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Sloan entered the lobby a scant three minutes later than the appointed time. Trey pushed the plastic lid back on his coffee container, scooped up a twin to it, and rose to meet her.
There wasn’t a trace of the rumpled, drowsy-eyed woman who had opened her door some thirty minutes ago. Sloan looked fully put together, casual yet vaguely professional thanks to the tailored jacket she had paired with jeans and a buttery soft top.
Her hair was pulled back from her face and secured at the nape with a large gold clasp that echoed the gleam of the stud earrings she wore. Her lashes were subtly darker, intensifying the blue of her eyes, but it was the pink sheen to her lips that drew Trey’s glance. They lay softly together, warm and inviting.
If his hands hadn’t been full, he would have done something about that. As it was, he settled for moving toward her and lessening the space between them.
“Sorry.” Her apology came out in an easy rush. “I had trouble getting my hair to dry.”
“No problem.” He extended the hand with the container of milk-diluted coffee. “Your coffee as promised, Ms.—” He checked the movement. “You never did tell me your full name.”
“It’s Davis,” she replied without hesitation, her eyes sparkling. “Sloan Davis.”
“Trey Calder,” he volunteered and once more offered the cup to her.
Her head lifted, a flicker of surprise mixing with the look of recognition. “Of the Montana Calders?”
Her reaction to his family name was one Trey had seen too many times to be surprised by it. “Fifth generation,” he confirmed. “I guess I don’t have to ask whether you’ve heard of the Calder ranch.”
“Who hasn’t,” she chided wryly.
“Nearly everyone in Montana has, that’s for sure.” Making a half turn, he gestured to the exit. “Ready to go?”
“All set.”
Together they crossed to the door. Sloan didn’t wait for Trey to open it but pushed it herself and stepped into the crisp, bracing air, as yet unwarmed by the newly risen sun. Its very coolness seemed to invigorate all five senses.
Trey gestured to the pickup that he had recently parked in front of the entrance. This time he held the passenger door and gave her a hand into the cab, then circled around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel.
As he drove out of the parking lot onto the main road, he stole a glance at Sloan, watching while she took a careful sip of the hot coffee. He felt a high contentment, seeing her sitting there, sharing the seat with him. It was something rare and new, like the day.
One-handed, he flipped off the lid to his own coffee container and downed a swallow of it. At this early hour there was little traffic on the streets to slow them.
When they passed the third restaurant, Sloan darted a curious look at him. “Where are we going for breakfast?”
“A quiet, out-of-the way spot I know.” Trey deliberately refrained from being more forthcoming than that and changed the subject. “Where’s home for you?”
“Louisiana, originally. At least that’s where I was born.”
“For someone from Louisiana, you don’t have much of a southern accent.” He ran an idle glance over her, conscious that last night he hadn’t been the least bit interested in hearing her life story, and this morning he wanted to know everything about her.
“That’s because I’ve lived all over the place since then. Right now I have a beach house on Maui that I use as my home base.”
“You live in Hawaii?” Shock flattened his voice as a kind of alarm tingled through him.
“I do.” There was a trace of laughter in her voice. “You seem surprised.”
“I am.” Trey saw no point in hiding it. “I just assumed you worked for one of the area newspapers.”
“I’m a free-lance photographer.” An amused smile curved her mouth.
“So what’s a free-lance photographer from Hawaii doing covering the Miles City Bucking Horse Sale?” His curiosity was aroused, but it wasn’t nearly as strong as the certainty he felt that he didn’t want Sloan to leave when the auction came to an end.
“I’m wrapping up work on a coffee-table book that deals with rodeo traditions like the Calgary Stampede and the Cheyenne Frontier Days—as well as the Bucking Horse Sale at Miles City. It’s my job to supply the photos, and somebody else writes the copy that goes along with them.”
She made it sound routine. And Trey suspected it had likely become that for her. But he was wise enough to realize that such things didn’t just happen without cause.
“You must be good at your work,” he concluded.
