Rocky Mountain Rivals
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Joanne Rock
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14
One
She hoped it was a good omen.
Lured by the Help Wanted sign in the window of the one and only restaurant in Catamount, Colorado, Fleur Barclay stepped out of her beat-up car to inquire inside. The heat of the summer sun warmed her face; the scent of barbecue carried on the breeze. The Cowboy Kitchen was a local institution that had been in business when Fleur and her family used to visit her grandmother in Catamount when she was a kid. The restaurant had remained a local staple through her teen years when Fleur had been the only Barclay still visiting Gran after her parents split and her sisters had chosen sides in the acrimonious divorce.
Now, five years removed from when Fleur fled this small town in the wake of an unhappy split of her own, she was heartened to see Cowboy Kitchen still in business. And in need of help.
Given that she was currently unemployed and needed to remain in town until she settled her grandmother’s estate, Fleur chose to view the ad as a sign that her recent string of bad luck was changing.
The past few months had brought her beloved Gran’s passing, and a spate of inappropriate advances by her boss that had made her work life impossible. She’d felt forced to leave her assistant chef position. The only tiny silver lining? At least she could live on her Gran’s ranch while she readied the place for sale. She wouldn’t have been able to pay her rent in Dallas for much longer anyhow, especially since finding a good gig in Texas would have been a challenge without her boss’s recommendation.
Something she’d obviously never receive since she’d filed a discrimination complaint with the State.
Unwilling to think about that now, Fleur skirted through a handful of parked cars in front of the lodge-style building that housed a small hardware store and a post office service window in addition to the eatery. Well, diner, really. But she could hardly afford to be choosy when the place was just a few miles from Crooked Elm, Gran’s ranch. She needed an income to pay her bills. She couldn’t bear the thought of touching the savings earmarked for opening her own restaurant one day. And “one day” might come all the sooner if she could make enough from the sale of her grandmother’s property.
A rusted bell chimed overhead as she stepped through the entrance. The scent of bacon hung heavy in the air even though it was long past noon. The decor remained the same as ever—white countertops, black-and-white laminate floors, chrome barstools with turquoise seats from a bygone era. The only thing remotely Western about the Cowboy Kitchen was the oversize painting of a faded brown Stetson on the wall above the counter. If there’d been a lunch crowd, it had since departed. A couple of old-timers dressed in faded coveralls sat at a table near the window, hunched over coffee cups. Another patron—younger but dressed like the others in boots and denim—scrolled through his phone at the counter.
“Be right with you!” A feminine voice called from somewhere in the back, probably in response to the doorbell.
Smoothing her blue cotton skirt wrinkled from travel, Fleur moved closer to the counter where a sleek computer monitor sat beside a simple credit card reader. The decor might be from another era, but someone had clearly upgraded the tech. Was that another good sign that a chef role would pay a reasonable wage? Fleur already knew there was no cash in Gran’s estate, so until she could sell the Crooked Elm and split the proceeds evenly with her older sisters, she needed to be careful of her expenses.
And wasn’t that the same as ever? Her property developer father had cut her off financially the day she’d turned eighteen, perceiving Fleur’s efforts at smoothing the family rifts to be “taking her mother’s side” in the never-ending divorce war. The feud was so over-the-top it would be laughable if it weren’t heartbreaking at the same time. Another frustration she shoved to the back of her mind.
“And...how can I help you?” A smiling brunette pushed her way through the white swinging door from the kitchen to greet her. “Table for one?”
The woman had bright pink lipstick and an abundance of freckles, her dark hair in a long ponytail. She wore an all-white uniform with a silver name tag that read “Marta.”
That’s right. Marta Macon. Her family lived on the outskirts of town. Fleur thought her dad might work at the hardware store.
“Actually, no. I was here about the sign in the window. Are you still hiring?” Fleur knew certain people in Catamount would view a diner job in her grandmother’s rural hometown as a step down for her. Plenty of locals knew the great lengths she’d gone to in order to earn enough money for culinary school tuition.
Some of her peers had deemed entering regional pageants to earn scholarships as “giving herself airs.” One man in particular had scoffed at her path, spouting tired opinions about rodeo pageants reinforcing gendered power dynamics and contributing to the objectification of women. Easy for wealthy Drake Alexander to judge her when he’d never had to worry about paying his own way for anything.
And just how had Drake crept into her thoughts after all this time? She chased him out of her head.
“We are most definitely hiring.” Marta bent to retrieve a paper from beneath the counter while a Patsy Cline tune played on an overhead speaker. “You’re one of the Barclay girls, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. I’m Fleur.” She smiled politely, though she wasn’t sure many people would recall her older sisters since neither Lark nor Jessamyn had spent time in Catamount for years. “We were in 4-H together.”
Crooked Elm Ranch had been her summer home every year until she’d finished high school. Then she’d spent two straight years living in Colorado, working multiple jobs to save enough for culinary school.
Until she’d had no choice but to leave.
“I remember you. Have you waitressed before?”
“Yes.” Was there any support role she hadn’t taken in the restaurant world? “But I hoped you might need help on the cook staff.”
“Sorry.” The other woman shook her head, dark ponytail shadowing her movements as she began straightening some napkins spilling out of a dispenser. “We’re all set in the kitchen. Stella McRory never misses a shift, and she’s been here longer than I have.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t hide her disappointment. Not that she objected to food service. But the public-facing position would practically ensure she’d have to smile at too many people she hoped never to see again. Mostly Drake Alexander. “I’ll have to think about it, in that case. Do you mind if I take the form?”
There would only be so much work available around town, after all. In another couple of weeks, she wouldn’t have the option to be choosy when her savings dwindled.
“Sure thing.” Marta moved on to the next napkin dispenser, straightening the paper products. “Just swing by with it if you decide to apply. It’s a fun place to work. Everybody stops in sooner or later.”
Just as she feared.
Fleur backed up a step, folding the application in half. Before she could reply, Marta continued.
“And the working environment has gotten nicer since the diner changed hands. The new owner is great. I even have a 401(k) now,” Marta announced proudly, hands flying from one dispenser to the next, prepping for the dinner crowd with practiced ease.
The thought of a savings account had Fleur rethinking her need to work in a kitchen.
“Really? Who owns the place these days?” Unfolding the application again, she smoothed out the wrinkles as she studied the paper for a clue to the new management.
Behind her, the old-fashioned doorbell chimed. Marta’s expression brightened.
“Here’s the owner now,” she offered in a cheery voice, gesturing toward the entrance.
Fleur turned expectantly.
And any hopes of her luck changing took a nosedive.
Seeing the imposing frame and chiseled features of the most unfeeling bastard she’d ever met, her chances for a job expired on the spot.
Marta, unaware, continued, “Do you remember Drake Alexander from your time in Catamount? He’s our local rodeo star.”
Fleur seemed to hear the words as if they were spoken from far away, her full attention locked on the man responsible for driving her from town five years ago. He’d always disliked her. Then, when she’d started dating Drake’s younger brother, the enmity had redoubled.
Five years hadn’t changed her nemesis.
Dark eyes and dark, waving hair that framed a face full of angles—sharp cheekbones, square chin, straight blade of a nose. He was slim hipped and broad shouldered, dressed all in black right down to the Stetson he clutched in one hand. No doubt, he was an excellent-looking man on the surface, except that all Fleur could see in front of her was a cold heart.
Even his smile looked more like a baring of white teeth as he spoke. “Miss Colorado Silver Spurs and I are well acquainted, Marta.”
Fleur’s grip on the work application tightened so hard the form crumpled in her fist. Which was just as well. Better to have her dreams go belly-up than subject herself to this man again. She jammed the ruined paper into the pocket of her jean jacket. Vaguely, she registered Marta saying something near them—but her focus remained on the man who’d broken up her engagement to his brother.
“How unfortunate to see you again, Drake,” she said mildly, reminding herself she’d prepared for this moment. She’d understood that running into him again in this small town was inevitable. Thankfully, she didn’t have to worry about seeing Colin in town since her former fiancé had relocated to Montana. “But at least now I know to avoid this place while I’m in Catamount for the summer.”
“Hoping to recapture the old glory as rodeo royalty? Or are you leaving the field clear for newcomers?”
He wasted no time returning to their old antagonism. But then, that way it was easier for her to deal with the complicated feelings this man had always stirred inside her.
“I might ask you the same question. I hear your rodeo days are as far in the past as my pageants. But as much fun as it would be to chat about all the ways you torpedoed my life, I have places to be.” She hitched the strap of her purse higher on one shoulder and turned toward Marta. “It was nice seeing you again, Marta.”
Breezing past the tall, rangy form of Drake Alexander with a cool disdain at odds with the fiery anger inside her, Fleur shoved open the door of the Cowboy Kitchen and vowed never to enter the building again.
Inside the Cowboy Kitchen, Drake dropped into the booth closest to the door and told himself not to look out the front window to see where Fleur Barclay had gone.
Unfortunately, his eyes were already glued to her slender frame as she glided between the parked cars to wrench open the reluctant door of a compact rust bucket old enough to be a certifiable antique. Not exactly the ride he would have expected for the former rodeo queen, but then nothing about Fleur played to type.
Damn, but she looked more incredible than ever.
No amount of beauty, though, could cover a greedy heart. He resented her for trying to trap his younger brother into marriage, after dating only a couple of months. And even before then, he’d found plenty of reasons to avoid her.
But there was no denying that Fleur turned heads. His included. With endless legs and lips so full they launched torrid fantasies before she ever opened her mouth, Fleur appealed to him as much as she ticked him off. It was an awkward combination that meant he’d kept his distance from her. Especially when she was seven years younger and firmly off limits when they’d repeatedly run into one another on the rodeo circuit.
Until he’d found out about the sudden unwise engagement to his brother when she’d been just twenty years old. As de facto head of the Alexander family since his parents’ deaths, Drake took his role in protecting his siblings seriously. So he’d told Fleur exactly what he thought of her marriage ploy. And within days, her engagement to his brother had ended, and Colin—blaming Drake for the split—had moved to Montana. Drake had hoped the anger his brother felt about his interference would fade, but in five years, Colin hadn’t returned home once.
Now, watching Fleur step into her vehicle, Drake eyed the way her short blue skirt hugged her hips. A trio of silver necklaces caught the June sunlight where they dangled on the front of her plain white T, a fringed jean jacket the only nod to her old rodeo queen days.
A heavy mug clunked down onto the table in front of him, breaking his reverie. Marta stood beside his booth and filled the stoneware cup from a steaming glass pot, releasing the scent of coffee into the air.
“I would have given my right arm to be the national Miss Silver Spurs,” she informed him with a sniff. “The horsemanship skills in that competition are very well respected.”
“I’m sure they are,” he acknowledged, guilt nipping his conscience. “I meant no offense to the rodeo pageants—”
“It sure sounded like you did,” Marta shot back, her former sunny smile nowhere in sight. “Do you have any idea how many good works those women are involved in for their communities if they win?”
He did know, actually. And he needed to do better than to spout off like that just because Fleur had always gotten under his skin.
“I apologize. Fleur and I have a history and I shouldn’t have spoken to her that way.” He didn’t want to rile his best waitress and manager. So he changed topics. “Did she say what she was here for, by the way?”
He guessed she’d come to town to settle her grandmother’s estate. Hopefully, it would be the speediest process in the history of Catamount.
“She was looking for a job. But since she crumpled the application into pulp when she saw you, I doubt she’ll be applying.” Marta turned on a heel and stalked off to refill the cups of the only other diners in the establishment.
Fleur wanted a job?
Just how long was she planning on staying in Catamount?
He shouldn’t have given in to the reflex to taunt her. Drake had been waiting for Crooked Elm to go up for sale for years. And now that it finally seemed like a viable possibility, his first move was to resort to sparring with Fleur a reflex from the old days when he’d worked hard to keep her at arm’s length.
Why hadn’t he offered her condolences about losing her grandmother? He’d always liked Antonia Barclay, even if she’d refused to sell him a key piece of her ranch property for years. She’d warned him that one day he would have to bargain with her granddaughters for the right to buy the land.
Now that day had come and he’d already started on the wrong foot. He’d just been caught off guard when he’d walked into the diner and saw a woman so gorgeous she’d sent a thrill through him. When she’d spun around enough that he’d recognized her...
All the old tangle of bitterness and hunger had him shoving his boot in his mouth.
He took a sip of the coffee and promptly scalded his tongue. Drake swore softly and glanced out the front windows again.
The rust-bucket car was still parked there—right beside his pickup truck. Through the windshield, he could see Fleur in the driver’s seat, head bent over her phone.
Before he could think the better of it, he shot to his feet and pushed his way out of the exit. He clapped his Stetson on his head midstride, then squared his shoulders to face her.
He wanted to offer to buy Crooked Elm then and there. She’d been very willing to accept a payout from an Alexander man five years ago during the engagement to Colin. He’d overheard them discussing a prenup—with substantial provisions for Fleur—before the engagement was a week old. It had rubbed him raw to have his brother tied down when Fleur hadn’t even had the chance to attend culinary school yet, prompting his visit to Fleur to tell her exactly what he thought of it. And while their argument that night had been effective in encouraging her to break things off with his brother, it had also left a deep scar on his family.
He could acknowledge now that he’d mishandled things. He was wiser now. So maybe he could convince her to sell the ranch without ever having to list the property with a Realtor.
But the fact that she drove the beat-up car gave him pause. He’d written her off as a gold digger once upon a time. Yet that label didn’t fit with the car she was driving. Or the fact that she’d been looking for a job at the Cowboy Kitchen of all places. It wasn’t much as far as eateries went, but it was the only food establishment in all of Catamount, and Drake had been unwilling to let the place go under when the former owner couldn’t make the mortgage payments anymore. He would never leave this town, which meant it made sense to invest in the place.
As his shadow fell across the windshield, Fleur looked up. She startled, dropping her phone before her gray eyes narrowed at him.
Still, she rolled down her window, the hand crank making it unnecessary to even turn on the engine.
“Did you think of a few more jabs?” she asked, blinking up at him in the sunlight.
He wouldn’t rise to the bait. If there was any chance Fleur would sell to him, he couldn’t fall into old habits.
“I’m sorry about your grandmother. Everyone liked Antonia.”
Fleur’s face fell. Whether from sadness at her loss or disappointment that he hadn’t stuck to their usual script, he couldn’t say.
“Thank you.” The words were stiff. Forced. “I’ll organize a memorial once I’m sure my sisters can be here.”
He hadn’t seen all three Barclay sisters in Catamount at the same time since he’d been a teen. He’d never forget the day, either. There’d been a junior rodeo at the county fair shortly after the elder Barclays’ breakup. Fleur’s mother arrived with her oldest daughter, while Fleur’s father had been in attendance with his mistress. Jessamyn, the middle daughter, had been in a barrel racing competition. Drake had been in the stands watching since the bull riding event started later in the day.
Security had to get involved after the mistress—the wife of a prominent divorce attorney, of all things—used her designer purse like a medieval mace, knocking Mrs. Barclay down a few stairs. Fleur had been in the early days of her rodeo career, so she’d been maybe nine years old at the time. She’d been dressed in red, white and blue satin, seated on horseback in the arena with a few other flag bearers, preparing for the opening laps. But she’d surprised the crowd by breaking into a spontaneous solo rendition of “America the Beautiful” after the fight broke out. The decision had seemed an odd choice to a lot of folks, since her mother could have very well been injured at the time, although Drake had suspected she’d been trying to deflect attention from the scene.
Later, he’d second-guessed the opinion, especially as he’d watched her grow into a dedicated pageant contestant, travelling all over the west for a shot at a title.
But for the rest of Catamount, Fleur’s reputation for being self-centered had only grown from that day at the junior rodeo. He wasn’t going to think about that now when he needed to convince her to sell him Crooked Elm. The ranch’s rangelands had been overused by their current tenant and needed serious intervention to restore the soil quality. Conserving the land—using it in a way that gave back instead of stripping it—had been a goal of his parents. For that reason, it was an even more important goal for him.
“I’m sure you’ll have a big turnout for her,” he told Fleur belatedly, still deciding the best way to proceed. Should he make the offer now? Or backtrack and try to smooth over her impression of him to boost the chances she’d agree to it? Swallowing his pride in one hard lump, he tried to adopt a reasonably pleasant tone. “Marta mentioned you were in the market for a job?”
She laughed. A brisk, mirthless ha! “Only until I found out who owns the place.”
He leaned against his pickup truck parked beside her car, then crossed one boot over the other as he picked his words carefully. Marta’s admonishment about his judgmental words had reminded him he had no business needling Fleur anymore. She wasn’t a kid any longer, and he couldn’t still claim to be reeling from his parents’ death. Time to rein in the sniping.
“We could keep clear of each other. I rarely set foot in there anyhow.”
“This conversation just gets weirder and weirder.” She shook her head, copper-colored curls jiggling with the motion. “Is this some kind of trick to humiliate me down the road? Do you want to invite your rich friends to heckle me while I wait on them?”
“Hardly.” He’d do his damnedest to keep his friends away from a mercenary beauty queen. “I bought the diner because it was a good business move, not because I frequent the place. Don’t let me keep you away if you want to work there.”
“Now I know it’s a trick,” she said drily, bending forward to retrieve the phone she’d dropped on the car’s floorboards. She sat up, eyes flaming. “There’s no chance you would do anything to help me after the way you broke up my engagement and chased me out of Catamount last time. You’re probably just angling to find the fastest method to send me running out of town again.”
“That’s not true—” he began, but she continued as if he’d never interrupted.
“No doubt you could make my life a living hell if you were my boss, so I’ll pass. Thanks just the same.” She jammed the phone into a cupholder and rolled up her window, effectively ending their conversation.
As efforts to smooth things over with her went, it wasn’t half-bad.
It’d been almost civil. Or as civil as things had ever been between him and Fleur.
Still, as he watched the rusty car disappear up the road, Drake guessed he’d have to dig deeper on his campaign to win her over if he ever wanted her to sell him her grandmother’s land.
