Montana Dreaming. Karen Rose Smith

making change? It wouldn’t hurt the older woman to take orders and serve customers for the time being.

      As Juliet walked away, she massaged the small of her back with both hands.

      Damn. It grated on Mark to see her working so hard. And hurting.

      But hey, he reminded himself. That really wasn’t any of his business. He ought to be relieved that she hadn’t waited on him this evening. That she hadn’t made any effort to stop by his table—in spite of the friendly conversation they’d shared last night.

      Yet the fact that she hadn’t come by bothered him, too.

      He missed her smile, her wit. Her company.

      But then why wouldn’t he? Juliet was about the only person, place or thing in this town he found interesting or appealing.

      And she hadn’t looked his way this evening.

      Was she avoiding him? Had he been too intrusive last night? Offering his opinion and advice without being asked?

      Maybe so, but that was just as well.

      Last night, following their chat, he’d gone back to the Wander-On Inn and, when he’d finally dozed off, he’d slept like hell, tossing and turning all night long like a trout trapped in shallow water.

      He glanced up from the trace of meat loaf and mashed potatoes on his plate and saw her coming his way.

      Well, what do you know? Speak of the pretty devil who’d triggered his insomnia.

      When she reached his table, she smiled. “Mary Sue had to go home because of a family emergency. So I’m going to be taking care of you from here on out.”

      “You’re the one who should be cutting out early. And someone ought to be taking care of you.”

      She arched, grimaced, then rubbed her lower back. “We’ve already talked about that.”

      They had. And he hadn’t meant to get her all riled up. After all, it wasn’t his place to harp on her. And even if she appreciated his concern, he wouldn’t be around long enough to nurture a friendship. Besides, he damn sure didn’t need to get involved with a single mother and her child, especially when they lived in a town he’d been avoiding for twenty years.

      “I’m sorry, Juliet. I’ll let it go.”

      “Thanks.” She offered him an olive-branch smile. “I’m trying to take it easy, Mark. But I’ve got to keep working a little while longer.”

      He nodded. She was concerned about finances, which was understandable. Once she gave birth and went back to work, the cost of a babysitter would probably put a crunch on her paycheck.

      Maybe he ought to give her some money. Five hundred dollars might make life a bit easier for her. And then he could let it go. Ease off. Let her be.

      “Can I get you some dessert?” she asked. “Buck made his blue-ribbon peach cobbler today. And everyone’s been raving about it.”

      “Sure. I’ll take some.” Mark placed his napkin on the table and pushed aside his dinner plate. “Will you join me?”

      “Maybe for a minute.” She glanced over her shoulder at Martha, who appeared preoccupied with sorting bills in the cash drawer. “I’ve had a nagging backache all afternoon.”

      Mark couldn’t hold back a grumble. If he were a violent man, he’d slam a fist on the table in frustration. Was a backache normal for a woman in her condition? Or was it an indication that something was wrong? Something terribly wrong? Something that put her life and that of her baby at risk?

       Like Kelly.

      Damn the memory that wouldn’t let him alone.

      No matter what he’d told himself, no matter what kind of truce he and the waitress had drawn, Mark couldn’t shake his concern. “I’m glad you’re going to take a break, but come on, Juliet. You really need to go home and put your feet up. Think about the baby.”

      “I am.” Her eyes locked on his in rebuttal, although they appeared a bit glassy, like they were swimming in emotion and barely staying afloat. “I don’t have a family to fall back on. It’s just the baby and me. And I can’t help worrying about making ends meet, about keeping a roof over our heads once he or she gets here.”

      “Yeah, well unless you want that baby to get here too soon, you’d better heed the doctor’s advice and quit work.”

      “Tonight, when I clock out, I’ll ask for a couple of days off. Okay?” She lifted a delicate brow, as though cueing him to agree.

      He merely blew out a sigh, giving in—so it appeared. He didn’t usually offer unsolicited advice. It wasn’t normally his style. But then again, he wasn’t reminded of Kelly that often. Of her unnecessary death.

      Juliet seemed to accept his silence as acquiescence, which it was. But her weary smile didn’t take the edge off the exhaustion in her expression. Nor did it erase the dark circles he hadn’t noticed under her eyes last night.

      “I’ll have two peach cobblers,” he said. “And a glass of milk.”

      “I’d think the milk might curdle in your stomach with the bourbon you drank earlier.”

      “The milk is for you.”

      She nodded, then went after the dessert. When she returned, she took a seat. “How’s your story coming along?”

      “What story? This assignment is a joke.” And it was, compared to the bigger stories he’d covered in the past. Important events that made him feel as though he’d reached the professional level he’d strived for, that level where one man—a reporter—could make a difference in people’s lives.

      “You think the gold rush is a joke?” she asked.

      “Writing a story about a bunch of loony-tune prospectors who’ve flocked to a possible gold rush in Thunder Canyon can’t even come close to a story about a major flood or fire.” He dug into the cobbler and scooped out a gooey bite. Hmmm. Not bad.

      When he glanced up, he caught Juliet’s eye, her rapt attention.

      “You’d rather write about disasters?” she asked. “Why such depressing news?”

      “It touches hearts, confronts our deepest fears. Stirs up emotion.”

      “We had a fight in here last Saturday night. There was plenty of emotion stirring then.” Her lips quirked into a grin, and he realized she was teasing him, trying to chip away at the cynical armor it had taken him years to build.

      “A fight, huh? I’m sorry I missed the entertainment. But not to worry. I can go down to the E.R. at Thunder Canyon General and watch them stitch up the scalp of some idiot who tripped over a pickax and split his head open.”

      “So this is small tomatoes for you.”

      “Small potatoes,” he corrected, unwilling to reveal his disappointment, his frustration. His desire to make a difference, to help people—victims of disasters. And to better prepare people who hadn’t been stricken by major calamities yet. He shrugged. “I’ll get the job done.”

      “You know,” she said, licking a dollop of peach cobbler from her fork. “There have been some gold nuggets found. So one of the prospectors could strike it rich.”

      “Maybe. But I think the biggest story I’ve got is the hullabaloo about the ownership of the old mine.”

      “I thought Caleb Douglas owned it. That his great-grandfather won it in a poker game with the Shady Lady.”

      “That’s the legend that’s been circulating for years. People have just assumed that Caleb was the owner. But he hasn’t produced the deed.”

      She furrowed her brow. “What about the county records?”

      “They’re