A Difficult Woman

“What time?”

She did not want to fill in at the bar. She had so much to do, and it was Friday. The regulars would be out in rowdy force, but there was no way she could leave Jack in a lurch.

“Six would be okay.”

“I’ll be there.”

“I’ll make it up to you. I promise. Oh, and babe?”

“Yeah?”

“Check in the mirror for paint smudges before you come.”

Tara smiled as she punched the end button and surveyed the room. So much for getting the trim primed tonight.

FOR A PERSON who avoided crowds, she was spending way too much time surrounded by people, Tara mused as she pushed her way through the mob in the Owl Club, balancing a tray of drinks. Usually when she filled in for Jack, she manned the bar while the other waitresses hauled the orders, but tonight she shared the bar with Jack and delivered drinks whenever a restaurant order came in. In the bar area, people got their own drinks—thank goodness, Tara thought as she squeezed sideways between two large men.

She nearly dropped her tray as some fool, who was either new to town or too drunk to recognize her, firmly pinched her butt. Tara didn’t stop to see who it was—she didn’t have time to deal with the jerk. It was payday at not one, but two of the nearby gold mines, and too many people wanted to celebrate getting their check by spending their check. Tara had never understood that particular philosophy, but she was more than willing to help them achieve their goal.

She delivered the drinks to the table of revelers with a polite smile that faded as soon as she turned and faced the throng of people spilling out of the bar.

“Hey, sweet cheeks, get me another. Okay?” A very drunk Eddie Johnson waggled his glass at her, and she barely restrained herself from shoving it into his leering face. Instead she took the glass without a word and headed for the bar. Eddie would figure out soon enough that she wasn’t coming back. Jack wouldn’t serve him in the condition he was in and she needed the glass, which would certainly have to be washed and reused before the night was over.

And it was going to be a long, long night.

THE LAST THING Matt expected when he went to the Owl Club for dinner was that he’d have to wait for a table. Or so he thought until he finally took his seat and saw Tara Sullivan push through the crowd carrying a tray of drinks. She was wearing Levi’s that weren’t exactly tight, but somehow molded to her in a way that made every male in the room take notice. She also wore a red satin shirt unbuttoned into an enticing V and again the pendant dangled on the chain between her breasts. Matt was suddenly very curious about that pendant. He was also curious why she was playing barmaid after a full day of painting the interior of that monstrous house.

None of your business.

But, man, she did draw the eye.

Even the women watched her. Her dark hair wasn’t braided tonight, but was instead twisted up onto the back of her head and held in place with a big silver clip. Little strands escaped, curling around her temples, giving testimony to both the heat of too many bodies and the number of trips she must’ve made through that crowd. It looked as if everybody there was having hard stuff with dinner. Not him. He didn’t want to be responsible for Tara having to push her way through that mob again.

“If you touch me or call me sweet cheeks again, Eddie, you will be sporting your cojones somewhere in your abdominal cavity.”

Matt’s head whipped up at the tight, angry words, clearly audible over the buzz of the crowd even though Tara was in the bar area, almost out of view. Almost, but not quite. He automatically started to rise at the sight of her facing off with some drunken jerk whose surprise was rapidly becoming belligerence as his friends laughed. The guy opened his mouth to say something that would have probably gotten him into a whole lot more trouble when Jack Hamish, the manager of the Owl and resident giant, suddenly appeared by Tara’s side. Matt forced himself to sink back into his chair and let Jack take care of his employee, which he did by escorting the offending patron outside.

When the door closed behind Mr. Sweet Cheeks, Matt pulled his eyes back to the menu on the table in front of him, but adrenaline still charged through his body and his muscles were taut, ready to react.

He let out a slow breath and closed the menu.

Maybe he’d have that drink after all.

But he’d go to the bar and order it from Jack.

MATT CONNORS was at the bar and Tara wondered why, with a zillion people filling the small space, her eyes zeroed in on him. He ordered Scotch straight up and after Jack finished pouring, Matt raised his gaze and unerringly met hers. Her chin went up as she felt a surprising connection between them. He seemed different here, somehow, and he had caught her staring. Tara’s mouth tightened and she got busy filling the rest of her order. She left the bar without looking up again. But she felt him watching her, dammit. And it made her feel ridiculously self-conscious.

The rest of the evening passed in a long blur of shouted orders, sloshed drinks and loud music. Eddie had sneaked back in and Jack threw him out again. He’d had some time to sober up and had not taken his second ejection well.

And Matt had stayed. He stood for a long time, leaning against the wall under Edgar, the stuffed horned owl, watching the crowd, and occasionally her, unnervingly alert behind those wire-rimmed glasses, before finally moving to a vacated stool at the far end of the bar. He didn’t socialize, although a few of the town belles had given him their best shot, and he had switched to club soda after the one Scotch. Tara hadn’t the slightest idea why she noticed these things on such a busy evening.

“You saved my life tonight, babe.” Jack’s voice rumbled from behind her.

“No problem.” Tara gave the bar a wipe as she spoke. It was close to one o’clock and the crowd was finally thinning…but Matt was still there. Maybe this was what he did at night. Maybe he worked for her during the day and spent his evenings at the bar. Watching. She wondered vaguely why he was in Night Sky in the first place. Maybe waiting to get on at a mine. That’s why most single men came to the small town and hung around. Yeah. That was probably it.

Ginny, the graveyard waitress, had breezed in a few minutes before and came out of the back room tying on her apron. She glanced at the swollen tip jar, raising an eyebrow.

“Maggie and Becky are going to be sorry they got that flu.”

“I hear it’s a rough one.”

“Trust me, you don’t want it. Knocked me off my feet for two whole days, then I staggered for two more.”

“Then I won’t get it,” Tara said. “I’ve too many things to do.”

“How’s that house coming?” Ginny asked. “I’m dying to see it.”

“It’ll be done for the reunion,” Tara replied. Ginny was fairly new in town and she had always been friendly. Tara appreciated that, knowing that the woman must have heard all the talk about the Sullivan family, but had still chosen to make her own judgments.

“Invite me for a tour.”

“All right.” Tara gave Ginny a speculative look. “You know, I was wondering if you might have some time when I hire temporary day help.”

Ginny grinned. “Just call.”

“Right now it would only be during the reunion. I can’t pay all that much, but after I’m more established…”

Ginny’s smile didn’t waver. “Call,” she repeated.

Tara nodded. “You have no idea how happy I am to hear you say that.”

MATT WATCHED as Tara Sullivan neatly folded her apron and headed into the back room, reappearing seconds later with a small purse dangling from one shoulder.

“Wait a minute,” Jack said in gruff voice. He grabbed the purse, unzipped it and stuffed as much of the contents of the tip jar into it as would fit.

“I would have come back tomorrow,” Tara protested.

“No. You’ll get busy on that barn you call a house and forget. This way I know you have at least some of the money.”

Tara gave Jack a tolerant smile. “Thanks. But don’t call me again unless it’s an emergency.”

“I have subs lined up for the next few days.”

Tara nodded gratefully. “Good.” She surprised Matt then by glancing over at him, as if checking to see if he were still there, before turning and walking out the door.

Mr. Sweet Cheeks’ friends were bellied up to a table near the door and they had watched her exit with enough interest to catch Matt’s attention. He decided to make certain that she got to her vehicle safely.

Old habits, he thought as he pushed the door open and the warm night air hit his face.

He eased sideways into the shadows after the door swung shut behind him, leaning against the building and keeping his eyes on Tara as she crossed the big gravel lot. Someone needed to tell her to park closer to the door. She had her keys out and was nearly to Nicky’s Dodge when she stopped in her tracks.

Mr. Sweet Cheeks.

Matt wasn’t exactly surprised, and as he moved swiftly across the lot, he could see Tara wasn’t surprised, either. After her first startled movement, she took a defiant stance.

“Don’t even think about it, Eddie,” Tara said to the guy who’d sauntered out of the shadow of a pickup. “Just leave me alone.”

“Or…?” he asked in a wicked voice.

“That cojones promise still holds,” Tara said tightly.

The guy laughed and took a step toward her.

“I’m warning you—” She heard the crunch of Matt’s feet on the gravel and sent a quick startled glance his way. Matt ignored her and headed straight for Mr. Sweet Cheeks. The guy also looked startled, then smug. He hadn’t, after all, done anything. Hadn’t even touched her. Matt didn’t let that slow him down for an instant. He hated guys who preyed on women. The next thing Mr. Sweet Cheeks knew he was backed up against the same pickup truck he’d been hiding behind.

“Do…do you got some…some kind of problem, man?” Mr. Sweet Cheeks stuttered.

“No,” Matt answered quietly. “You do.”

Even in the dim light Matt could see the man blanch. Then he got stupid and took a wild roundhouse swing followed by an attempted knee to the groin. Matt automatically blocked both movements, then sent his fist deep into the man’s midsection. The guy doubled over and fell sideways onto the gravel.

Matt watched the man gasp for breath, then glanced over at Tara. The gratitude he expected to see wasn’t there. Instead she looked stunned and irritated.

“What?” he asked.

Tara just shook her head and watched Mr. Sweet Cheeks struggle up to his hands and knees. She grimaced as the guy retched.

“Is he going to be okay?” she asked.

“His private parts are not in his abdominal cavity, so I would say, yes, he’s going to be fine.”

“I guess I should say thanks.”

“I guess you should,” Matt agreed.

Tara’s blue eyes looked silver in the glow of the streetlight. Silver and ungrateful. “Thanks.” The word was clipped, sarcastic.

“I’m overwhelmed,” Matt muttered. Mr. Sweet Cheeks staggered to his feet and away to his waiting friends. He stumbled a few times before he made it to the door.

“I said thanks,” Tara repeated, reading the obvious annoyance in his face.

“And you truly meant it,” he said sarcastically.

Tara didn’t reply, but Matt could see she thought he’d overreacted. Maybe he had, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d helped her out of a dicey situation.

He shook his head and reached to take the keys from her hand. She hadn’t expected it, so he was able to do it. He unlocked the truck door, opened it and stepped back, holding out the keys. Tara took them, her chin up.

“I can understand why you felt the need to…intercede.”

“But…?”

“But that was Eddie Johnson. It’s not the first time I’ve faced him down.”

“And…?” Matt prompted, sensing there was more.

“And I fight my own battles, my own way. I don’t need help,” she stated with an air of finality.

Matt looked down at her from his superior height, wondering why this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. He didn’t need this. Not on top of everything else.

“Well, you know what, Miss Sullivan? You can fight your own battles and you can fix your own porch. Good night.”

Matt had the satisfaction of seeing her beautiful mouth pop open before he turned and started back across the lot to the alley that led to his house. But even as he stalked away he listened to hear the reassuring sound of her door finally slamming shut and the engine of her brother’s truck roaring to life.

Old habits…

CHAPTER THREE

HER CARPENTER HAD fired her.

Tara clenched her teeth as she drove, still having a hard time adjusting to the fact. Half a porch to go, plus several other very necessary jobs, and he had fired her. What was she going to do now? Luke couldn’t help, even though she knew he’d try.

She’d just have to get along without any help. This wouldn’t be the first time she and the Time-Life Home Improvement series had gotten a tough job done together.

Yeah, right. She could do this alone. Who was she kidding?

If only Nicky weren’t leaving next week.

But he was. He needed the summer school credits and, frankly, she needed hands a little more skilled than Nicky’s.

Damn that Matt Connors. And Eddie Johnson. And Martin Somers. And… The list was just too long.

Nicky was sprawled on the sofa, wearing old sweats and watching a hideous Vincent Price movie when she got home.

“Don’t you ever sleep?” she muttered.

He gave her a lazy smile. “You got an e-mail,” he said, lowering the volume of the bloodcurdling screams emanating from the bleached blonde on the television screen. House on Haunted Hill. Nicky’s favorite bad movie. “I printed it out.”

“Where?”

“On the table,” he said.

Tara wearily brushed the loose hair off her forehead as she crossed the room. It had better be good news. This had been one long, rough day. She read the printout, then crumpled it in her fist.

“I cannot believe this,” she said, rolling her eyes to the ceiling.

Nicky frowned at her. “You sent out all those party brochures. I thought you wanted to book a reunion function here.”

“I did.” Tara uncrumpled the paper and read it again. The Night Sky High School graduating class of 1965 wanted to hold an afternoon cocktail party here before the reunion dance. And they wanted to pay her well for the privilege. A Mr. Nathan Bidart, former class president, had requested the booking, and he also wanted three rooms. Three rooms. Just like that. Almost the entire second floor. And she hadn’t even advertised rooms; Bidart must have simply assumed. And he was in business, which was the market she was targeting. Her stomach hurt.

“Did?”

“I don’t have a carpenter anymore.”

He put the movie on mute. “What did you do?”

Tara shrugged, then rubbed her neck. “I was ungrateful.”

Nicky gave a snort. “So what do you do now? You can’t hold an outdoor party with half a porch. You have to call Bidart and tell him you can’t host it, or find a new carpenter.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Tara said, yawning. She released the clip that held her hair, then groaned as the barrette popped into two pieces. She stared down at the sterling silver conchos in her right hand, the French clip in her left.

The perfect end to a perfect evening. Disgusted, she tossed the pieces into the fruit bowl where Nicky kept his keys and headed for the hall.

“I’m going to bed.”

She caught sight of Nicky shaking his head before he picked up the remote and settled back into House on Haunted Hill, and felt extremely glad he didn’t know about the balloon payment. One Sullivan worried sick about finances was more than enough.

STUPID BIRD.

Tara usually loved waking up to the sounds of the birds in the ancient cottonwood trees outside her window. Usually. But after a long night of calculating in her sleep, and trying to figure out how in the world she could get everything done, Tara was in no mood for cheerful birds.

Matt had done the decent thing and tried to help her and she had done the knee-jerk thing and refused that help. She’d fought her own battles since she was eight years old and some kid had taunted her about having a daddy who stayed too long at the beer joint. That kid had ran home crying a few seconds later with a bloody nose and Tara had discovered she did indeed have the power to fight back. She didn’t have to listen to all the talk about her father, whom she loved and was fiercely protective of, especially since she didn’t have a mother.

Of course, that had been before her dad had committed armed robbery and reinforced the general opinion that there was no such thing as an honest Sullivan.

She and Nicky had moved into the big Victorian house with Aunt Laura shortly after her father’s arrest. It hadn’t been a happy time. The kids in school remembered how fiercely she’d defended her father and wouldn’t let her forget it. The adults in town hadn’t treated “that Sullivan girl” much better.

As soon as she graduated high school, she moved to Reno, taking Nicky with her, never dreaming that someday she’d be back, trying to make a place for herself in the community.

She pushed the covers aside and sat up, glancing briefly at the photo of her father she kept on the bureau and feeling the usual mixed emotions. The picture had been taken when he was about the same age as Nicky and the resemblance was strong. Dark blond hair, an easy grin. Tara looked nothing like him. She took after her dark-haired mother, who was smiling in the matching silver frame. Her mother had died when Nicky was three and her father had died in prison of pneumonia when Tara was eighteen—just a few months before he was due to be paroled. Sometimes, even though she hated herself for it, she wondered if maybe that had been for the best.

No sense dwelling on it. It never did her any good. And right now she had a porch to rebuild and a few new doors to hang.

Nicky groaned when he traipsed into the kitchen an hour later and saw the stack of home improvement books sitting on the table where his plate should have been. He walked to the coffeepot, giving the table a wide berth. He filled his cup, took a revitalizing drink, then leaned against the cabinets. His expression clearly said that he knew from experience how dangerous how-to books could be.

“It’s not that bad,” Tara said without raising her eyes from the pages of one.

“Yes,” he said bluntly, “it is.”

Tara looked up.

“Remember what happened the last time you moved beyond your abilities?”

“Wiring can get confusing. All those junctions…”

“Look, T. You’re good. I’ll give you that. And you learn fast, but you don’t have that much time.”

“Your point?” she asked sourly.

“Tell me what happened last night.”

He brought the coffeepot, filled both of their cups, then took a seat across the table from her.

Nicky shook his head when she finished telling the story. “One punch to the gut, huh?” He was obviously impressed. Eddie was a big guy.

“Neatly done, too.” Although she had thought there might be more to Matt Connors than met the eye, Tara hadn’t expected him to know how to fight like that. His moves had been quick and automatic. Well-practiced.

Silence hung between them for a few seconds and then Tara closed the book in front of her.

“I guess I should go and see if I can talk him into coming back.”

Nicky nodded, his eyes fixed on the kitchen window. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.”

Tara’s eyes widened in surprise. “You’re kidding.” She jumped to her feet and crossed to the window. Sure enough, Matt Connors’s pickup was turning into the drive.

“Let’s hope he’s not here for his tools,” Nicky commented as he watched the truck roll up the drive.

“Let’s hope,” Tara echoed.

“Or his last paycheck.”

Tara scowled at her brother over her shoulder as she headed for the front door. “You’re a real ray of sunshine, you know that?”

“Just don’t blow this, okay?”

“I won’t blow it,” she replied flatly.

I can’t blow it. She took a moment to collect herself, and then stepped out onto the porch.

MATT EASED HIS PICKUP to a stop next to Nicky’s Dodge. He turned off the ignition, but he didn’t get out of the truck right away.

Damn, but he was tired.

He’d had some alleged coffee at the Owl that morning, knowing he probably wasn’t going to get any from Tara, but now the casino brew was burning a hole in his gut. It wasn’t in his nature to leave someone in lurch though and, no matter what had happened last night, the Sullivans were apparently in one.

Numb from lack of sleep, he stared at the porch. Tara stood on the top step, keeping the advantage of higher ground. Matt let out a breath and pushed the truck door open.

Squaring time.

He made his way up the walk as far as the bottom porch step, and for a moment he and Tara simply stared at one another. She was dressed for work, but her feet were bare, and her hair hung to her waist in a loose ponytail. She looked tired and yet she also looked good. Must be the hair he thought, wondering what it would feel like to hold handfuls of it.

And what would it feel like spilling over his chest?

The thought came out of nowhere. What would it feel like if he got a grip?

“I’m glad you’re here,” Tara said, breaking the silence. “I want to apologize for last night. I was rude and ungrateful. I’m sorry.”

The words came out in a staccato rhythm, sounding more rote than sincere.

“You haven’t apologized much, have you?”

Tara frowned. “Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re not very good at it.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

“You have most of the words right,” he explained, “but it’s the delivery that’s all wrong. You see, you’re supposed to sound like you mean it, not like you’re saying whatever you have to.”

Her eyebrows rose. “Yeah? Well, guess what? At this point I would say whatever I have to to get you to do what I want.”

Not what he expected. He almost smiled, but Tara didn’t notice. She was staring at something in the distance as she worked out what to say next. When she looked back at him, her expression was grudgingly sincere.

“When you hit Eddie last night, I was shocked and…unnerved, I guess. I hadn’t expected any intervention and then, out of the blue, there you were.” She held his gaze for a few seconds. “I’m sorry for not being more appreciative. I know you were trying to help. It was just kind of—” she pressed her lips together momentarily “—scary help.”

Okay. That was a revelation. It hadn’t occurred to him that of the two of them, she might have considered him more of an unknown than the big guy she’d been staring down. “I guess I can understand that.”

Tara studied him matter-of-factly, almost fatalistically. “Are you here to pick up your check?”

“Nope.”

“So—” she tilted her head “—are you coming back to work?”

He gave a nod.

There was a cautious silence, then, for the first time since he’d met her, Tara smiled. At him. A slow, totally fascinating curve of her lips that changed her beauty into something warmer, more approachable, a hundred times sexier. He felt as if his breath had caught in his throat, which was ridiculous. It was only a smile.

“That’s great.” Her voice was low. “I was afraid—”

“Yeah. Sorry about that.”

“It’s okay.” Her expression grew serious. “As long as it doesn’t happen again.”

“It shouldn’t…as long as you pick on someone your own size.”

Her smile was more wry than sensual this time, but once again, Matt felt a response he wasn’t ready for.

“Do I still get lunch?”

“Twelve sharp.” She raised a eyebrow. “I have some breakfast on, too, if you’re interested. It should be ready in about ten minutes. Nicky’ll probably have more coffee brewing by now.”