Needing space, Josh went to the barn, saddled Lightfoot and rode toward the north section of the ranch.
His frustration doubled when he saw slack wire on a fence. One of the ranch hands should have found the problem and taken care of it, but they were confused about whose orders to follow, who was doing what and when to do it. And they were also shorthanded since several men had quit, telling Josh that they’d return once Walt was out of the picture. Between the two problems, things were getting missed.
Taking the tools from his saddlebag, Josh began repairing the fence. Grappling with wire was preferable to the tug-of-war he was having with his grandfather. He would have used his trust fund to buy a different ranch years ago if he’d known everything would turn out this way. Now he was stuck—Walt couldn’t handle the Boxing N alone, and Josh couldn’t abandon the old guy, no matter how crazy the situation made him.
Distracted, Josh felt his hand slip. The wire cutters slashed across his palm and blood immediately welled from the ragged slice.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
* * *
TARA WALKED DOWN the street, following the directions to the clinic that Lauren had given her. It was almost surreal to see so many people dressed in jeans, boots and cowboy hats, as if she’d walked onto the set of a Hollywood Western.
Just three days before she’d been at the Chartres cathedral, brushing shoulders with visitors from around the world. It had been a farewell trip to one of her favorite French landmarks since she didn’t know how soon she’d be back. Now she was living in the land of cowboys and hitching posts. She only knew they were hitching posts because she saw a horse tied to one.
Stopping in front of the Schuyler Medical Clinic—a modest title since apparently it covered a vast array of services—Tara straightened her shoulders. The drive from Helena with her sister had been filled with awkward silences and even more awkward bursts of conversation. Still, it was too early to draw any conclusions about how well they would get along.
It didn’t help that she wasn’t good at relationships in the first place. Her most serious boyfriend, Pierre Montrose, had made her failures in that area abundantly clear.
Pushing the memory away, she entered the clinic.
The receptionist’s eyes widened. “You must be Tara. The two of you really do look alike.”
Tara tried to smile. She would probably hear that often while she was in town.
The other woman looked at the clock. “Lauren should be ready soon.”
“Thanks.”
Lauren was a physician’s assistant and had moved to Schuyler the previous year. She’d come for a friend’s wedding and had immediately decided the small town suited her much better than Los Angeles. It wouldn’t have been Tara’s choice, but to each their own, she supposed.
As she perused a rack of magazines, the outer door opened. A man stomped inside, his left arm wrapped in a bloodstained towel. He was attractive, with dark brown hair and intense blue eyes, but his face was flushed and scowling.
“Good, you’re here,” he said, thrusting his injured limb at her. “I need this stitched up, and please skip the lectures.”
Tara raised her eyebrows. “I’m afraid you—”
“Give me a break, Lauren. Just do it without one of your speeches.”
His manner was startlingly abrupt...surely all Montanans weren’t this rude.
“I was trying to explain that you’ve mistaken me for my twin sister, Lauren,” Tara said, keeping her tone as even as possible. It wasn’t easy. She’d never had a cat, but she knew it annoyed them if you rubbed their fur backward, and that’s how she felt...as if she’d literally been rubbed the wrong way.
“What the hell?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“I’d like to point something out, however,” she added smoothly. “Declaring you don’t want a lecture suggests you may need one.”
“You’ve got one hell of a nerve saying that,” he snapped.
“Didn’t I get it right?” she asked. “Tell me what happened and I’ll try to tailor my lecture.”
“Hell.”
“You seem to have a limited vocabulary. That was your third ‘hell’ in less than a minute.”
He glared and turned to the receptionist. “Is Lauren available?”
“I’ve already paged her, Josh. She’ll be out in a minute. Has the bleeding stopped?”
“Mostly.”
A minute later Lauren hurried into the waiting room and checked Josh’s wound. She looked at Tara apologetically. “I need to take care of this,” she said. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to stay.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m happy to wait while you deal with the results of someone’s stupidity.”
Lauren’s eyes widened, but she simply gestured to her bad-tempered patient, who followed her into the rear of the clinic with a last fierce look at Tara.
The receptionist chuckled once the door had closed behind them. “Oh, my gosh, Lauren said you had opposite personalities, and now I see what she meant.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. She’s a terrific PA and very sweet, but she would never stick it to Josh the way you did. Good job.”
“Thanks. Is he always like Napoleon with a headache?” Tara asked, using one of her French coworker’s similes.
“Lately, at least. He’s getting on everyone’s nerves and keeps—”
The woman stopped abruptly and looked down at the papers on her desk; perhaps she’d been about to say something prohibited under privacy regulations. She seemed relieved when someone else came through the door and stepped up to the window. A protracted discussion about insurance ensued, so Tara settled into a seat and leafed through a news magazine. She read with interest an article on international relations with France. The thought of returning to Paris for her next contract was compelling, but there were so many other places to see. Rome and Berlin called to her as well, along with Madrid.
In the background, she heard a comment about something Josh needed and pictured his face again. Maybe she shouldn’t have sounded off since the clinic was Lauren’s place of employment. But who did he think he was? Lauren was a professional, not a flunky who was supposed to jump when he snapped his fingers.
As for lectures... Weren’t medical personnel supposed to advise their patients on healthy living?
She was on her third magazine when the interior door swung open.
It was Josh...What’s His Name. While his hand was neatly bandaged and elevated in a sling, getting it treated obviously hadn’t sweetened his mood. The thunderclouds on his face did nothing to diminish his good looks, but Tara wasn’t impressed—she’d known too many handsome jerks over the years. He glanced at her, and she gave him a wickedly sweet smile, which made him glower all the more fiercely before marching from the clinic.
Lauren joined her several minutes later.
“I’m free now,” she said. “But I’m afraid that took part of my lunch hour.”
“That’s okay. Where shall we go?”
“How about the restaurant down the street? It isn’t gourmet, nothing like the places where we ate in Paris. Schuyler doesn’t have any fancy restaurants, but the Roundup Café is fast and clean.”
“Not a problem. I enjoy indigenous foods.”
Lauren