Tight-Fittin' Jeans

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Tiffany’s own heart took a nosedive as another bout of guilt rose to the surface. “What else do you know about him?”

“Nothing, except he’s apparently about as closemouthed as they come, and he hasn’t been in the community but a few months.”

Tiffany held out her hand. “Thanks for coming, Sheriff. I appreciate it very much.”

“Just doing my job, ma‘am. Come on, I’ll walk you back to the house. I’m sure that young’n’s having a conniption fit”

“You’re right,” Tiffany said, another pang of guilt stabbing her.

A short time later, after explaining to the child what had happened, though without the details, Tiffany sat on the bed beside Taylor, tucking her in for the night.

“I’m so proud of you. You acted like such a big girl.”

“I am a big girl. I’m six years old, going on seven.”

“That’s right, you are.” Tiffany smiled, but the child didn’t. “What’s the matter, honey?”

The child’s gaze didn’t waver. “I’m glad you found my kitty, but my daddy’s going to be real mad, ’cause you hit his friend.”

Four

Garth stumbled into the cabin and onto the couch. Sweat poured off his face like a broken water faucet But the sweat was the least of his worries. His chest felt as if it were going to cave in on him at any second.

He shouldn’t have pushed his horse at such a rapid clip through the woods. He’d been so pissed off over what had just happened that he’d let his temper overrule his sound judgment. Hell, he wasn’t used to taking it easy. Since he could remember, he’d gotten up literally at the crack of dawn, taken a shower, then headed to the office, where he’d drunk a pot of coffee while planning which corporations to take over and which not to.

Now he couldn’t do any of those things, except shower. And on some mornings even that was an effort. If his health and his mood didn’t hurry up and change drastically, then he would just as soon bail out of this life. Movers and shakers like himself weren’t cut out to be ill.

Garth leaned his head back on the couch and placed his hand over his heart. Maybe he should go to the ER. No, that was out. Hospitals were out. Besides, his heart rate had settled, though not exactly back to normal. Not only had anger at being in this situation and this godforsaken place sapped his precious energy, but embar-moment at having been banged on the head by that dizzy blonde had added insult to injury.

“Damn!” he muttered, recalling the instant he’d turned and seen her standing there, knowing beyond a doubt that she was the one who had hit him. She’d had that guilty look written all over her. For a moment he’d fought the urge to grab her shoulders and shake her. But since he’d never put his hands on a woman in that way, the thought had died a natural death.

Still, Garth couldn’t help but remember that even in his dazed state, it hadn’t been Tiffany Russell’s face that caught his attention, but rather the way her butt was made for those tight-fittin’ jeans she had on.

Then, as quickly as that thought had surfaced, it disappeared. He hadn’t come here to get involved with a woman. However, if the circumstances had been different, he would have asked her out, despite the fact that he was sure her looks far outweighed her brainpower. At this juncture in his life, that point didn’t matter. He was only interested in the pleasure, without the permanency.

Yeah, she was a looker, all right, with shoulder-length blond hair worn in a pageboy style, skin that reminded him of rich cream and deep-set green eyes that appeared so innocent. He almost choked on that though

Still, it was the way her well-endowed rear had filled those jeans that seemed branded on his mind. Yet he couldn’t overlook her voice; even though she had given an apology grudgingly, it had come out sounding like silk.

Unfortunately, the woman and her assets didn’t mean a hill of beans to him. Another woman in his life was the last thing he needed or wanted. What he did want was to recover both in body and mind and return to his work a whole man.

Meanwhile, he was still breathing, which he had to think of as a gift and run with. If only he could let go of the notion that he had something to prove, not only to himself but to his stepfather, who had set him up in business. If only...

Determined not to open that can of worms, Garth stood. When the room stopped spinning, he trudged into the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of orange juice. Frowning, he gulped it down, pretending it was Scotch on the rocks.

“Dream on, Dixon,” he quipped, setting the empty glass on the cabinet. His days of drinking as much booze as he wanted were gone, along with so many of the other pleasures he had enjoyed. He vowed that that would only be temporary.

After his heart healed and he clinched the biggest business deal of his career, which was now on hold, then maybe he would give some thought to getting off that high-profile treadmill, even to semiretiring.

Sure thing, he told himself, knowing that was never going to happen. He wasn’t like the majority of his buddies, who played golf as many hours a day as they could squeeze in and thought that was the ultimate challenge. He didn’t go for that.

What he did go for was getting well, by far the biggest challenge he’d ever faced. Garth’s thoughts suddenly took him back to the time immediately after he’d been released from the hospital.

He’d headed straight for the sanctuary of his office, where he’d sat behind his desk, numb with shock and despair, his head in his hands.

He hadn’t heard his right-hand man, Max Lansing, come in, until Max cleared his throat and said, “What the hell are you doing here? You should be home in bed. ”

Garth had stared at Max for a moment, taking in his stocky, muscled frame, his healthy, ruddy complexion, and felt green with envy. Then, feeling like a coward, he’d turned away.

Max had pressed him. “Well?”

“I couldn’t go home. It’s that simple.”

“So what did the doctor say?”

“In a nutshell, if I don’t slow down and take a few months’ leave of absence, I won’t live to see my fiftieth birthday.”

“That’s a crock of crap. I thought all this modern medical technology could fix anything.”

Garth smirked. “Me too. But I want my ticker fixed as good as new, which apparently no one can do.”

“So what’s next?”

He didn’t answer Max right off. He couldn’t. The words were jammed in his throat. He coughed twice; only then could he speak. “I’m hauling ass.” Bitterness underlined each word.

Max blinked. “Where to?”

“A remote part of Utah.”

This time Max’s jaw dropped. “Utah? You’re kiddin’ me.”

“I wish. My dad left me some land there with a cabin on it.” He paused, another smirk altering his features. “I’ve never even seen it.”

“What about that big deal we have pending? I know the Japanese are known for their patience, but—”

Even though his voice trailed off, Garth heard the panic in it. He couldn’t comfort Max, because he felt the same way. To walk out and leave the corporation that he’d built from the bottom up went against the work ethic that had been drilled into him.

“Deal or no deal, what choice do I have?” he said out loud.

Max sighed. “None.”

“I’m going to have to depend on you more than ever. Are you up to the challenge?”

Max’s face brightened, though his voice remained sober. “I won’t let you down.”

“And I won’t let you down—or this company. When I get back from Dumpsville, I’ll be as good as new. And that’s a promise.”

Jerking his thoughts out of the past, Garth groaned as a shaft of pain shot through his skull. He walked to the window, all the while nursing the lump on the side of his head.

Damn that woman for adding to his physical misery. And double-damn her for having such a cute ass that she was making him mentally miserable, as well.

Desperate to regain control of his wandering mind, he stared out the window, concentrating on the orchard of peach trees loaded with fruit.

It was a damn shame the crop had to go to waste, he thought, just as the phone rang.

“Has something happened that we should know about?”

“Uh, why do you ask that?” Tiffany heard the uneasiness in her own voice, and knew without a doubt that Bridget had picked up on it, too, especially as they were practically able to read each other’s minds.

“Hey, remember who you’re talking to here, okay? You can’t pull the wool over my eyes, so don’t even try.”

“I thought you were supposed to be concentrating on getting well?”

“My body might be in traction, but my mind isn’t So fess up.”

Tiffany sighed. “All right. First, though, tell me how you’re doing.”

“I’m progressing about as well as the doctors predicted. It’s just going to take longer than I wanted.” Bridget paused. “You’re not about to tell me you have to get back to Houston, are you?”

“No, though you might send me packing when I fess up, as you put it. If you don’t, then Jeremiah might.”

“Stopping beating around the bush. I’m about to have a hissy fit, and you know that’s not good for me.”

“I knocked Jeremiah’s friend in the head.” Once she’d blurted out the confession, Tiffany waited for the fireworks. She wasn’t disappointed.

“What?”

“He’s okay, really he is.”

“What on earth—?”

Before Bridget could go on, Tiffany jumped in and told her the entire story. When she finished, a long silence added to her already jangled nerves. Replaying the entire scenario made it seem even more incredible than it already was.

“Oh, Tiff, how could you?” Bridget exclaimed.

“I screwed up. What more can I say?”

“Nothing. It’s just so...bizarre. Well, as long as he isn’t hurt, then don’t worry about it.” Bridget paused, then chuckled.

“What’s so damn funny?”

“You, actually. I can just picture you sneaking up on that poor unsuspecting man and—”

“Okay, okay. Let’s not beat a dead horse. Maybe I won’t have to see him again.”

“I wouldn’t count on that, especially as Jeremiah was serious when he asked him to keep an eye on things around the ranch.”

“Well, let’s put it this way—I’M go out of my way to avoid running into him. Trust me, I’m not at the top of his friend list.”

Bridget chuckled again. “I’m sure you’re not, which is all the more reason why my husband should stop being so stubborn. I’ve tried to tell him he needs to get away from here, go back to the ranch himself and see to things.”

“You can forget that. He’s not about to leave you.”

“I know, and I’m really glad, but still...” Bridget’s voice trailed off before she changed the subject and asked, “How’s Taylor? I—we miss her so much.”

“She’s right here, dancing a jig to talk to you both.”

That conversation between the four of them had taken place two hours ago now. Since then, Tiffany had taken Taylor to a birthday party that was to last the afternoon. Once she returned to the house, she’d done a few chores, though there weren’t many, as Bridget had left everything in immaculate order.

It didn’t seem possible that she had been here only three days. To Tiffany, it seemed like three months, especially now, with nothing but time on her hands.

She had considered going into town, looking up Irma Quill and introducing herself to her. But she’d nixed that idea, since she wasn’t in the best of moods herself, only she didn’t understand why.

Peace in Taylor’s absence should be savored. Although her young charge was no trouble, she was a typical six-year-old. Tiffany wasn’t used to the demands that went along with caring for a child of any age.

Still, Taylor wasn’t at the root of her restlessness. Garth Dixon was the reason she couldn’t settle down. God, how could she have mistaken him for a prowler, or worse? Easy. She was out of her element in these woods—plus, she had a habit of reacting before she thought

Obviously she wouldn’t be able to avoid him completely, which meant...what? Was she trying to convince herself that she should make amends? No way! She hadn’t meant to hurt him. But if his reaction was the barometer by which she would be judged, she’d done it on purpose and without just cause.

Well, that was his problem, not hers. Yet she couldn’t stop thinking that somehow she should at least try to cultivate some goodwill, if for no other reason than so he would be available in case of an emergency.

Tiffany tromped into the kitchen, where she paused. Maybe she should make a cake and take it to him. He had looked as if he could use some calories. Besides, hadn’t the old adage that said the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach proved to be true?

While she didn’t give a flip about getting to his heart, she didn’t have anything against satisfying his stomach.

“Then just do it and get it over with,” she said out loud, crossing to the cabinets and opening them until she found a couple of mixing bowls.

An hour later, after having called Taylor at her friend’s house and found out where Garth lived, she put the cake in a plastic container and set off through the woods. By the time she arrived, Tiffany had decided she should be committed, convinced she was the last person he wanted to see.

Still, now that she’d bitten the bullet and come this far, she wasn’t about to chicken out. If he didn’t want to accept the cake, then he could dump it in the trash. At least she’d made the effort.