with unspeakable sadness, disillusionment, heartache. Then she turned toward the bed and snapped closed her suitcase.

“Jo…” He reached out, placed his hands on her shoulders. “Honey…”

She slipped from beneath his touch. “I want things you don’t want,” she whispered, “and the same goes for you.”

The words cut him like a knife. Because they were true.

He’d known they were drifting apart, known she didn’t want the ranch or children, known she might not even want him. He’d known all of that for a long time. He just hadn’t wanted to face it.

His wife was unhappy. For that matter, so was he. They fought more often than they kissed, and sometimes the words they flung at each other were downright cruel.

But he’d meant his wedding vows. There’d never been a divorce in the O’Connell family, and he didn’t want to be the first. Marriages were supposed to be worked at, to be made to last, no matter what. You hung on, and eventually things got better again.

Joanne and he had been happy once. They’d fallen in love in high school and married right after graduation. Her family had been in the valley almost as long as the O’Connells. She knew this place and she knew him. Nobody knew him better.

At least that’s what he’d believed all these years.

Until now.

“Just let me go, Ian. If you ever loved me, let me go.”

Shayla splashed her face with cold water, then used the washcloth to freshen the rest of her. She found a small bottle of musk-scented cologne in the medicine cabinet and sprayed some on her wrists. She was thankful that she’d had the foresight to bring a clean top and a pair of shorts to change into when it got warmer. She quickly donned them before attempting to put her bird’s-nest hairdo in order. When
she’d done the best she could with what she had, she turned off the light and left the bathroom.

She paused a moment in the hallway, her gaze alighting on an oil painting at the head of the stairs. She knew without looking for the signature that it must have been painted by Ian’s late wife. Shayla didn’t have to be an art critic to recognize the similarities between this smaller landscape and the much larger one in the great room. Or to recognize the woman’s extraordinary talent.

“How long since she died?” she whispered as she reached out to touch the picture frame. “How long has he been alone in this house?”

Years, he had said. But how many years? Enough to put the pain to rest? Or was he still in love with his wife’s memory?

She glanced toward the open doorway of his bedroom. She wondered if she would find a photograph of the late Mrs. Ian O’Connell in there. Perhaps on his nightstand or on the fireplace mantel.