Read Online Montana Darling (Big Sky Mavericks Book 3) by Debra Salonen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Debra Salonen
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growing and, frankly, I’m delighted to see such a reputable family step into the market.”
He seemed sincere. They both stood and shook hands.
As she turned to leave, she paused and asked, “My ability to read people has become a little skewed lately. Give me your gut feeling. Is Ryker Bensen legit?”
He grabbed his tablet off his desk and touched the screen before handing it to her. “I did a cursory search on the Internet right after he called me.” He looked over the top of the tablet and pointed. “The guy won a Pulitzer a few years back. I don’t know how he wound up in a tent in Marietta, but he’s definitely who he says he is.”
*
As he stood in the warm autumn sunlight on the sidewalk outside Ren’s law office, Ryker leaned against the brick wall and inhaled deeply.
He loved the air in Marietta. It felt fresher, more invigorating than any place he’d ever lived. Pittsburgh was a great hometown, but the exhaust from cars and industry was nobody’s dream air. The French countryside was postcard beautiful, but he’d actually come down with his first case of seasonal allergies while living there. Africa was…well, it depended on whether or not he was close to a war zone. When he’d been tracking down the perfect shot of Zambia’s black-cheeked lovebirds or doing his best to stay out of the way of wild dogs, he’d never been conscious of the air he’d breathed. But when he started peddling his bike around Montana, he began to appreciate the size and scope of this place they called Big Sky Country.
He removed his lens cap and lifted his treasured Nikon to his eye. To his right loomed Copper Mountain, an ancient wizard trapped beneath tons of granite, his pointy hat showing the first signs of winter’s approach.
Ryker smiled at his musings. Being alone for so long had opened the door to some dormant writer in him. He didn’t kid himself that his story of a mountain wizard was any good, but it flowed from pen to paper, taking shape, the way an image had in the old days when he worked in a darkroom with chemicals and negatives.
He’d even considered sending the rough drafts along with the photos he’d taken of the mountain to an editor who had been courting him to put together a coffee table photo-essay book on the romance of France. “You and Colette are living the modern fairytale. Add the glory of your photos and we’ll sell a million.”
The book idea died with Colette, of course. Romance readers wanted happy endings, not tragedies.
Ryker tilted his head, studying the mountain. “Too bad I don’t know your name, old man.”
“Pardon?”
He’d been so lost in his musings he’d missed the sound of Mia’s approach. A heated blush swept through him. “Creative license. My excuse any time someone catches me mumbling to myself or vocally debating a certain setting with my camera.” He quickly lifted said camera to his eye, framed a close up of Mia Zabrinski’s quizzical expression and snapped the shot.
Her brows snapped together into a stern look—that also deserved space on his memory chip. “Stop that. I’m not photogenic.”
He replaced the lens cap. “I disagree. Could I buy you a cup of coffee?” He pictured his mostly empty wallet. “Let me rephrase that…could you buy me a cup of coffee?”
“Seriously?”
Her suspicious tone made him want to pull her into a big ol’ hug just to reassure her that not all people were out to get her. Instead, he gave her an excuse she could appreciate. “Very. My stepfather raided my trust fund. I have no money.”
Her lips parted as she sucked in a surprised gasp. “When I saw your camping equipment and high-end bike this morning, I should have known you weren’t an eco-squatter.”
“An eco-squatter? Did you make that up?”
“Maybe. Are you really broke?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t last week. But according to my online banking statement, I am today.” He pulled out his billfold. “I still have a couple of twenties
He seemed sincere. They both stood and shook hands.
As she turned to leave, she paused and asked, “My ability to read people has become a little skewed lately. Give me your gut feeling. Is Ryker Bensen legit?”
He grabbed his tablet off his desk and touched the screen before handing it to her. “I did a cursory search on the Internet right after he called me.” He looked over the top of the tablet and pointed. “The guy won a Pulitzer a few years back. I don’t know how he wound up in a tent in Marietta, but he’s definitely who he says he is.”
*
As he stood in the warm autumn sunlight on the sidewalk outside Ren’s law office, Ryker leaned against the brick wall and inhaled deeply.
He loved the air in Marietta. It felt fresher, more invigorating than any place he’d ever lived. Pittsburgh was a great hometown, but the exhaust from cars and industry was nobody’s dream air. The French countryside was postcard beautiful, but he’d actually come down with his first case of seasonal allergies while living there. Africa was…well, it depended on whether or not he was close to a war zone. When he’d been tracking down the perfect shot of Zambia’s black-cheeked lovebirds or doing his best to stay out of the way of wild dogs, he’d never been conscious of the air he’d breathed. But when he started peddling his bike around Montana, he began to appreciate the size and scope of this place they called Big Sky Country.
He removed his lens cap and lifted his treasured Nikon to his eye. To his right loomed Copper Mountain, an ancient wizard trapped beneath tons of granite, his pointy hat showing the first signs of winter’s approach.
Ryker smiled at his musings. Being alone for so long had opened the door to some dormant writer in him. He didn’t kid himself that his story of a mountain wizard was any good, but it flowed from pen to paper, taking shape, the way an image had in the old days when he worked in a darkroom with chemicals and negatives.
He’d even considered sending the rough drafts along with the photos he’d taken of the mountain to an editor who had been courting him to put together a coffee table photo-essay book on the romance of France. “You and Colette are living the modern fairytale. Add the glory of your photos and we’ll sell a million.”
The book idea died with Colette, of course. Romance readers wanted happy endings, not tragedies.
Ryker tilted his head, studying the mountain. “Too bad I don’t know your name, old man.”
“Pardon?”
He’d been so lost in his musings he’d missed the sound of Mia’s approach. A heated blush swept through him. “Creative license. My excuse any time someone catches me mumbling to myself or vocally debating a certain setting with my camera.” He quickly lifted said camera to his eye, framed a close up of Mia Zabrinski’s quizzical expression and snapped the shot.
Her brows snapped together into a stern look—that also deserved space on his memory chip. “Stop that. I’m not photogenic.”
He replaced the lens cap. “I disagree. Could I buy you a cup of coffee?” He pictured his mostly empty wallet. “Let me rephrase that…could you buy me a cup of coffee?”
“Seriously?”
Her suspicious tone made him want to pull her into a big ol’ hug just to reassure her that not all people were out to get her. Instead, he gave her an excuse she could appreciate. “Very. My stepfather raided my trust fund. I have no money.”
Her lips parted as she sucked in a surprised gasp. “When I saw your camping equipment and high-end bike this morning, I should have known you weren’t an eco-squatter.”
“An eco-squatter? Did you make that up?”
“Maybe. Are you really broke?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t last week. But according to my online banking statement, I am today.” He pulled out his billfold. “I still have a couple of twenties
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