Louise welcomed him even if his clothes were a bit grubby or he needed a shave. She didn’t pass judgment—unlike some of the other patrons.
He shook off the memory and stepped onto the mat. Breathing deeply, he looked toward the mountains in the distance and tried to center his focus inward from there. Each deep breath pulled in fresh air and energy. His chest expanded as his lungs filled to capacity. He exhaled fully, touched his hands flat to the mat and kicked his feet out to plank. He’d done the sun salute so many times each step was ingrained in his unconscious. Each motion took him deeper until he reached the place where external sounds—the birds squawking, the river babbling, car doors slamming—became white noise.
He’d just arched his back in upward dog when a voice said, “How much longer will this take?”
A woman’s voice. An impatient, unhappy voice.
Ryker opened his eyes and looked straight into one of the prettiest sets of eyes he’d ever seen. Big Sky Montana blue. Wide, delicious ovals with a hint of exotic in her smoky brows and dark lashes. The expression in these beautiful eyes was all business.
She was not from the Welcome Wagon—or the county sheriff’s department, either. Her skin-tight black workout pants, vivid turquoise and black top and sloppy hoodie with the name of some gym imprinted on both sleeves—told him she wasn’t there on a professional call of any sort.
“Let me finish my sun salutes. I’m almost done.” He wasn’t. He’d just started, but the determined set of her jaw told him she wasn’t going away until she said her piece. “Unless you’d care to join me. I’m not a certified yoga instructor, but I’ve led classes on three continents. Not to brag, but when you’ve traveled as much as I have, you can always find interested souls eager to try something new.”
Her expression turned skeptical. She couldn’t figure him out, he realized. Ryker liked that.
“No, thank you. I’ll wait.”
He knew that tone. She wasn’t a good waiter.
He stepped his right foot forward in a lunge, his right arm extended in warrior pose.
She tensed visibly, her hands curling into fists.
His heart melted a little. She would stand her ground and fight, he realized—despite the fact she was half his size. He liked feisty. Hell, he adored feisty. Feisty was fun, unpredictable, exciting, sexy.
Sexy.
He felt his male anatomy stir to life.
Oh, shit.
He quickly switched sides to face the opposite direction. It was morning. He was a man. A man who hadn’t been with a woman in a very long time.
He gazed at the river, trying to remember how cold the water had been yesterday when he jumped in to bathe. Icy. Frigid. Ball shriveling.
He glanced down.
Better.
“Are you okay?”
Damn. The beautiful eyes saw too much.
He gave up on yoga and walked to his makeshift kitchen area. “Fine. I need coffee. You?”
“Coffee,” she repeated, as if the word had been spoken in Swahili.
He grabbed the boutique roast he’d picked up in Bozeman. “French roast. I can grind a few extra beans if you’d like to try it.”
Her jaw dropped, drawing attention to her equally beautiful lips. The bottom lip was full and lush. The way she brutalized that poor bottom lip with her teeth should have been against the law.
“You grind your own beans?” She enunciated each word with a slight pause between.
“Yes, I do,” he answered just as succinctly. “Let me show you how it’s done.”
He picked up the antique coffee grinder he’d found in a little thrift shop in Livingston, added his usual measure—and a tablespoon extra, then walked to the opposite side of the little camp table so she could watch him stir the handle. The aroma released by the beans made his mouth water.
One glance at her said she was swallowing extra saliva, too. Her nostrils flared and her nose wriggled.
Damn. She’s cute.
No. Pretty.
No. Beautiful.
He was so focused on defining her looks he lost track of the grinder and the little handle whacked his neglectful fingers. “Ouch.” He brought his knuckle to his lips and sucked on the sting.
Her chuckle made him frown.
“That never happens. You distracted me.”
“I’m just standing here. I didn’t do anything. Just like a man to blame somebody else for his mistake.”
A telling comment, he thought. He covered the handle with his palm to stop the grinding action, then picked up the French press—one of the few things he’d brought with him from France.
With the kind of care he’d learned in the darkroom, he shook the grounds into the base, added the heated water and fixed the top, plunger fully extended. While the coffee brewed, he decided to get introductions out of the way.
“My name is Ryker Bensen,” he said, taking a step toward her, arm extended.
Her body posture tensed again, but she didn’t run. “Mia Zabrinski.” She crossed her arms defensively below her chest. “I’m here—”
He cut her off. He wasn’t ready to hear her agenda. He needed coffee to function at a societal level. “That name is familiar. How do I know it?”
“Have you been to my brother’s hardware store or lumber yard?” She looked at the boards that made up his little table.
“That’s it. I like that store.” He opened the camping chair he’d purchased at Big Z Hardware and offered her a seat.
She shook her head. “I’m not here to socialize.”
“I sort of gathered that. But if we have some business I don’t know about, it will have to wait until I have my coffee.”
She pulled a high-end phone out of her jacket pocket and stabbed a four-digit code with obvious impatience. “I have another appointment in fifteen minutes. Is that coffee ready yet?”
Ryker only had one chair, so he upended a plastic bucket—also purchased at Big Z’s, before returning to the table. He used his left palm to depress the plunger, slowly and with a little flourish that made her left eyebrow lift. “This is rushing it, but…okay. Does your other appointment know you’re coming?”
He’d meant the question in jest, but Mia Zabrinski, beautiful though she was, apparently didn’t possess a sense of humor.
“Yes. The chief of police knows I’m coming. I told him I was stopping here to serve notice to vacate these premises within forty-eight hours. If you don’t, he will send an officer to make sure you do.”
She’s bluffing. Somehow he knew she’d just made that up and it made him feel a little sorry for her.
“You’re kicking me off my own property?”
She blinked and shook her head. The question obviously threw her, but she took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, Mr. Bensen—if that’s your name, but this is my land. My ex-husband and I bought it three years ago and I have the deed to prove it.”
A bad feeling landed like a fist in his belly. Three years ago? Before or after Flynn got his inheritance? He tried to do the math but his brain wasn’t cooperating. Could Flynn have sold the land out from under him? No, of course not. They’d had this discussion two months ago. Besides, his brother wouldn’t do that. Could Howard have done something to Ryker’s trust? Forged his name? Was that even possible?
Nerves and discord he’d thought were behind him took hold. The world he’d been hiding from found him. Damn.
He turned away from her penetrating look and poured his coffee into the whimsical mug he’d bought at a yard sale for fifty cents. Be Happy, it said.
Yeah, right. Like that was going to happen. Peace was an illusion. A dream. And his wake-up call was standing a few feet away tapping her toe impatiently.
“Cheers,” he muttered.
Chapter 2
‡
The look on this surprisingly attractive stranger’s face when she told him she had a deed to the land he was squatting on would have made a bigger woman pull the poor guy into a hug and tell him everything was going to be okay. But that would have been a lie, and Mia was truthful—sometimes to her deep regret. Like when she told Edward exactly what was wrong with their marriage. The truth drove him straight into the sympathetic arms of his starry-eyed barista. It was almost enough to make a person drink tea.
Almost.
Ed’s new wife, Bree, was about the same age as the scruffy camper guy who, instead of defending himself, turned around to pour coffee from his French press into his stupid cup.
The aroma made her mouth water and her empty stomach gurgle.
How come my coffee never smells this good? Her coffeemaker had a built-in grinder and water purifier, and it cost three hundred bucks. He made his with beans he’d ground without electricity and run through the simplest contraption she’d ever seen.
She wished like heck that didn’t impress her. Why did it? Because the simplicity reinforced her sense of disconnect? Lately, she’d noticed just how out of touch she’d become from everything important—her family, her kids, the simple act of living in the moment. As if she ever had.
Even at age ten, Mia had been self-motivated, highly competitive and intensely focused. Her brother hadn’t given her the call sign Nitro when he was naming the Big Sky Mavericks because she sat around communing with nature. What kind of grown man did that?