Page 25 of Shephard

“Very funny. Let me guess what you do for a living. You cut up victims for really bad men.”

“The trouble with that scenario is that I’m the really bad man. Be careful, little girl. I do bite.”

He wasn’t in the mood for further bantering, grabbing the very rope I’d attempted to snag and walking off. Normally, I would have chased after him, demanding he give it up, but I was stymied. That was the strangest feeling of all. I was never speechless no matter the circumstances.

“Wow,” I heard a couple of women whisper.

Wow indeed. I had an enemy that I’d fucked. And he was here in town.

Awesome.

I slowly turned my head, watching him taking long yet slow strides down the aisle and sighed. A bad man, huh? Well, he’d come to the wrong town. Little did he know I ate them for breakfast.

With joy.

CHAPTER 8

Shephard

Beautiful.

Sinful.

Infuriating.

I could think of other words to describe the feisty chick who’d all but accosted me in the hardware store. However, I’d enjoyed our encounter a little too much. That’s one reason I hated being out in public, but it was necessary. While I was here enduring what I called my prison term, at least I could enjoy some of what the tiny town had to offer.

Or I could hogtie assholes who pissed me off. The jury was still out.

With her, I wouldn’t mind tying her to my bed. My balls tightened from the thought.

Enough of craving something I couldn’t have. It was time to face the music, as my father would say.

I parked the truck in the employee parking area of the resort, which was designated nicely. I’d driven around the entire resort, more impressed with the setting and the condition of the buildings than I’d thought I’d be.

While I understood from my mother, who’d called twice, that my brothers were also back in town, I’d yet to catch sight of them. I had no idea of their itinerary and that was fine by me. Today was about getting a lay of the land and nothing more.

Tomorrow would need to be business as usual.

Whatever the fuck that meant.

There were at least a dozen good qualities about the Foxhead Winery and Resort, the winery considered a star player given its success, but the most impressing to me was the setting.

And the view.

The resort was perched on a lower part of one of the mountain ranges, the view of the valley below spectacular. There was a very active river that ran through one of the hiking areas, picnic tables and pavilions in perfect positions. There was even a trellis and gazebo with a nearly perfect lawn, which I was certain was used for weddings. With the two ballrooms and the chefs hired to provide incredible food, the resort could be considered a destination point.

There was also a stunning lake on the property, at least according to the plans. Between the rough river and the lake, summer tourists could be equally thrilled as were those coming here to ski and enjoy the four huge hot tubs in the winter months.

The brochure was vivid in color, the photographer having done an amazing job. It had to have cost a significant amount of money. At least the financials reflected the money spent on marketing.

Yet something nagged at me. An underlying feeling my father was hiding something. There was no outward reason for my thoughts, but I’d had them since I was a teenager.

Our world in Montana had been a cautious one, something most people wouldn’t have noticed. I’d always had a feeling we weren’t who I was told we were.

Maybe I was nuts, but the nagging had increased after agreeing to this charade.

While I had a feeling the cat was out of the bag regarding my father’s decision, today I would do nothing but walk around the entire interior. I didn’t write notes. I didn’t need to. I had a photographic memory.