Tami Hoag - Dark Paradise

Colleen Bentsen was a squarely built woman with a cap of soft brown curls and large tortoiseshell glasses. She was dressed in a blue silk tunic and slacks with a wildly patterned scarf swathed around her shoulders and pinned in place with what looked to J.D. like a chunk of welder’s solder. She took her place behind the podium as two men carried a draped object in from a side door and set it on the table beside her.

“Good evening, everyone,” she said so softly that Jim Ed got up and bent the neck of the microphone down, making it screech in protest. A blush bloomed on the woman’s cheeks. She cleared her throat demurely and started again. “As many of you know, I am a sculptor. I came to New Eden two years ago and made this my permanent home. It troubles me to see so much dissention over the issue of new people coming here. I feel what we all need is a spirit of cooperation. As a symbol of that spirit, I have decided to donate to the town a sculpture that embodies the theme of cooperation and blends harmoniously the rough elements of the ranching community with the influx of sophisticated and artistic qualities from the outside.”

She unveiled the model with a flick of the wrist, snapping the white cloth from it. Half the room gasped in awe and wonder. The other half stared in dumbfounded astonishment. J.D. fit squarely into the second group. It didn’t look like anything to him but a big hunk of smooth metal and a big hunk of jagged metal twisted together, like something that could be found on the road in the aftermath of a major car wreck.

There was a smattering of enthusiastic applause for the piece, which, Miss Bentsen said, would stand as a focal point in front of the county courthouse. She would begin work on the project immediately, and would create the piece on the site so people could witness the progress.

“I expect that’s a nice gesture, Miz Bentsen,” J.D. said neutrally, drawing the eyes of everyone in the room. “But I don’t see how a big ol’ hunk of metal is gonna help me pay taxes that have been raised to the moon because of inflated land prices. A gesture doesn’t keep my neighbors from selling out prime ranch land to people who think food is manufactured in a room out back of the A &P. Bottom line here is, we dig our heels in now and hang on to what’s ours, or in five years we’ll all be steppin’ and fetchin’ for rich folk. That’s not what my ancestors came west for a hundred-some years ago.”

While the sculptress turned scarlet with embarrassment, Bryce rose gracefully from his chair, steepling his bony fingers in front of him in a scholarly pose. His pale eyes locked on J.D. “Mr. Rafferty, are you saying only natives should be allowed to live in Montana? That this land and freedom you so cherish shouldn’t be offered to anyone born in another state?”

J.D. narrowed his eyes. He didn’t raise his voice above its usual low growl, and yet each word snapped in the air like the crack of a whip. “I’m saying I won’t sell my heritage to some slick-ass smart-mouth rich boy so he can impress his witless, feckless friends from Hollywood.

“I can’t stop people from coming here, but they can damn well respect my way of life and leave me to it in peace. I won’t be bought out. I won’t be run off. And I sure as hell won’t stand by and smile while speculators turn this place into some kind of snotty elitist playground.”

He settled his Stetson on his head, signaling to one and all that the argument was over as far as J. D. Rafferty was concerned. “If I want to live in an amusement park,” he said softly, firmly, “I’ll move to Disneyland.”

Will sat at the bar, one arm on the polished surface, fingers absently stroking a sweating mug of imported beer. He swiveled sideways on his stool to survey the place. It was a little tony for his tastes. A fire crackled in the stone fireplace, chasing off the chill of the spring evening. Soft guitar music drifted out of hidden speakers, calm enough to lull a man to sleep.

Will preferred the Hell and Gone down the street for its noise and truculence and nightly mouse races. The juke there played country as loud as thunder and nobody talked below a shout. The liquor was better in the Moose, but hell, after two or three, what difference did it make?

About half the tables in the Mystic Moose lounge were filled with newcomers and vacationers, pretty people in expensive clothes. One exotic-looking blonde sitting alone at a nearby table caught his eye, returning his stare with open boldness, but Will looked past her. He hadn’t come in to get himself picked up by some rich bitch looking for a cowboy to lay. He had come in because his wife moved among the clientele with a serving tray and a smile that was softer than silk and warmer than the sun.

Damn, but she was a pretty thing. Somehow, he hadn’t managed to realize just how pretty until after they had split up. He had always thought of Sam as cute-when he thought of her at all. A cute kid, a tomboy with a crush on him. Now he looked at her as she bent to set a glass of wine in front of a customer and her jeans snugged up tight against her bottom, and he wished to hell they’d never gotten married. He would have loved nothing better than to charm his way into her bed tonight, but he couldn’t do that, things being what they were.

He shook his head and swilled his beer. He liked his life a whole lot better without complications.

Samantha felt his eyes on her the instant she set her tray on the bar, and her heart jumped up into her throat. Two weeks had passed since Will had moved back out to the Stars and Bars. She hadn’t seen him up close since their last fight.

The memory of the blonde from the Hell and Gone warred with the image of him sitting there on the bar-stool, looking too handsome for his own good, his eyes too blue and his smile too tempting. The pressure made her heart feel as if it were swelling and cutting off her air.

“Aren’t you even gonna say hello, Sam?” he said softly.

She turned her head to look at him squarely, wishing he would see cool indifference in her eyes, knowing he would see pain instead. “What are you doing here?”

Good question. He bit the inside of his lip and tried to think of something clever, something that didn’t sound as screwed up as he felt. He was the one who wanted out of the marriage; he couldn’t very well tell her he missed her.

“It’s a free country,” he said at last, all but wincing at how lame that sounded.

Samantha tightened her expression into a glare, hoping the hurt wouldn’t show through. In her heart she had wanted him to say that he missed her, that he needed her, that he wanted to try again to make their marriage work. Over and over she had envisioned him coming to her and begging her forgiveness, telling her with tears in his eyes that he wanted her more than anything, that he wanted her to have his baby. That was what she wanted. And she kicked herself for it. She wasn’t a dreamy young girl anymore; she was a woman with a husband who cheated on her without compunction.

“Well then, you’re free to go on down to the Hell and Gone,” she said sharply. “I’m sure there’s a bimbo or two waiting for you.”

Will’s protest caught in his throat as she wheeled around and stalked away with a loaded tray in her hands. Heaving a sigh, he leaned both elbows on the bar and hung his head. “Hey, Tony,” he muttered to the bartender, “gimme a shot of Jack in the black, will you?”

J.D. intercepted the whiskey. He tossed it back, slammed the glass down on the bar and fixed his brother with a steely glare. “We’re leaving.”

Will shot him a look. “What’s your problem?”

“Besides you?”

“That meeting can’t be over yet.”

“It is as far as I’m concerned.”