Meg moved down the counter and dispersed coffee. The slender man on the last stool put his hand over his cup. “Thanks, Margaret, but I’ve had enough. Should be getting home, I guess.”
“Okay.” She paused in front of Mr. Ferguson, her former algebra teacher, who’d long since retired, and set his check on the counter. “How’s Janet? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
“She’s been busy getting ready for the quilt show. She’s been in her sewing room for weeks.” He smiled the indulgent smile of a man who loves his wife. “She says it’s going to be quite a show.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Meg said, knowing the annual event would give business a boost. “I bought an ad in the program. It’s on Saturday, right?”
“Yes.” He frowned, trying to remember. “Sunday, too, I think.”
“I hope I can get over there to see it.” She’d have to remember to ask one of the high school girls to fill in for her for a couple of hours after the noon rush. The quilt guild would be selling coffee and desserts during the show at the senior center, but Meg hoped a soup-and-sandwich special at the café would bring in a little extra business.
“What are they doing over there?” Fargus gestured toward members of the town council huddled around a large table at the far end of the room.
“Planning to raise taxes, I’ll bet,” George grumbled. “I’m getting damn tired of taxes.”
“You could move to Florida,” Martin said. Meg hid her smile. George, a creature of habit who had been born in Willing, didn’t even like going to Billings.
“There’s something going on,” Fargus declared. “We’ll hear about it soon enough. Jerry’s got some idea. I can tell by the look on his face.”
They all stared down at the far end of the room. Sure enough, the mayor seemed excited as one of the town elders read aloud from a sheet of paper.
“If they’re raising taxes, then they’re trying to figure out how to get blood from a stone,” George grumbled. “I’ve half a mind to go over there and tell them so.”
Fargus snorted. “Like that would do any good.”
“Maybe I should get on the town council,” Joey mused. “Women like men with power, right?”
Meg noticed John Ferguson and Martin Smith exchanging an amused look before John grabbed his cap and stood to leave.
“Thanks for breakfast, Margaret.” He set six dollars by the empty coffee mug. “Guess I’ll get home before the snow starts for real.” He turned as the door jangled to announce another customer.
And it wasn’t just any customer, either, because the sight of this one made Meg’s stomach tense and her mouth go dry.
Owen MacGregor, master of all he surveyed, was a tall, imposing man. A down vest, unzipped, covered most of his wide chest, and he wore the typical Montana outfit: jeans, boots and plaid shirt. He politely stomped his feet on the worn doormat and removed his hat, but before he could move toward a seat, a white-haired man called his name. Meg watched as he greeted the Burkharts, an elderly couple in the process of holding each other up as they made their way across the room. Owen MacGregor played the gentleman and opened the door for them, allowing another burst of cold air in. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was the best thing to ever walk into the room. Even Mr. Ferguson looked pleased as the two men talked for a minute before the teacher disappeared out into the cold.
“Well, this is a surprise,” Martin declared quietly to his cronies at the counter. “Didn’t think he remembered where he came from.”
“With Eddie dead and gone, I don’t think there’s anyone to run things,” George said. “Guess that forced his hand.”
“Irene’s in a nursing home in Great Falls now,” one of the other men informed them. “I heard she gets confused easily. My daughter-in-law works there, says the boy visits her every week.”
Yes, Meg thought. He was always a devoted son. She’d assumed the old witch would live forever, queen of all she surveyed. She couldn’t picture the regal Mrs. MacGregor incapacitated in any way. The last time Meg had seen her was after the funeral, and the widow hadn’t let Meg in the house. Still, it was sad to think of Irene MacGregor in a nursing home.
She watched Owen slide into an empty booth and shrug off his jacket. He set his gloves on the table and picked up a menu. Which meant she was supposed to scurry over there with coffee and take his order, just as if they barely knew each other?
This was true, actually. He was a stranger now, far different from the young man who’d told her he loved her and given her his grandmother’s sapphire ring.
Meg still remembered the day she heard he’d left town. She’d cried in her mother’s arms for hours.
“You’d better get on over there,” one of the men said. “MacGregor doesn’t spend much time in town, so this is a special occasion.”
“You’re right.” She managed a cheerful smile. “And I need all the customers I can get.”
Well, she could handle it. No problem. She’d give him a minute to read the menu, and then she would saunter over and pretend they were friends.
This morning Owen MacGregor looked a little the worse for wear. Oh, he was still handsome, with that lean, lined face and thick, dark hair. She knew he wore contacts, hated shrimp and had named his first horse Pumpkin, much to his father’s dismay. He was secretly afraid of heights, crazy about animals and had broken his nose twice in one summer, causing his mother to faint both times.
At the moment he and his nicely healed nose were absorbed in the menu.
“Hey,” she said, approaching the table with a carafe of coffee.
“Hey.” He tipped his mug right side up and Meg filled it for him. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. What can I get you?” She used her best cheerful-friendly-waitress voice, as if he was a tourist she’d never seen before. He frowned just a little.
“It all looks good,” he said, copying her tone. “How about the Hungry Man Special, with scrambled eggs and bacon? And with an extra side of bacon to go, please.”
“Sure.” This wasn’t so hard. She could do this. Meg didn’t write down the order for fear her fingers would shake. Silly, but she had her pride.
“So how’ve you been?” He took a cautious sip of coffee and looked at her with real interest. As if he actually wanted to know the answer.
“Just fine. And you?”
“I’m good.” He kept looking at her, studying her face until, still gripping the handle of the carafe, she backed up a step. She was conscious of how she must appear to him, dowdy Margaret Ripley in her apron, worn jeans and thick athletic shoes. “Well, I’ll go put your order in.”
“Thanks.”
With that she turned and headed toward the kitchen. She returned the carafe to the coffee machine, wrote up the order before handing it to Al and, on the pretense of checking supplies, escaped to the back room. There wasn’t much privacy in either the town or the restaurant, but there was a tiny alcove behind the walk-in freezer that provided the perfect place to hide for a few minutes. Meg leaned against the gray wall, took a deep breath and eyed the calendar tacked to the wall. October was here already, with a long winter ahead.
She should be over it. She was over it. She was a grown woman, capable of running a business and running her life. She had friends. And a home. She dated when she wanted to, though she seldom wanted to, and rarely ever thought of the eighteen-year-old girl who had fallen foolishly in love with a young man she could never have. His presence here couldn’t upset her if she didn’t allow it to, but she hoped he wouldn’t make breakfast at Willing’s a habit. They’d each