Around noon, Nate leaned into my booth, and I flushed pink with embarrassment. I’d forgotten all about him in the morning rush, and we had a lunch date. “You still want to do lunch?” he asked.

  “Absolutely.” I handed a couple of jars of apricot jam to a woman in a Crested Butte T-shirt. “I won’t be done until two, though.”

  “No problem. I’ve got to run to the restaurant to help Bobby.” He handed me a paper cup with a wooden spoon. “Here’s something to tide you over.”

  I took a quick bite as the next customer placed a couple of jars of peach jam on the counter in front of me. “That’s really good. What is it?”

  He gave me a rueful smile. “It’s supposed to be chili, but maybe that’s not coming across.”

  I gave the customer her change, then took another bite. “Okay, now I see it. Texas style, right? No tomatoes. Really tasty.”

  “Thanks. Good on you for spotting it.” He checked his watch. “Now I’ve got to run. Don’t have lunch without me, okay?”

  “No, I won’t, I promise.” But by the time he was trotting down the path, I was selling jam and filling bowls and not thinking about lunch at all.

  By one, the crush had begun to die down a little. There was an arts fair in the park, and a lot of the market customers had strolled over there to grab lunch at the food stalls. I wondered if that was where Nate wanted to go for lunch. It was a pretty day, all blue skies and warm sun, the promise of green on the aspen twigs. Strolling through the park with him would be a pleasant way to spend the afternoon.

  Maybe more than pleasant. But I didn’t want to get ahead of myself. Right now Nate and I were friends. That was enough.

  Dolce helped me put the rest of the peach, apricot, and pepper peach jars onto the counter. If we sold out completely, I wouldn’t have much to pack for the drive home. As it turned out, I sold about half of what I had left, including a lot of pepper peach. But by two the crowds had thinned down to the occasional browser.

  “You need help loading your truck?” Dolce asked. She’d been casting longing glances toward the arts fair for the last hour or so, but she was conscientious.

  “That’s okay—I can manage on my own. Go have fun.” I counted out her salary for the day from the money I’d taken in, then zipped the rest into a wallet to keep in my purse until Monday when I’d take it all to the bank. From what I could tell, we’d made a lot of money, more than I’d anticipated when I’d worked out my income and cost estimates for the month.

  But that was one thing I didn’t mind being wrong about.

  I started to break down the booth, wrapping the pieces in the canvas tarp I used to keep them clean and dry. I had it almost loaded when I heard someone clear his throat behind me. I started, then spun around.

  Brett Holmes leaned against an aspen trunk, watching me. I had a feeling he’d been there for a while, which wasn’t reassuring. “Roxy Constantine. Just who I was looking for.”

  I straightened slowly, hoping Nate would hurry up so I wouldn’t have to be alone with him. “Hi, Brett.”

  “Heading to the farm?” He gave me one of those mocking smiles that made me shudder. He reminded me of schoolyard bullies from middle school who thought everything you did was dumb.

  “I’m done for the day, yeah.” And I had no desire to stay as long as he was there.

  “You might want to stick around.” He grinned again. “Let me take you out for a late lunch. Or an early dinner. With margaritas.”

  “I’m already booked for lunch. Sorry.” Thank God for Nate, although I really wished he’d get here.

  Brett’s smile disappeared. “Get out of it. You’re going to want to hear what I have to say. And I want time to discuss it with you.”

  “I don’t want to get out of it. What’s going on, Brett?” The whole mysterioso thing was getting to be a pain.

  He straightened, folding his arms across his chest. “I hear you want one of the slots on Sweet Thing when they come to Shavano. Is that right?”

  “I talked to Evelyn Davidson about it, yeah.”

  The mocking smile was back. “Oh, yeah, Evelyn Davidson. Good ol’ Ev.”

  “She’s the liaison with the production company,” I said through gritted teeth. “She’ll be making the decision about who gets in.”

  Brett shook his head. “Evelyn doesn’t have squat to do with who gets in. She just thinks she does. The advance guys with the production crew are the ones who’ll choose the restaurants that’ll participate.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “And you know this because?”

  “I know this because I know the guys who do the choosing. I’ve hung out with them. One of them emailed me last week to let me know he was coming to town. We made a date for him to grab dinner at High Country.”

  “Okay. Good for you. I guess you’ll show off your dessert cook at the restaurant.”

  He shrugged. “Maybe.” He took a couple of steps closer, close enough that I could smell the faint scent of beer. Apparently, he’d already started on lunch. “You’re missing the point, Roxy. I can put in a good word for you. I can get you on the show. They’ll listen to me.”

  I stared at him, my jaw tightening. I was pretty sure there was a quid coming in exchange for that quo.

  “Come have lunch with me. We’ll have a few drinks. We’ll talk. I can tell you all you need to know.” He placed his hand on my shoulder, running it down my arm to hold my hand. “All you need, believe me.”

  That time I did shudder, pulling my hand away from his. “Like I said, I’ve already got lunch plans today. And I need to be at the farm for dinner.” And I wouldn’t have a meal with you if I was starving, let alone go drinking.

  He scowled, his lips drawing down. “Come on, Roxy. Don’t be a bitch. I’m offering you something you need. You get the publicity. We get to be…closer. No big deal. You might even like it. We both win.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm down. “If you recommend my jams to the production staff, I’ll be grateful. But I won’t go out with you, and I won’t have sex with you. I don’t like being blackmailed. That’s all I have to say about this.”

  I was surprised to find my hands were steady. The last time Brett had tried to pressure me into sex, I’d had a near meltdown. This time around I mostly felt pissed. I started to turn away when Brett grabbed me again, a lot harder this time, his fingers digging into my shoulders.

  His face was flushed, and he was baring his teeth in a grimace. I realized I’d never seen him angry before, just sneering.

  “Listen, bitch,” he snarled, “you don’t turn your back on me. Not when I’m doing you a favor. You want on that show, you play ball. Otherwise, you’re done. I’ll make sure of it. You’re not only out of the show, I’ll make sure you’re finished in Shavano.” He gave me a quick shake. “You understand me?”

  I’m a big woman, but I’m not that good at self-defense when there’s no can of tomatoes handy. I put my hands on his chest and shoved as hard as I could, which had no effect at all. “Let go of me. Now.”

  Brett hung on, shaking me again. “Don’t push me, Roxy. You won’t like it.”

  And then he was stumbling backward, away from me, going down on one knee as he lost his footing on the gravel.

  Nate stood in front of me. “What the hell are you doing? Get your hands off her, asshole. Didn’t you hear what she said?”

  Brett staggered to his feet, snarling. “Who the fuck are you, Captain America? Get out of my way.”

  Nate shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. You okay, Roxy?”

  I managed to nod, caught between gratitude for his being there and anger at myself for not having taken care of Brett on my own.

  He looked at Brett again. “It’s time for you to move on. Unless you want a lot more trouble than you’ve already got.” He gestured toward the path behind Brett where several booths were still up. Bianca Jordan had walked several feet toward us, frowning. Annabelle Dorsey was leaning out of her booth. Dorothy stood behind her, eyes wide. And Harry Potter, bless his soul, was trotting our way, rolling up his sleeves, eyebrows bristling.

  The fact that they were all coming to my rescue because they were worried about me almost brought tears to my eyes, but my main concern right then was Brett Holmes and what would happen next if he decided to make some kind of idiotic move.

  He straightened, breathing hard, then fixed me with what was probably supposed to be a menacing stare. “You made your choice, Roxy. Just remember that. You decided to go this way.” Then he turned and stalked off, heading toward the parking lot.

  I noticed that he very carefully didn’t walk near Harry.

  Harry himself came to my side, brow furrowing. “You okay, Roxy?”

  “Yeah. Thanks for asking, Harry. And thanks for coming up here.”

  He glanced at Nate, as if weighing whether he needed to step in on that front, too. But he must have decided he didn’t. “Okay, then.” He turned toward Dirty Pete’s.

  Nate stared after Brett. “Who was that guy? What was he doing here?”

  “Brett Holmes.” I sighed, not entirely sure how to explain all of this. “He’s the chef at High Country, and he’s been after me to go out with him. I don’t want to. He isn’t taking it well.”

  Nate glanced at me, brow still furrowed. “Yeah, I got that. You want to report him to the cops? You probably should.”

  I shook my head. “I just want this to be over. I don’t want to think about it anymore.” I took a breath, re-centering myself. It was still a beautiful afternoon, and we still had a lunch date. “Do you want to get some lunch at the arts fair? The food stalls are open.”

  He paused for a moment, studying the crowds flowing around the artists’ booths at the fair, then shook his head. “I’d like to cook lunch for you if you’ll let me.”

  “Cook lunch?” A dim alarm bell began ringing in my brain. Brett had wanted to cook for me. Only cook had meant a lot more. Was Nate thinking along the same lines? Cooking lunch in his apartment? “Whereabouts?”

  He shrugged. “How about Robicheaux’s? The kitchen’s roomier than mine, and I need some of the equipment we’ve got. They were just finishing up with service when I left, so we should be able to find a table that’s free.”

  He flashed a quick grin, and I relaxed a little. It didn’t sound like a set-up. And it went without saying that Nate wasn’t Brett. “Okay. That sounds good.”

  Actually, now that I had a chance to think, it sounded terrific. I was more than ready to get away from the farmers market area and the lingering memory of Brett Holmes and his threats.

  “Let’s do it, then.” Nate gathered up the last of my booth and loaded it into my truck.

  I pulled down the cover and locked it in place. “You want a lift?”

  He shook his head. “It’s an easy walk from here, if you don’t mind carrying a couple of totes.” He gestured toward a small pile of tote bags he’d dropped when he’d come to rescue me from Brett.

  I raised my eyebrows. “Is all of that for lunch?”

  “A lot of it.” He gathered a couple of bags, handing me a third. “I go a little nuts at farmers markets. It’s the only chance I get to cook something out of the ordinary.”

  “You realize, I’m now expecting a lot from lunch.” I took the tote bag, which was surprisingly light considering how much seemed to be stuffed inside it.

  He grinned. “I’m expecting quite a bit myself.” He turned toward Second Street, a.k.a. Restaurant Row in Shavano.

  But as I followed him down the path, I found myself wondering again: why was a chef from Las Vegas flipping burgers at a diner in Shavano, Colorado?

  Still, considering that he was ready to cook me a custom lunch, I figured that was a question for some other time.

  Chapter 8

  Lunch at Robicheaux’s was terrific, although probably not what Nate had planned originally. I helped him fix soup with some fresh sorrel from the market. He’d grabbed a loaf of bread from Blanca Jordan that was close to fresh out of the oven.

  Nate’s older brother Bobby was doing prep work in the kitchen when we got there. He didn’t seem delighted that we were cooking on his stove, but other than a few grunts he didn’t say much. Nate’s sister Coco stayed to kibitz, and his mom joined us after she’d closed down the restaurant. Nate might have thought he was just going to be feeding me, but it was clear his mom and sister expected a bowl of soup, too.

  His brother, on the other hand, didn’t even look up when we carried everything out to the dining room.

  We had a great time sharing restaurant gossip and critiquing the sorrel soup. Madge wanted to put it on the menu, but Nate didn’t think it would scale. Coco said they should start a farmers market special as long as the market was running, and Madge agreed. That led to discussions of what was available—mainly arugula and spinach—which naturally led to Madge asking about Uncle Mike’s crop.

  I promised I’d talk to him about becoming their arugula supplier, and Coco seemed delighted.

  Of course they’d still have to convince Bobby, but it would three against one—and my money was on the three.

  After we finished eating, I helped Nate clean up, carrying the plates to the dishwasher as we talked about the possibilities for the market specials, depending on what was available.

  “I’ll find out how much arugula Coco thinks we’d need for a salad. Then I can talk to your uncle.” Nate followed me to the kitchen, holding the door to let me walk through.

  The room was dark and empty. It looked like all the other Robicheaux family members had taken off. I put the soup bowls on the counter, then turned toward the door. Nate stood beside me, so close I could feel the warmth of his skin.

  For a moment, I had the feeling he might kiss me. What would I do if he did? Punch him? Yell for help?

  Enjoy it?

  I didn’t know. But the fact that I might actually enjoy being kissed by Nate Robicheaux counted as a revelation in my book.

  Which meant it was time to move on before things got more complicated.

  I turned toward the door. “Thanks for lunch, Nate. It was delicious. Let me know when you want to come out to the farm for the arugula.”

  I stepped forward, then turned for a last look.

  Nate stayed where he was, watching me. “Yeah. I’ll do that. See you next week. Have a good one, Roxy.”

  I walked outside, trying to decide if I was relieved or disappointed that he hadn’t followed me. I hiked up Second Street toward River Park, planning out the rest of the afternoon. I had enough time to check out the strawberries that had been picked today before I started getting dinner ready. Meatloaf sounded good.

  I rounded the last curve in the path, heading toward the parking lot. And stopped cold.

  My truck, which had previously been cleanish if not immaculate, was now caked in mud. It looked like someone had taken handfuls from the nearby riverbank and thrown it full force at the truck’s sides. There were clumps on the doors, the windows, the fenders, and all along the locking cover over the back. If it hadn’t been for the cover, the booth I’d left in the truck bed would have been splattered, too. I didn’t want to think about how hard that would have been to clean up.

  But the pièce de résistance was the word smeared across the windshield: slut. Done in shades of grayish black. My stomach clenched tight as I stared, and my mind tried to make sense of what I was seeing.

  Who? Who did this? The words kept echoing through my mind. Did people in town really think I was a slut? What had I done to make them think that?

  Nothing. I took a deep breath, pulling myself together. This hadn’t been done by the citizens of Shavano, who probably had no particular opinions about my sex life, given that I didn’t have one. This was done by somebody with a grudge. And the most obvious person in that category was Brett Holmes.

  Most likely Brett had decided to take out his frustration on my blameless truck, maybe after a couple more beers and time to let his anger simmer for a while, since that seemed to be his Saturday routine. It was kind of an immature thing to do, but Brett didn’t strike me as the mature type.

  The other question I had to consider—besides the who and why—was what to do now. Did I confront Brett? Call him out? Turn him in to the cops? That last possibility sounded satisfying. I could picture Chief Fowler giving Brett the same cold stare he’d given me. Maybe it would be enough to make him sweat.

  But what would I tell the chief if I tried to turn Brett in? That we’d had a fight and he seemed like the logical person to have vandalized my truck? Brett would probably say I was just a crazy broad trying to get him in trouble.

  If I went after Brett, he’d likely return the favor, maybe even passing on some rumors about my time in Denver. And then I’d be right where I’d been when I left, trying to counter sleaze spread by a scumbag.

  I checked around the parking lot, looking for anyone who might have seen what happened. I’d parked the truck at the far side of the lot, leaving room for customers as the market management asked us to do. I wasn’t close to any of the places people normally congregated. I didn’t see anybody around now, although that didn’t mean they hadn’t been there earlier.

  I decided I’d ask the people who’d still been at the market when I’d left with Nate—Bianca, Annabelle and Dorothy, and maybe Harry, although I thought he’d gone back to Dirty Pete’s after my argument with Brett was over. If any of them had seen something, I’d go to the cops. But if I couldn’t find anyone who’d been around when it happened, I’d just let it go.

  Letting it go had a lot of appeal right then. I wouldn’t have to explain my life to anyone. I dug out my cell phone and took a series of pictures, careful to get all the angles. I didn’t think the truck had been damaged, but I still wanted the evidence, just in case. Then I threw my cell phone back in my purse and grabbed a water bottle from behind the driver’s seat. I needed to get the truck washed, but first I had to see to drive.

  Plus I didn’t want to maneuver around town with slut smeared across my windshield.

  It took a lot of river water, but I finally had the windshield clean enough to drive to the nearest car wash. The guy in the next bay frowned when he saw me. “Been up in the back country?” he asked.