Jennifer Greene - A Groom For Red Riding Hood

Steve forced his attention on the pie. Samson’s specialty was apple pie; the apples were heavy on the nutmeg and cinnamon, not too much sugar, the crust as flaky as his own mother’s. Delicious. No reason at all for a lump to lodge in his throat. There was nothing going on at that far corner table by the door that he needed to think or worry about.

He wasn’t bosom buddies with Fred—or anyone else in Eagle Falls—but those particular people were regulars at the bar. He’d seen them often enough to have their measure. Fred’s brush cut was clipped shorter than a marine’s; he favored dressing in army fatigues, playing weekend war games, flashing a lot of weapons and coaxing anyone who’d listen into talking about his conspiracy theories. Maybe he wasn’t the average Joe, but basically he was harmless, a lot of big talk but no action.

A raucous snicker of masculine laughter echoed across the room.

Steve didn’t lift his head. She wasn’t really in trouble. There wasn’t anything tricky or difficult about handling Fred. Either a smile or a scolding would have put him—or any of the boys—in their place. By taking their teasing so seriously, it was the same as begging for more. Any woman who had an older brother or chose to work around men would surely know that. The boys had had too much beer. They were feeling their hormones. Nobody was going to ignore her if she kept rising to the bait.

He was on the last bite of pie when she whisked over and slipped the bill under his plate. She’d bitten her bottom lip a bruised red. The look around her eyes was pinched and drawn. Still, her magnolia drawl had a winsome shyness. “I’ll be back if y’all need change,” she said.

She’d already moved on before Steve had the chance to dig into his back pocket for his wallet. Change was no problem. He smacked the bills on the table, more than enough to include a walloping tip—which she’d earned. That easily, he told himself, she was completely off his mind. All his attention was focused on getting home. Already he could picture the double bed in his trailer, slipping between the sheets buck naked, burrowing into the warmth of a down comforter. Nothing was quieter than a night in the north woods, and the hot meal had pushed him over an edge. He was dizzy-tired, gut-tired, darn near mean-tired.

He could have sworn he wasn’t still watching her. Yet when he reached back for his parka, his eyes seemed to be peeled across the room, because he saw the exact moment when Fred hooked an arm around her waist.

She wasn’t carrying a tray that time, but she wasn’t expecting the pass, either. She landed with an awkward plop in Fred Claire’s lap. Fred said something—undoubtedly some kind of vulgar compliment, because it made the other men guffaw. She was trying to scramble off him. Fred was trying to keep her pinned.

Steve muttered an exasperated “Hell” under his breath and lurched to his feet. He didn’t need this. He had troubles of his own, and getting along with the good old boys in town was integral to resolving those troubles. But dammit, her face wasn’t flushed this time. It was stark white. Even from yards away, he could see her expression wasn’t just flustered or embarrassed, but downright, outright scared.

He stalked over, his step so quiet that no one even realized he was there—until he reached over and plucked the lady off Fred’s lap.

“Hey,” Fred objected.

It took a second to steady her. For that instant his hands were on her waist, he felt the supple warmth of her body and caught the vague drift of a subtle, feminine scent. His libido stirred, with a punch of sexual awareness that he’d never expected—but it didn’t last long.

“Hey!” Fred snarled again, nearly tipping the table when he jerked out of his chair.

Steve had no time to release an aggrieved masculine sigh. No question, when a man asked for trouble, he got it. Fred had been drinking for how many hours? His leathery face had a beer flush and the adrenaline of rage was flashing in his eyes. Steve grasped him by the shirt collar, quick. “I’m going to worry about you driving home after all that drinking,” he said calmly. “Wouldn’t you say that a good friend would help you sober up?”

Chairs scraped across the plank floor. As if a bomb had dropped, there was suddenly no sound in the room except for the blare of the Lion’s announcer on the boob tube. No one attempted to get in the way as Steve propelled Fred toward the door. There was no reason for anyone to object. It was the best entertainment anyone had enjoyed that night—short of watching one small woman get picked on.

The wind had finally died, but the air was colder than a witch’s heart when Steve yanked open the door. The icy air slammed straight into his lungs. It was dark out, but the fresh foot of snow had the sharp, bright gleam of sequins. He released Fred’s collar, bent down, scooped up a handful of snow and washed Fred’s face with it. His intuition was correct. The method helped Fred sober up right quick. The other man threw a punch. He got his face washed a second time for that asinine move.

“Where I come from, a man doesn’t pick on someone smaller than him. Only bullies do that, and I never met a bully yet who wasn’t a coward. Now, you got that message, or you want to discuss it a little while longer?”

Apparently Fred was in the mood for an in-depth discussion, although the subject of bullies never came up again. He let loose a string of four-letter words, including extensive commentary about Steve’s mother, her preference for combat boots and the shaky sexual preferences of his father. He didn’t throw another punch, though.

“Look, you’re drunk,” Steve said quietly. “Damn stupid to fight when you’re drunk. When you sober up, if you’re still looking for a fight, you come pick on me. I’ll take you on, if that’s what you really want. Just leave the lady alone, you hear me?”

Fred seemed to feel that comment required another wordy dissertation on his character, values and manhood—or lack thereof. It took an enormous amount of wind and hot air before he ran out of insults. Steve listened patiently the whole time. The Japanese had always understood that once a man lost face, he became an enemy. No man forgot being humiliated. Steve let him get the last word in for the same reason he hadn’t leveled the little hothead in front of his cronies inside. He wasn’t looking to make an enemy out of Fred Claire—or anyone else in Eagle Falls. He just wanted Ms. Blue Eyes left alone.

Once Fred’s windup insults ran down, Steve waited, studying his face. The begging-to-fight fire was dying in his eyes, the adrenaline settling back down. Fred was just plain cold, shivering violently in his shirtsleeves, snow dripping from his face and down his neck. A few minutes in subzero temperatures had a way of equalizing everything, even challenged male egos and bad tempers. Fred was no longer having fun.

Steve took one last look at his face. And walked away.

* * *

Men. Since the only thing Mary Ellen wanted to avoid was that particular half of the human species, it seemed the height of irony that she’d landed in a nest of the vipers. Of course, her specialty was screwing up. She never made small mistakes. Her forte had always been the big, classic, mortifyingly embarrassing-type boners.

She stuffed her hair under a stocking cap and grabbed her ski poles. Inhaling a lungful of crisp clean air, she reassured herself that moving here had been the best thing that ever happened to her. True, she’d misjudged the population of men. Equally true, she’d failed to consider the teensy problem of money. In her wildest nightmare she’d never anticipated having to work in a bar, but there’d simply been no other job around.