The Best Little Joeville. Anne Eames

checked the fit of his jeans before catching up to him. “Who said I’d ever come back?”

      He looked askance at her and kept walking to the baggage claim area. It was as though she’d never left. He was demanding something of her already, merely with his silent looks. Well, he wasn’t going to get it—whatever it was. She would control this situation if it killed her.

      “Savannah didn’t come with you?”

      “She didn’t feel too good.”

      Jenny tugged at his arm, making him turn her way. “What’s wrong?” He looked at her hand on his sleeve and she dropped it.

      “She’s pregnant.”

      Jenny rolled her eyes. “I know that.” She’d forgotten what a man-of-few-words he was. This pulling teeth business was already getting on her nerves. “Is that all that’s wrong?”

      “Isn’t that enough?”

      She spotted her suitcase on the conveyor and reached for it. Shane took it from her. “Is this it?”

      “Yes.” She met his dark stare with one of her own.

      “I’ll bring the car around.” He headed out the door, not waiting for her argument.

      She could carry her own bag and she could damn well walk to the car. She approached the door and was about to call after him when a gust of arctic air left her shivering in her light woolen jacket.

      Well, okay. He could get the car.

      As the crowd around her thinned, she hugged herself and shuffled her feet to keep warm. She wasn’t going to let this cowboy get to her. No siree. She had the rest of November and all of December to enjoy the holidays with Savannah and help her prepare for the baby. If her friend was up to it, maybe they could drive over to Bozeman for some Christmas shopping. She looked at the snow that had been plowed from the curb and guessed it was more than ten feet tall. She smiled. A snowball fight or building a snowman might be fun, too.

      There was a long blast from a horn and she saw Shane glaring at her from behind the wheel of his Explorer.

      She pulled herself from her reverie and exhaled a long breath. “And bah, humbug to you, too, Shane Malone.” In spite of the cold, she took her time covering the short distance to the passenger side, then let herself in.

      Great. With these roads it would take a couple of hours to reach the ranch. Just what she needed. Alone time with this Indian-loving strong silent type. She crossed her arms and spoke to the windshield.

      “So...you still living with that old Indian in the cabin behind the stables?”

      He shot her another hot glare, then returned his attention to the snow-covered highway.

      “So...you still as bigoted as you were when you left here?”

      Ohhh...kayyy. If this was how it was going to be, she would listen to the radio and ignore him. He, and everyone else at the ranch, knew about her absentee Crow father. Why would Shane think she’d changed?

      She punched the power button and a tape began to play. The eerie sounds of an Indian flute filtered through the speakers, leaving her with the strange sensation that a loin-clothed brave would be sitting on his pony at the top of the next rise. There was a winding pass up ahead—the perfect spot for an ambush. She chuckled under her breath and imagined the wagons circling, which entertained her for the next several miles. Finally she ejected the tape and started fiddling with the dial, passing over one country-and-western station after another.

      “Oh, for Pete’s sake.” She punched the power off and watched the passing scenery.

      In the headlights, moonlight bounced off the surface of the snow, sending thousands of tiny crystals dancing along the pristine surface. Miniature Christmas lights adorned a few pines in front of an occasional home. So unlike the summer fields of wildflowers she’d remembered, but no less beautiful. She had to admit she’d missed this place and ranch living—a place where cooking was necessary to fuel the long days on the range and originality played second fiddle to quantity.

      She stole a sideways glance at Shane and saw his wrist draped over the steering wheel, his jaw muscles tight, and she wondered what he’d been up to since she’d left, whether he’d found anyone....

      She straightened in her seat, chastising herself for such a stupid, irrelevant thought. What difference did it make? Before long she would be back in Michigan and he would be back to—to whatever. It didn’t matter.

      Dark shadows in the distance turned into ragged snow-covered mountains as they approached one cluster after another, the silence inside stretching unmercifully.

      Then out of the blue, Shane asked, “Still cooking?”

      “Does a bear—?” She tucked a leg under her and turned toward him, noticing his chiseled features silhouetted against the white landscape. Maybe it was time to change her attitude as well as her tone. A little chitchat wouldn’t hurt. At the very least, it would help pass the time. “Yes, I’m still catering, if that’s what you mean. And I took up the study of herbs recently. Learned some interesting stuff...not just for cooking, but health and other applications, too.”

      “Hmm.”

      “For example, did you know that if you rub raw garlic on a mosquito bite it will stop itching?”

      “Yep. But use too much and it comes out on your breath.”

      “Now, how would you know that?”

      “From Buck. American Indians have always used things from the earth.” He flashed her a derisive smile and she sucked the roof of her mouth with her tongue. “If you’re interested in herbs, there’s a lot you could learn from Buck.”

      Yeah, right. That would be a cold day in hell.

      Back to the same old stuff. Why did Indians have to permeate their every conversation? You would think he was one!

      She looked back at him with a quizzical frown. His hair was nearly black, high cheekbones, strong angles. Had he lived so long with Buck that he’d actually started to take on the look? She shrugged and turned back to the window.

      Who cared? If he wanted to love Indians, that was his business. Maybe if he had an Indian father who deserted him before he was born, he would understand how she felt. But he didn’t. His father was Max Malone—rich surgeon and successful rancher. And one hell of a nice guy. So how would Shane, or any of them, know how she felt? How could they possibly understand?

      Only her mother had. Now she was gone.

      The intervening months since Mom’s fatal heart attack had dulled the shock and pain, but as the holidays drew nearer, the emptiness had returned.

      The sad memory of her mother brought her full circle. This was why she’d come back to Montana. If she’d stayed home, it would have been her first Christmas alone. Always there had been Mom, and for a dozen holidays—all but the last one—there had been Savannah, too, sharing their cozy suburban Detroit apartment Jenny knew Savannah’s marriage to Shane’s brother was what her best friend had always wanted, yet the fact that she would never again live in Michigan had left a bigger hole in Jenny’s life than even she had expected.

      “It’s slow going tonight. If you want to lay back and sleep, I’ll wake you when we get there.”

      She glanced at him through a sheen of moisture and blinked hard. “Good idea,” she said, ready for any distraction.

      She found the handle, gave it a tug and reclined the bucket seat, then breathed deeply through her nose. He smelled of soap and aftershave...and something far more dangerous. She turned her face to the window, closed her eyes and tried to nap, but the scent of him, his mere nearness, made sleep impossible.

      Maybe coming here had been a mistake—especially this time of year, when emotions ran deep and a sense of hope and love abounded. Normally she would view the season through the eyes of an amused cynic,