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“I don’t know. I do worry I’ve opened a can of worms. It might have been better to have stayed home and played ostrich. The store’s been closed for years. I could have left it the way it was.”
“You can still do that.”
She looked at the books on the counter, and then her laptop screen showing the new database. She’d researched for hours and after researching, had input twenty some books. The store had thousands more. Bringing the store into the electronic age would be a labor of love, and for someone with a full-time job, nearly impossible. “I want to do right by Lesley.”
“She’d want you to do what makes you happy.”
Rachel bit her lip, not knowing that answer, either.
“Don’t be frustrated,” he said. “You’re doing great.”
“Am I?”
“I think so. You just need some fresh air to help clear your head. Have you been out today? Did you go get lunch?”
“No, and now that you mention it, I am hungry, and grumpy,” she added with a grimace.
“If you feel like walking, we could hit a place on Main Street, or, if you thought you could wait another thirty minutes, I could take you to a little place in Paradise Valley, and you’d have a chance to see some of Montana’s magnificent scenery.”
“Magnificent scenery is the way to go.”
“Grab your coat and lock up. We’re going for a drive.”
*
Atticus’s car was a four-wheel drive SUV, and he drove Highway 89 with the same confidence he did everything else. She realized almost right away she was in good hands and little by little she relaxed, or at least, she tried to relax but part of her was all too aware of Atticus next to her. She’d been around other men who were tall, and she’d been around men who were powerful, but Atticus exuded strength and a very sexy masculinity that made her feel a little tingly and nervous. It was disconcerting, too, as she worked daily with men and none of them made her skin feel sensitive and her pulse race. The truth was, she didn’t even know most of them existed.
Breathe. Inhale. Exhale. And again.
Rachel rested her elbow on the door, put her chin in her hand and watched the world go by. It was a beautiful world, too, with jagged snow-covered peaks silhouetted against a brilliant blue sky. The Yellowstone River curved through the valley floor, paralleling the two-lane road, the icy blue water a contrast to the snow dusted riverbank.
Pastures covered the hills, with cattle in some and horses in others. Big old barns of weathered wood were tucked next to old homesteads, while big, luxurious new construction dwarfed leafless poplar trees. It was all interesting, though, and new, and it’d look different in spring and fall, when the hills were green and gold.
“You okay?” Atticus asked, breaking the silence.
She looked at him, took in that rugged profile of his and nodded faintly. “Yeah.”
He shot her a side glance. “You’re pretty quiet.”
“Just trying to relax.” She wrinkled her nose, expression rueful. “It’s not something I do often, or do well.”
“I can turn around.”
“No, please don’t. I’m enjoying this, I really am.” Glancing back out the window she spotted a sign. Gallagher Christmas Tree Farm ¼ mile. Rachel felt a prick of curiosity. She’d never been to a Christmas tree farm before. Did one cut your own tree down, or did they do it for you?
“Have you ever been there?” she asked, pointing to the next sign reading Turn Here for Gallagher Tree Farm.
“No,” he answered. “But a lot of people from Marietta come out here to get their trees. I think Troy and Taylor bring their kids here.”
“We go to tree lots where I live. The lots are all asphalt, usually on an empty corner or in some big parking lot.”
“We do that in Texas, too.”
“I haven’t actually had a real tree in oh—years. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time I put up a tree. Just seemed wasteful.”
“Too much money?”
“I’m not home enough to enjoy decorations. I spend most of my time at the office.”
“Your boyfriend is good with that?”
Amused, she met his gaze. “Relationships fall under the Christmas tree category—there simply isn’t time.”
“So no significant other?”
“Not in a while, no.”
“How long?”
She wasn’t about to admit it been over a year, or that she’d given up dating because she was tired of men criticizing her for being a workaholic, when most of them she’d dated put in nearly the same hours she did. For some reason, men who worked hard were admired, but it wasn’t an attractive quality in a woman. “You answer first,” she retorted.
“Me?”
“Yes. Come on. Fair is fair. Are you seeing someone? Is it serious? When do you plan on getting married? How many kids do you think you’ll have?”
He laughed, and the deep husky sound filled the inside of the car. “You’re ruthless.”
“You’re ruthless. I was just happy to sit and let you drive.”
“True,” he answered. “And if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
Her gaze slid slowly over his handsome profile again, a strange warmth filling her. “I’m good,” she said softly, before turning her attention to the landscape. And she was good. She couldn’t remember the last time she did anything like this, and yet it felt familiar, and comforting, in the best sort of way.
“We used to go on drives when I was a little girl,” she said after a long moment. “My dad isn’t a material person, but when I was growing up he had a baby-blue 1960 Cadillac. He loved that car. The car was a boat, with fins and a bullet grill and blue-and-white bench seats. On weekends he’d wash his car, fill it with gas, and we’d drive from Irvine to Laguna, where we’d cruise the Pacific Coast Highway. Dad would play Elvis and Johnny Cash, and I’d sit in the back seat with my hair blowing everywhere and the sun in my eyes, singing ‘Ring of Fire.’” She swallowed hard around the lump in her throat. “Those drives were my idea of happiness. Sunshine and blue sky, the road and the wheels of the car…” Her voice faded and she drew a slow breath, fighting the emotion. “I don’t think I’ve been for a proper drive since Mom died,” she added huskily.
“What happened to the Cadillac?”
“Dad sold it my first year of college.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “He said he did it to pay bills, but I was living at home during school. UC Irvine was a public university. Tuition wasn’t that much of a burden. He sold it because the car reminded him too much of Mom.”
*
Atticus heard Rachel’s soft sigh and he glanced at her, concerned, but he couldn’t read her mood. She seemed to have mastered the calm, neutral, no emotion expression a little too well. “Did your dad ever remarry?” he asked.
“No. Have there been women? Probably. But he’s never introduced me to anyone, or moved anyone into our house.” She suddenly wrinkled her nose. “Let me also clarify that I don’t still live at home. I have my own place. I bought it four years ago. I just meant that, so far, Dad’s never moved anyone into the family house.”
“Would you mind if he did?”
She didn’t immediately answer and he could see from her furrowed brow that she was thinking. “No, I don’t suppose so. I want him happy.”
“You don’t think he’s happy?”
Rachel’s shoulders twisted. “I don’t know. We don’t talk about… feelings… in my family.” She drew a quick breath and added more lowly, “And we don’t talk about Mom, or that she’s gone. After the funeral, we just kind of… moved on.”
A heavy beat of silence followed her words and when Atticus glanced at her, he saw the grief in her eyes and a quiver in her lower lip, a quiver she ended by ruthlessly biting into her lip. She was wrong, he thought. They hadn’t moved on, and he suspected, Rachel still struggled with the loss.
Atticus shifted his hand on the steering wheel, fingers tightening around the wheel as it crossed his mind
that maybe this drive was a mistake. Being near Rachel was increasingly problematic. Rachel wasn’t his type and yet he felt protective of her and that was the last thing he wanted to feel. He wanted the bookstore, not Rachel.
