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He turned and walked up two long, low steps to the porch of the log cabin.
Adria had no choice but to follow him. Slowly counting to ten, she followed his path, shouldered open the door, walked through a pine-paneled vestibule, and found him standing at the bar, one boot resting on a tarnished brass rail, his elbows propped on the battle-scarred surface of glossy cherry wood.
“I already ordered for you,” he said as the bartender, a slim woman with kinky blond hair and red lipstick, slid two frosted glasses of beer to him, then deftly snatched up the bills he’d left on the counter. His eyes met Adria’s in the mirror over the bar and his gaze had become cloudy again. “Come on. Let’s grab a table.” He cocked his head to an empty booth.
Adria tried to put a lid on her simmering temper. Though she was boiling inside, she slid onto the cushions and accepted the beer—his notion of a peace offering.
Zach gulped half his beer in one swallow. “Anything else you’d like to know about the Danvers family?” he asked with a scornful lift of his eyebrow.
“Whatever you want to tell me.”
“That’s the problem. I don’t want to tell you anything. I think it would be better if you just packed it all in and drove off to Bozeman—”
“Belamy.”
“Whatever.”
“Now you’re sounding like the rest of your family.”
“God forbid,” he muttered and drained his glass. He signaled for another drink, which a waitress, a heavier version of the blond bartender, brought over along with menus.
She winked at Zachary as if they were longtime friends, then smiled at Adria. “Refill?”
“Not right now.”
“I’ll give you a few minutes to decide.” She moved to a nearby table and Adria kept her voice low.
“You know,” she said, not really believing her own words, “despite what you said earlier, we could be friends if we tried.”
He made a sound of disgust. “Friends.” His lips curved into a smile without any warmth. “Is that how you treat all your ‘friends’?”
“Don’t do this—”
“You don’t do it! We can never, never be friends—I thought I already made that clear,” he growled, leaning over the table and grabbing her shoulders.
She threw off his hands and glared furiously at him. “Why are you trying so hard to hate me?”
He hesitated, then sighed and looked away. “Maybe it’s just easier that way.” Dropping back onto his bench, he studied the head of his beer and his jaw clenched. “For both of us.”
“You’re afraid I might end up with the Danvers fortune,” she said, realizing he was more like his family than he wanted to admit.
He snorted and rolled his glass between his fingers. “I don’t care if you end up with the whole damned lot of the inheritance—the logging company, the sawmills, the hotel, the house in Tahoe, even the ranch. If you did, I’d say good riddance. I’m not afraid of you.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Your prerogative,” he said with a shrug.
“You can be a real bastard, Danvers. You know that, don’t you?”
One side of his mouth lifted insolently. “I work at it.”
“A true Danvers.”
His smile faded. “Let’s order.”
They didn’t say another word to each other and Adria watched while the waitress flirted outrageously with Zachary as she spouted off the specials of the day. In the end, they both ordered steak sandwiches.
Some country song about lost love and broken hearts was overshadowed by the clink of glasses, rap of pool balls, and murmur of differing conversations. More tavern than restaurant, the old log cabin seemed home to a dozen or so blue-collar types. Hard hats had been exchanged for baseball caps and cowboy hats, but it seemed as if the men sitting on stools in the bar were at home. It reminded Adria of Belamy.
