There weren’t cameras out here. Only the mountains kept watch. Anyone could have come out and hacked away at the stage without being caught. I pulled my phone out of my backpocket. My finger hovered over Levi’s name. The right thing to do would be to report this. The committee had a right to know someone was plotting against them.
Hell. They’d probably think I’d been the one to sabotage the site. I pocketed the phone and rolled my shoulders.
Rather than give them any more ammunition against me, I headed back to my truck. Screw it. If this festival fell apart, it wouldn’t be because I stood by and let it. I knew how to swing a hammer. I knew how to fix things. And I was damn tired of being the guy everyone expected to cut and run.
I grabbed a pry bar and started pulling up the worst of the broken boards. Sweat dripped down my spine, but I didn’t stop. Couldn’t.
Let Peyton Winslow think whatever the hell she wanted.
I wasn’t leaving this time.
CHAPTER 2
PEYTON
If one more vendor texted meabout folding tables, I was going to scream. With only a couple of weeks until the Founders Day Festival, I was working around the clock to try to make it the biggest and best event Mustang Mountain had ever seen. Vendors had turned in their requirements over a month ago but everyone seemed to have a last-minute request to add another table, extra chairs, or in some cases, a whole other booth.
I tossed my phone on the passenger seat and stared out the windshield at the open house I was hosting this afternoon. If one more thing went wrong today, I might lose my tenuous grip on the tiny bit of self control I’d been clinging to for the past few days.
It was bad enough I’d been “voluntold” to chair the Founders Festival when I’d only offered to help out if needed. Then, Huck Barrett walked through the door last night like a ghost from a past I’d worked damn hard to forget. I didn’t think I’d ever see him again, especially in Mustang Mountain, standing in front of me, holding a crumpled folder and looking like trouble wrapped in sawdust and swagger.
Though I hated to admit it, he was still so hot it hurt just to look at him. Those dark eyes of his got to me, a midnight bluethat seemed to shift from almost black to the same light color as the brilliant Montana sky. I’d barely held it together long enough to shut him down with the kind of icy calm I’d perfected years ago. The kind that saidyou don’t affect me anymore,even when I still dreamed about him at night and the way his lips used to linger over mine.
He’d looked right at me. Like he hadn’t disappeared and left me to lie to my dad with shaking hands and my heart in a never-ending freefall.
I closed my eyes and took in a deep breath. That was ancient history. I’d built a career, earned the town’s trust, and clawed my way out of the shadow his mess had left behind. And I wasn’t about to let Huck Barrett drag me back into chaos now.
My dad’s personalized ringtone cut through my thoughts.
“Hey, Dad,” I answered, still slightly distracted by seeing Huck.
“Tell me you didn’t let that no-good Barrett boy speak at the meeting last night.”
Of course he already knew. My father had ears in every corner of Mustang Mountain. I didn’t even bother asking who’d called him.
“He showed up late,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I didn’t let him submit his bid.”
“Good,” Dad growled. “You can’t trust a man like that. Not then, not now.”
I didn’t respond. Not because I agreed, but because I wasn’t sure I didn’t. “Did you need something else? I’m about to walk into an open house I’m hosting this afternoon.”
“No. Just wanted to make sure you didn’t let the Barrett boy weasel his way into getting the contract for the festival.”
“No chance of that, Dad. Mayor Nelson wanted to award it to Levi Mercer, but I convinced him we’d save more if we gave it to the guy you recommended.” I didn’t know why my father caredso much about a puny construction contract for the festival set up. And I didn’t have time to figure it out. “I’d better get inside and get set up before people start showing up for the open house.”
“Alright, Peanut. Talk to you later.”
“Love you, Dad.”
“Love you, too.”
I disconnected, grabbed my bag, and headed into the house. It had been on the market for a while and I’d actually had two offers on it but both of them fell through. The hundred-year-old two-story looked great on the outside but neither potential buyer wanted to pay for major structural repairs and my seller refused to get them done before the sale. He didn’t want to be inconvenienced with having someone at the house. Sometimes I wondered why I’d decided to go into real estate at all.
The first half hour I didn’t have a single person come through. Then I heard the crunch of tires on the drive and looked out the front window to see the contractor my dad had recommended for the festival project. I met him on the porch, wondering what he was doing at my open house.
“Hey there, Miss Winslow.” He nodded a greeting from the drive. “Your dad mentioned you might be in need of a quick fix to get this house sold. I was in the area and thought I’d stop by and see if I could help.”
“That’s awfully nice of you, Mr. Franklin, but I’m not sure there’s anything that will help except a foundation repair.”
