Sandra Steffen - Nick's Long-Awaited Honeymoon

Chapter One

He wasn’t lost. Nick Colter had a sixth sense about direction. It came in handy in back alleys and bad situations. No, he wasn’t lost. Custer Street, on the other hand, was lost as hell. Street signs would have been nice. For some strange reason only half the streets in this town had them.

He inched his car to a corner and peered in every direction. Jasper Gulch, South Dakota, wasn’t much different from fifty other towns he’d passed on his way from Chicago. The houses were at least a hundred years old and looked as if they’d seen better days. Porch lights were on, but the dwellings themselves were dark. Nick shook his head. Might as well hang a sign out front for burglars: “House empty. Take your time. The good silver is in the pantry.”

“Careful, Colter,” he muttered under his breath. “One of these days somebody’s gonna accuse you of being cynical.”

His next turn landed him back on Main Street where he’d started. He strummed his fingers on the steering wheel and studied his surroundings. The street was lined with cars and pickup trucks, but not a single person was in sight. Spotting a lit building a block over, he parked his car in the first available space and headed inside.

He gave the room a sweeping glance the instant he set foot inside the door. A wedding reception was taking place, and if the volume of the boot-stomping music coming from the country-western band and the laughter and raised voices of the crowd were an accurate indication, the folks of Jasper Gulch were having a good time. Only a few of the wedding guests noticed his presence—a handful of kids who stopped their game of tag to stare at him, two teenaged girls who whispered behind their hands, and an old man whose thumbs were hooked through his suspenders.

“Can I help you, son?” the old cowboy asked.

Keeping his eyes and ears open, Nick said, “I don’t make a habit of crashing wedding receptions, but I can’t seem to find Custer Street.”

“You visiting,” the other man asked, scratching his craggy chin, “or just passing through?”

“Visiting, I suppose.”

The old man nodded. “Then you must be lookin’ for the boardin’ house. No sense goin’ there right now. The owner’s not home. I’m Cletus McCully. We ain’t much for standing on ceremony around here, so you might as well grab yerself a cup of that there punch and join the party.”

Nick tried to pass on the punch. Cletus would hear nothing of it. With a shake of his head and a snap of one suspender, the old man ambled away to get it himself. Nick put the minute of solitude to good use, systematically giving the town hall a more thorough once-over. White streamers trailed from the ceiling. A half-eaten wedding cake sat on a small table. The three-piece band was set up in one corner, a table piled high with gifts in another. Most of the men wore bolo ties and cowboy boots while the women wore calico dresses or Western skirts. So far he hadn’t seen a man with a sinister leer, a silver ponytail and a jagged scar.

“What’s going on, on the dance floor?” he asked as Cletus shoved a cup of punch into his hand.

“Follow me,” Cletus muttered. “Maybe we can get a better view from the other side.”

It wasn’t difficult to keep up with the old man’s bow-legged gait. Keeping up with his conversation was another matter. The man talked about people Nick couldn’t possibly know, telling him about the weddings that had taken place since the boys had decided to put an ad in the papers luring women to this-here neck of the woods. In a very short amount of time Nick had learned that someone named DoraLee had eloped with a local rancher named Boomer, Cletus’s grandson Wyatt had snagged one of the first gals to come to town, and his granddaughter, Melody, had married the “boy” she’d been in love with most of her life. Today’s bride was a Southern belle named Pamela Sue, the groom a mama’s boy named Grover.

“One by one the new gals who’ve moved to town are bitin’ the bullet,” Cletus declared. “I’m afraid none of the ones who’re left are makin’ it easy on the poor Jasper Gents. Crystal Galloway, the newest gal in town, is a looker, but she’s got a mouth on her that could scare the average sailor clean away.”

Other than nodding now and then when it was expected of him, Nick kept silent. Listening with only one ear, he made a sweeping perusal of every person in the room. The first glimpse of a shaggy, gray ponytail on the other side of the hall had the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. Homing in on a silver-haired man in the shadows, everything inside Nick went perfectly still.

“Then there’s our own Louetta Graham,” Cletus was saying, “but I’m afraid she’s so shy it’s almost hopeless. That only leaves the girls fresh out of school and the new gal who bought the boarding house. She’s a pretty little thing, that’s for sure, but she’s mighty stubborn, too.”

Nick flexed his fingers at his sides, squinting into the shadows across the room. The man was the right height, but the cowboy hat was deceiving. Nick checked the exits, gauging the most direct route to cover, just in case things took an ugly turn.

“I tried my darnedest to get that gal to reach for the bouquet...”

Nick was barely listening now, all his attention trained on the length of shaggy hair across the room.

“But she says since her divorce ain’t final, she ain’t really single. Like I told her, if that husband of hers was dim-witted enough to let her get away, a few weeks one way or the other won’t make any difference whatsoever. Says she don’t feel married. Problem is, I don’t think Brittany feels unmarried, either.”

The silver-haired man stepped out of the shadows at the same instant Cletus uttered the one name in all the world that could bring Nick to his knees. He was caught between two force fields. Danger. And need. Blood pounded in his head, and his lungs felt too large for his chest.

The silver-haired man turned, giving Nick a good look at his face. The guy was sixty years old if he was a day and sported a handlebar mustache and a hefty paunch. His face was deeply lined, but there was no jagged scar. It wasn’t his man.

It didn’t take long for the roaring din in Nick’s ears to quiet. The brick in his chest was going to be more difficult to eliminate.

“I’m hoping it’s only a matter of time before one of our shy-but-willin’ Jasper Gents catches Brittany’s eye and sweeps her off her feet, but I’m afraid it might be more complicated than that. She says it’s just semantics—whatever in tarnation that means—and has nothin’ to do with the fact that her soon-to-be ex-husband is paying her a little visit in a couple of days.”

The old man’s voice trailed away. Peering up at Nick through bushy white eyebrows, he said, “I don’t believe I caught your name, son.”

The crowd parted, and Nick had his first clear view of a slender, dark-haired woman who was trying to ward off the advances of one of the cowboys on the other side of the dance floor. The man brushed aside a lock of her chin-length hair and bent his head as if he wanted to whisper something in her ear. Instead, he planted a sloppy kiss on one corner of her mouth.

Nick’s fingers curled around the cup in his hand. Handing it back to Cletus, he said, “My name’s Nick Colter. That dim-witted husband you mentioned. You’ll have to excuse me. There’s a man I have to punch in the nose.”

“Now don’t be too hasty there...”

Nick moved with the same kind of purpose he used in the streets and alleys of Chicago, maneuvering around the people blocking his path so quickly they had to turn their heads to keep him in their line of vision. He stopped behind the cowboy and tapped him on the shoulder with enough force to leave no doubt that Nick meant business.