Sage Creek by Jill Gregory

simply could do no better in that particular subject, but he growled like a grizzly if she didn’t ace every other course.
    She leaned her forehead against the Blazer’s steering wheel as she realized that now the conversation she’d overheard while on the porch swing made sense.
    It was him . Pressuring her mother to tell her about their—what was it? A relationship? An affair? The very idea made her queasy. But her mother had kept silent. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to tell Sophie what was going on.
    And why was that?
    Because she knew I’d want to barf, Sophie thought. Or else, she has her own doubts about him.
    Diana McPhee was a smart woman. She’d already lived with one difficult man. What could she possibly see in a stern, gloomy geometry teacher who’d serially threatened to flunk her own daughter?
    Switching off the ignition, Sophie stared blindly out at the star-studded vastness of the Montana sky.
    Gran knew Mom was dating Mr. Hartigan. Did everyone else in town know too?
    Everyone except her?
    She slammed the door of the Blazer and headed toward the Double Cross with long, quick, angry strides.

    Rafe lined up his cue stick and considered his angle shot.
    He ignored his cousin Decker’s open skepticism that he’d make the difficult shot, and focused on the eight ball and the invisible line he saw in his head, the one going straight into the pocket.
    Eyes narrowed, he leaned in, took the shot. The eight ball glided across the table and sank. Smooth as wind on water.
    “Damn it. That makes three in a row. Man, are you having a helluva night.” Decker tossed back a swig of beer. “I need a break. Let’s grab some food.”
    “You always were a sore loser.” Rafe grinned as he handed off his cue to a short guy in a checked shirt waiting for a turn at the table.
    The Double Cross Bar and Grill was crowded tonight, its low-lit, cavernous space and long curving mahogany bar teeming with people and noise. A few dozen tourists were mixed in with the locals, enjoying the chance to rub elbows with real Montana cowboys.
    Laughter, conversation, and heated discussions simmered in nearly every corner. Waitresses in tight red shirts, jeans, and high-heeled red cowboy boots raced back and forth with trays loaded with rib eye steaks, burgers, pizzas, and drink refills as Martina McBride’s “This One’s for the Girls” blared and couples danced, arms wrapped around each other as they gyrated their way around the square wooden dance floor.
    As Rafe and Decker worked their way toward the dark booths in the rear, he noticed a commotion at the table closest to the double doors.
    Some ranch hands were engaged in a heated argument. He recognized the lean man with dishwater blond hair who seemed to be at the center of the shouting match.
    Buck Crenshaw.
    It figures, Rafe thought, his eyes narrowing on the cowboy. He’d hired Crenshaw part-time a year ago to fill in for a few weeks when Rowdy Jones, one of his wranglers, had been laid up with pneumonia. He’d needed an extra pair of hands, and Crenshaw, new to town, had been looking for work.
    But Rafe had fired him less than a week later. It hadn’t taken long to see that Buck Crenshaw was no good with horses. In Rafe’s estimation he was probably no good period. He was rough and abrupt, always in a hurry—just his scent spooked the horses—the dogs too. Rafe had picked up on that right away.
    Crenshaw had been careless as well. The last straw came when Rafe made his rounds and checked the barns one snowy December night to find Crenshaw had failed to repair a loose floorboard in one of the barns and had left a push broom lying across the aisle of another. Keeping the aisles free of clutter and all repairs in order were cardinal rules for horse-barn safety. He’d had no choice but to fire the man when he showed up for work the next morning.
    Since then, Crenshaw had worked for two other outfits that Rafe knew of. Neither job had lasted more than a few