Big Sky Seduction Read online

  “Why did I hire you, again?” Gloria tugged while Faith shoved and the heavy bed inched across the floor.

  “Because I have an eye for detail.” She tapped her temple. “And an amazing memory.”

  “Quiet and keep pushing.”

  “Didn’t you two break up, like, a year ago? Or was it two?”

  “Something like that.” The bed was moving at the speed of a glacier and Gloria grunted. “How about you focus your energy on pushing instead of talking?”

  Ignoring her, Faith said, “Why’d you break up again?”

  “He was transferred.”

  “Oh, I thought it had to do with the fact he only knew one position—missionary, in the dark, no talking.”

  Gloria stood, giving up any pretense of moving the bed. “Look. Enough about my private life, okay? We’ve got work to do.”

  “I’ll stop as soon as you tell my why you aren’t accepting the stupid cowboy’s offer for hot sex. Because, no offense, but, you need it.”

  “What does that mean?” Hands on her hips, Gloria glared at her employee.

  “You’re wound really tight right now. A smokin’ hot sex session with a cowboy sounds divine.” Faith gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “I bet he has rope, too, doesn’t he?” She shut her eyes and rocked back and forth, like she was imagining bondage shit behind those closed lids.

  Leaning against the bed, Gloria sighed. “Enough.”

  “Why?”

  “I lose control when I’m around him, okay? Are you satisfied now?”

  Faith hugged herself. “Sounds delicious.”

  “No. Not delicious. The way I lose it is not a good thing.” That wasn’t completely true; a flash from three months ago stole her breath, in a good way. Dillon holding her legs wide while he moved inside of her... Gloria recalled feeling complete and utter abandon at that moment. However, following close on the heels of that memory was the overwhelming sensation of not being able to breathe. Of feeling constricted. Weighed down. Ears ringing, cotton balls filling her throat, heart pounding.

  Panic.

  It would not happen again.

  * * *

  DILLON JOINED HIS cousin Jamie in the locker room of the private boxing club he and his twin brother, Colin, ran. The club was frequented by Chicago’s elite athletes and every time Dillon came to town he stopped in to go a round with one of his cousins. The three of them had been fistfighting for fun since they were kids, spending the summers together at his family ranch in Montana.

  Funny how even as an adult, there was nothing like a good fight to take the edge off. Though that wasn’t the only reason he was here. He had an appointment with Jamie who was an expert in family law.

  “So,” Jamie asked as he stepped out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist. “Gloria said no?”

  “Nah. She’s playing hard to get.” Dillon unwrapped the tape from his hands.

  “You really don’t understand women, do you, Dill?”

  “Are you kidding? Women are like ornery bulls and this one is doing her damnedest to make me think she wants to buck me off. But what she really wants is for me to figure out a way to ride her.”

  “You did not.”

  “Did not what?”

  “Just compare Gloria to a bull.”

  “I like bulls.”

  Jamie rubbed a towel over his wet hair. “An ornery bull.”

  “The ornery ones are the best kind.”

  Laughing, Jamie said, “No wonder you can’t get a date.”

  Dillon rolled the used tape into a ball and tossed it into the trash can across the room. “Oh, I can get a date.”

  “Not with Gloria. If she’s decided she doesn’t like you, she doesn’t like you.”

  “Except that she does like me.”

  “Right.”

  “And she wants to see me again.”

  “I don’t think so. Not this time.” Standing in front of the mirror, Jamie sprayed some shaving cream into his palm and spread it along his jaw. “I saw her face that night. After the fact.” He met Dillon’s eyes in the reflection of the mirror. “She doesn’t like you.”

  Dillon stripped off his shirt. “And I saw her face that night, during the act, and she most certainly does like me.”

  “Whatever you need to tell yourself to sleep at night, Dill.” He made a pass with the razor, and tapped it off in the sink. “But she won’t go out with you.”

  “You want to put your money where your mouth is?”

  “What? You want to bet me that you can get a date with my wife’s best friend?” Jamie laughed as he made another pass with the razor along his top lip. “I don’t think so.”

  Dillon yanked back the curtain to the shower stall and closed it behind him. “A hundred bucks,” he called as he stripped out of his shorts, turned the water on and stepped beneath the spray.

  “Two hundred,” Jamie called, loud enough to be heard above the sound of the shower. “That should just about cover my hourly fee.”

  Chuckling, Dillon used the soap in the dispenser on the wall to briskly wash off. It’d been a short bout and he and Jamie were pretty evenly matched. His jaw was still sore where Jamie’d clocked him, but he was willing to bet Jamie had some nice new bruises on his ribs. After showering, he dried off and dressed in his Wranglers and plaid shirt.

  He checked out his image in the mirror, running a hand through his hair.

  What was he doing here? There were plenty of good lawyers back in Montana. Of course, this was some sensitive business he had to take care of, not the kind of thing you wanted to share with just anyone, so it made sense that he’d come see his cousin, get his advice.

  Then there was Red.

  He’d sure as hell like to see her again. He’d planned on calling her when he first got home after the wedding, then all this shit with Kenny went down and he’d been distracted. And busy. Pretty near every waking minute had been taken up with hospital visits and looking after Kenny’s ranch. It had been damn hard watching his best friend deteriorate like that. The guilt only made it worse. He hadn’t had a lot of room for fun, redheaded thoughts.

  But being back here in Chicago—well—his first thought upon landing was not on the will he was carrying, which it should have been, but on the redhead. Gloria-Rose Hurst. He liked the sound of her whole name.

  Dressed, Dillon grabbed his jacket and the folder from the locker and went to find his cousin who was on the phone in the little office at the back of the gym.

  “The pink ones,” he overheard Jamie say. “They’re my favorite.” Pause. “I know they don’t stay on long—that’s because you look even better without them but—”

  Dillon cleared his throat.

  “Oh. Gotta go. Love you, too.”

  His cousin was so sappily married it was hard to take. Not that Jamie didn’t deserve it, Daisy was amazing, but Dillon was convinced it had to be at least partially an act. No one could be that in love.

  “You sure you’re fine to meet here, or would you rather go to my office?” Jamie asked after hanging up with his new wife.

  “Here’s good, if you don’t mind.” Dillon sat down across from his cousin and handed him a file from the folder. “This is most of it. The last will and testament of Kenny Wells.”

  Jamie took the folder and met his gaze. “I’m really sorry, Dill. I remember Kenny. You two knew each other forever.”

  “Yep.” Dillon sat back in the chair, wishing he had his hat to tip forward a little. He and Kenny had been best friends, though best friends didn’t do the thing that he’d done.

  “What was it?”

  He inhaled deeply. “Kidney cancer. Some weird strain that usually only affects men over sixty. It was aggressive.”

  “No kidding. Gone in a month
?”

  Dillon nodded. “It went undiagnosed for too long.” Kenny had been complaining of back pain for over a year, but what bull rider didn’t have back pain? After he finally got the diagnosis, he’d only lasted four weeks. It was as if something devoured him from the inside out. And the worst part was, that damned image of Kenny lying in the hospice bed, looking like a skeleton, was the only image he was able to conjure of his best friend after knowing him for over twenty years.

  “So, you’re the executor?” Jamie asked, going through the first few pages of the will.

  “Yep.”

  He went through the rest of the document, silently flipping the pages, and as he did so a furrow formed on his brow. “Uh, Dill? You realize you’re a little more than executor, don’t you?”

  Dillon shrugged.

  “He left the ranch to you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, what do you need me for?”

  “I don’t want it.”

  “Why not? You weren’t too keen when your parents sold your family ranch. I always thought you’d go back to ranching once you quit the circuit.”

  Dillon shrugged. He and Jamie were close but there were some things you didn’t admit, even to those closest to you. “Nope. Too much work.”

  Jamie gave him a look of doubt, but it didn’t matter whether Jamie believed him or not. “I need you to help me figure out how to get rid of it because I’m not keeping it.”

  3

  ANXIETY ACCOMPANIED GLORIA on her monthly visit to her father’s place. When she was still ten minutes away, the familiar symptoms reared, fire ants swarmed just beneath her skin, making her itchy and irritable. A tightness in her chest made breathing difficult and swallowing almost impossible. As she drove, she had to consciously remind herself to take slow, easy breaths so that she didn’t hyperventilate.

  Gloria found a spot to park two blocks from her family home in Oak Park. It had been years since she parked in front of the house; she was too embarrassed. As always, it took her a few minutes to work up the courage to get out, to overcome the urge to just drive away and never come back. She grabbed her handbag, positioned her sunglasses and hat, hoisted the bag full of frozen meals and got out of the car. She locked it and pointed herself in the direction of the house and commanded herself to walk.

  Even after all these years of the house looking as it did, the sight of it still shocked her. In her mind, her family home looked as it did when her mom was still alive, back when she was thirteen. Pretty flowers in boxes and pots out front. The yard tidy, though it may have had one too many birdhouses and garden gnomes. The inside filled with treasures, her mom’s collections, but always neat. Always welcoming.

  She stood at the gate and stared. The shock and revulsion of the state of the yard hitting her hard—as it always did—like a sledgehammer to the gut. Bikes, old appliances, tires, toilets, garbage bags with unknown contents piled into small mountains, stacks of paint cans, lawn mowers, hundreds of broken and faded pink flamingos, wheelbarrows, thousands of broken plant pots, an ancient trampoline twisted and positioned on its side as if it had been tossed there by a tornado. In some places the trash was piled as high as the six-foot fence. In others it was only a few feet deep. There was not one blade of grass visible and the path between the gate and the front door was becoming narrower and narrower every time she visited.

  Then there was the smell.

  Gloria placed a hand over her mouth and nose, tears leaking from her eyes as she squeezed her way through the channel of junk to the front door. The porch, where they used to sit on hot summer days, was overrun, as well. Broken furniture, umbrellas, a shopping cart, dented trash cans.

  Oh, God.

  Gloria went to ring the bell, but the doorbell had been disconnected and wires hung ragged from the gaping hole. She pounded on the door.

  “Dad?” Pound, pound, pound. “Dad, it’s me. Open up. It’s Gloria.”

  She kept her face to the door, afraid to turn around, embarrassed to be associated with whatever the hell this was. All of the overwhelming feelings of shame and humiliation from her late teens surfacing. Never wanting to be seen here. Never bringing friends home—not even Daisy—never having a serious boyfriend for fear of what he’d think.

  The fire ants migrated to her belly and chest.

  Pound, pound, pound.

  Her father was home. She knew he was. He’d become nocturnal, staying ensconced in his den of trash by day, only emerging at night to complete his weekly circuit of Dumpsters, searching for perfectly good things that other people threw away.

  “Dad!” she shouted, hating that she was creating a scene.

  A bolt slid, then another, then a series of chain locks unlatched and the door opened a crack. Her father’s watery blue eyes stared, large behind his glasses. “Oh, Gloria-Rose. It’s you. What are you doing here?”

  Such a good question. Swallowing down the bile that rose in her narrowed throat, she held up the grocery bag. “Meals on Wheels,” she said with a fake smile.

  Her father’s smile was genuine and his watery eyes teared up in delight as if she didn’t do this every single month. The sight broke Gloria’s heart.

  “You’re such a sweetheart. Come in. Come in.” He opened the door wide and Gloria was greeted by a wall of stuff. Mostly newspapers, fliers and old books, piled from floor to ceiling, creating a wall of paper goods on either side. Her father lived in a massive fire trap. A coffin of stuff.

  “Oh, Dad.” How the hell did he live this way?

  “You’ll have to go in first so I can lock the door.”

  Gloria shook her head. She couldn’t do it, the piles were claustrophobic. “Can we visit outside today, Dad? I’m not feeling so good.”

  He gnawed on his lip, rubbed his face and adjusted his glasses, all nervous behaviors that had worsened over the years. Before he had a chance to answer, a siren came from down the street, growing closer. Her father’s already pale face went ashen. “Get inside, Glo. Now.”

  She shook her head and held her dad’s hand, uncertain about what was going on, but having a sense that she needed to be here for this.

  The cruiser stopped outside the gate followed by a city truck with a logo for Health and Public Safety on the door.

  “Those bastards,” her father muttered beneath his breath. “Why can’t they just leave me alone?”

  Two uniformed officers emerged from the cruiser. There was no mistaking the revulsion on their faces as they took in the house and yard. “Mr. Andrew Hurst?” the bigger of the two officers asked as he tried to make his way to the door, having to walk sideways in places.

  “Who wants to know?”

  Gloria squeezed her father’s hand. Her vision going spotty as the anxiety and panic took over.

  “Cook County Sheriff’s Department. You’re under arrest.”

  * * *

  GLORIA SAT AT her desk, staring blankly at the computer screen. She should just go home and sleep except she couldn’t, her father was there, “working,” which meant he was calling lawyers and writing angry letters to the justice department about his civil rights. If he wasn’t doing that he was likely yelling over the phone at some poor city clerk about the injustice he was facing.

  The injustice he was facing? How about the injustice she was facing? Her whole life savings, all seventy thousand, had gone to pay his fines: five years’ worth of fines for public nuisance. If he hadn’t been able to pay, he would have been facing jail time.

  So, bye-bye nest egg.

  Yet, there was a part of her that was glad because not only had Public Health and Safety condemned the yard, they’d scheduled the house for inspection to determine whether it should be condemned, too. Which it would. The whole place was sagging.

  But that meant her father would never be able to go home.r />
  Faith came in, carrying a steaming cup of tea. She set it down beside Gloria’s hand and then plopped herself into the chair on the other side of the desk. Gloria had confided some of what was going on. She’d finally had to tell someone.

  “So, now what? We go over and enact a little Black Sect Tantric Buddhist Feng Shui on the place?”

  There it was. Faith’s daily recitation of the full, tongue twister of a name of the brand of feng shui she studied. She smiled out of habit. “I wish it were that simple.”

  “How bad can it be?”

  “A thousand times worse than you can possibly imagine.”

  “I bet it’s not that bad.”

  Gloria scrolled through the photos on her phone, found some of the best—or worst—of her dad’s yard and turned the phone around so Faith could see.

  “Holy shit,” Faith said, her voice low with awe. She leaned across the desk and took a sip of tea from the mug she’d given Gloria. “So, what are you going to do?”

  “I have no idea.” She shook her head. “I love my dad. I want to help. But this is a sickness and he needs professional help. I can’t pay for that sort of help and his teacher’s pension sure isn’t enough, either.”

  “Hmm.” Drumming her fingers on the desk, Faith considered her. “Speaking of money, did you see the contract that came in this morning?”

  “Which one?”

  Coming around to Gloria’s side of the desk, Faith slid the keyboard closer and tapped on the keys, opening up the office email and clicking on one that had come in early that morning. The subject line read, Montana Estate Sale, Stager Required.

  Gloria read through the email from a real estate agent in a place called Half Moon Creek, Montana. A large ranch was going on the market and needed an experienced stager to prepare it for sale. The email intimated that the client was hoping to attract a certain type of buyer and had been given Gloria’s name as a recommendation.

  “What the hell?” Gloria asked, clicking on the attached contract.

  “You know someone in Montana?” Faith asked.