A Lion Shame (Bear Creek Grizzlies Book 3) (4 page)

"P-promise?"

He never thought he'd be the kind of guy who did anything to keep a girl from crying, but apparently he was. Especially when the girl was his pregnant little sister. So he smiled and kissed her forehead, and even linked his little finger with hers. "I promise. Pinky swear."

"Good." Zoe sighed and rubbed her stomach, back to looking content. "It'll be fun."

Fun. Right. As long as a drug war didn't explode in town before Christmas. He was definitely leaving after lunch, and going straight to Rosie to tip her to the girl's real background. It might not have been very nice for the girl, or any of his business, but Tate wasn't about to endanger his sister and her baby for a total stranger.

S
J felt
like it was definitely the first day of the rest of her life, and she was tired as hell to prove it. She and Rosie and Dakota spent the day shopping, planning, and turning the spare bedroom in Rosie's apartment into something suitable for SJ and Dakota to share. Just assembling the new crib made SJ want to throw in the towel and take a nap. But Rosie was a force of nature and bulled through whatever sagging energy they experienced, until it was at least seven at night and they were down at the bar, Rosie showing her how to ring up people's orders.

Luckily there was no smoking in the bar, so SJ didn't entirely mind having Dakota asleep in her car seat in the back room. She and Rosie took turns checking on the baby, and whenever someone ordered food, SJ ran the order back to the kitchen to prepare. But most people didn't order food at Rosie's, it seemed, so mostly there was just pulling drinks. For a Tuesday night, there weren't many people even doing that.

So SJ and Rosie sat at the bar and talked. Rosie hadn't pushed on the issue of Dakota's father or SJ's ex-boyfriend, but SJ knew the older woman was just itching to dig into all the reasons SJ showed up on her doorstep with nothing. In the quiet of the bar, the sound system humming along with low-key oldies music, and a single local drunk working his way through three bottles of beer, SJ took a deep breath and took stock of her life.

"I met Chuck at the bar where I worked, trying to make tuition for school. He and his guys were always in there, throwing around money, and he was sort of good-looking. You know, not so handsome that it seemed impossible he'd be interested in me, but he wasn't ugly. Out of all the girls in the bar, though, he kept talkin' to me. Kept askin' me out, and tipping me a hundred percent no matter what the tab actually was." SJ shook her head, wishing she didn't sound like such a stupid kid for falling for Chuck's lines. "So I went out with him."

"It happens to all of us." Rosie shook her head and got up to retrieve a beer for herself, glancing into the back room to make sure Dakota still slept. "Hindsight is twenty-twenty, babe."

"I know, but I should have seen that something wasn't right. He didn't work at a normal job or keep regular hours. He was always going on business trips, all his guys stopping by at all hours. I met some of their girlfriends, and they seemed nice enough — but none of them had babies." SJ frowned into her soda, wiggling the straw through the ice. "I still couldn't figure out what Chuck wanted with me, but he was real nice. So sweet. We moved into a lovely apartment — the kind with two sinks in the bathroom. It felt like — a real family for once, you know? I even made Thanksgiving dinner for us."

SJ laughed even though she felt like crying. She felt so stupid. Playing house and pretending everything was perfect, when it was all just teetering over a steaming river of sewage. Rosie took a deep breath, leaning to bump her shoulder to SJ's. "And then two days ago...?"

"He was drunk. Well, the last couple of months he was always drunk. But something wasn't going right with his guys or his job or something, and he came home in a freakin' rage. He started breaking things, throwing stuff around, and he scared Dakota. I told him to leave. I got in his face and I told him to get the hell out, that if he threatened my baby, I'd kill him." Her hands shook just thinking about it, seeing the look on Chuck's face as the veins stood out in his temples and his teeth bared, and Dakota's terrified screaming. She'd never heard her daughter make that sound before, and God as her witness, that baby would never have cause to feel that afraid again. Ever. "So he punched me."

"Bastard," Rosie said. She lifted her beer to toast Chuck, maybe, wherever he was. "May he rot in hell, and good riddance."

"Amen." SJ sipped her cola and leaned her elbows on the bar, covering her face with her hands. "He said I wouldn't leave because I'm poor white trash and already have one kid, and probably working on a second from him, and I was just waiting for my food stamps to come in. That he bought me with nice clothes and dinner out and baby toys, and I owed him. Like I didn't work or anything. And he said no one else would ever have me — not love me, just have me — because I'm still fat from the baby."

"Hold on one sec, babe." Rosie's face had gone curiously blank, and she pushed to her feet and walked to the other side of the bar. SJ sat up, holding on to the edge of the bar as she watched Rosie pick up one of the wooden chairs, lift it over her head, and then hurl it into the wall. SJ blinked. Rosie picked up the battered chair and did it again, beating the wall with the damn thing until only kindling remained in a pile on the floor.

Rosie patted at her face with a towel as she returned to the bar. "Okay, darlin'. Go on."

"I... don't think that's a good idea." SJ wanted to hug her, grateful for friends like Rosie.

"No, please. It's important to get it all out in the open, to make sure that son of a bitch's words have no power over you." Rosie smiled pleasantly, like she hadn't just destroyed a piece of furniture in a quiet rage, and refilled SJ's coke. "He's wrong, of course, and you better believe to the bottom of your heart that he was wrong, but put that shit out in the universe so it ends up back on his plate, hon."

"O-okay," SJ said. She almost wanted to laugh. The words hurt — they'd hurt at the time and they hurt as she said them — but maybe there was something to what Rosie said. "He said Dakota was an ugly baby and I threw the lamp at him."

"Yes, you did," Rosie said, lifting her beer again. "Damn straight. What else?"

"He said I was too dumb to know any better than to chase a guy like him, and that I was wasting my money trying to get a degree, since I'd never learn anything. No one would ever give me a job except where I showed my tits for money." SJ almost smiled as she took a gulp of soda, having to gear up for the last one. "And then he said I was a shitty mother and that some day, Dakota would end up a high school drop-out and a hooker, fucking guys like him."

Rosie picked up the bar stool next to SJ's and threw it at the door with a ferocious yell. It smashed into the wall above the door just as it opened, and the big dude, Tate, ducked as pieces of wood rained down on him. Rosie tried to smile and helped him brush splinters off his shoulders. "Sorry about that, Tate honey. I thought I saw a bee up there."

"So you threw a chair at it?"

"It was a stool, darlin', don't exaggerate." Rosie brushed her hands off and retrieved a broom from the back room, cleaning up the mess as a few more people walked in. "My friend and I were just having a conversation and I got a little emotionally involved."

"No kidding," the big guy said, barely looking at SJ, and her heart sank. He wandered up to the bar and picked up the menu, ignoring everyone else in the entire place.

Rosie hollered at the drunk who'd passed out at a table near the fireplace, and gestured for SJ to get behind the bar and retrieve drinks for a few people. SJ complied, though she avoided looking at the big dude, Tate. She'd almost told Rosie about finding the bag of drugs in Chuck's backpack, and the pistol in the bedside table. She needed to get that off her chest, too, but not when there were so many other people around. And if that guy Tate was a cop or — worse — a thug like Chuck, then it was too dangerous to say all that around him.

So she bit her lip and smiled as a few of the locals came up to introduce themselves and start their tabs for the night, and then there was a flurry of dinner and drink orders until she almost didn't know if she was coming or going. Luckily she'd waitressed before, but learning a new menu and ordering system took a while. But SJ felt herself building to the challenge — after all Rosie had done for her, SJ would work her ass off to pay her back and make a new home for Dakota. Even if it meant dealing with scowly-faced guys at the bar. After how things ended with Chuck, she wouldn't trust a pretty face or a pile of cash ever again. And she wouldn't date anyone for at least a year, until she got her equilibrium back.

T
ate didn't expect
to get a chair thrown at his head the moment he stepped into the bar. It happened occasionally at Rosie's, but not usually on a Tuesday. He was already tired from spending the afternoon with Zoe and helping Simon fix a few things around the Lodge before he headed back, and the roundtrip driving always took a lot out of him. Particularly with the roads still a little dicey from the snow.

So he wasn't in the best mood as he ducked the chair and Rosie looked at him with a hint of exasperation, even though she smelled like rage. He didn't argue with her, not wanting to piss off the cougar even more, and headed for the bar so he could eat dinner and go to bed. He stopped short, though, when he saw the strange girl standing behind the bar as Rosie strode off to deal with one of the local drunks. He really didn't want to make small talk with someone new.

Just as he considered ordering at the bar and taking a table for one elsewhere, the door blew open again and the townie girl who'd been hitting on him for the last two weeks tumbled in with a few of her girlfriends. Tate swallowed a groan. He didn't want to deal with that, either. If he took a table, they'd invite themselves over and then he'd be obligated to buy them dinner or drinks or — worse — talk to them all night. He knew Sarah Jane watched him debate, though he couldn't tell what she was thinking by her expression, and he finally sat at the bar and ordered a beer.

She didn't say anything, just pulled the pint and slid it in front of him before moving on to fill a couple more orders shouted over the noise of the suddenly ear-shattering music. He took up as much room as he could at the bar, not wanting even the local drunks to elbow their way up and invade his personal space, and luckily no one dared. He stared at the menu, knowing he would order the same thing he always did. He didn't even really see the print anymore. He remembered instead a small cafe on the left bank in Paris, with intricate hand-lettered menus. Tiny entrees of fantastic imagination, arranged aesthetically, but so small he had to order half a dozen to feed his appetite. Monique always found it hilarious. Until she didn't.

He sighed, then froze as the girl paused in front of his part of the bar. "You ordering food?"

"Yeah." He didn't want to be rude, but Tate didn't want a conversation. She seemed nice, and cute for a kid who looked barely old enough to drink, but she had too much baggage. A baby
and
connections to drug dealers were just too much to handle. The girl looked like a walking collection of bad life choices. Even if the lion thought she smelled amazing.

"What's good here?" Sarah Jane's forehead wrinkled as she frowned, trying to read the menu upside down.

"You tell me. I haven't seen the kitchen."

She snorted, then glanced over her shoulder before taking the menu. "You should probably err on the deep-fried side of things."

"Burger and fries, then." Tate watched her scribble it down and swirl off, calling something to Rosie as she headed to the back room and the kitchen. He'd ordered the same thing every night for the last month. Maybe he needed to branch out. There was a pizza joint down the road, though they didn't serve alcohol.

He stared at the line of bottles behind the bar, wondering when he'd get a chance to talk to Rosie, and tried to catch her as the bar owner rode herd over the dozen customers in the bar. But there was never a good time — too many ears, or Sarah Jane standing too close, or the phone ringing off the hook at the end of the bar.

She brought the burger and fries back, looking harried, and something small squalled in the back room. Sarah Jane rushed to get more beers and mixed drinks, her hair flying out of her ponytail in wispy red strands. She didn't seem like the kind of girl who wanted a lot of help, not with the determined set of her mouth and the glint in her eyes when one of the locals made an unwise comment about the loveliness of her bosom. Tate also resisted the urge to punch the asshole right in the face, and waited until the girl's back was turned to growl at the old man to back the fuck off.

But the noise continued in the back room and Tate's superior hearing picked it out easily — high-pitched, maybe distressed, but not a full cry. The kid. Had to be the baby. He wondered what the hell she was thinking, leaving the kid in the bar, but guessed she didn't have a babysitter yet, not after less than a day in town. Another bad choice, although he wouldn't have trusted any of the locals with his kid, if he had one. And she sure as hell couldn't run the bar by herself and leave Rosie upstairs. Rosie could hardly manage, most nights, and the only reason she did was because the regulars expected slow service and a heap of attitude to go along with it. That was the charm of drinking at Rosie's.

Tate got a few bites into his burger before he couldn't take it anymore and the baby's chatter turned into a cry and pushed the lion to the breaking point. He didn't want to be a nice guy. He really didn't. He didn't want a connection to the girl with the drugs. But he didn't want that baby to be afraid, in a new place and a strange room filled with loud noises and strangers. The kid didn't have a choice who her mother was, and if Sarah Jane made some terrible life choices, well, that was on her. The baby shouldn't have suffered because of Sarah Jane's shitty decisions.

So he pushed off the stool and headed around the bar, waving when Rosie asked where he was going. He went into the storeroom and found the little girl in a car seat, snugly wrapped up and with her pacifier fallen out of her reach. Her eyes got wide when he reached for her, and as the baby drew a deep breath to really scream, he hummed to her. Made some of the lion's comforting noises — a chirp and chortle, a bit of a purr. Tate picked her up and held her against his shoulder, bouncing a little, and headed back into the bar. He paused long enough to turn the music down, glaring over his shoulder when one of the drunk farmers yelled at him not to fuck with the playlist, and when Tate scowled, the man shut up and sat down.

He held the baby with one arm as he returned to his stool and sat, maneuvering the burger with his free hand as the baby stared over his shoulder at everyone in the bar. Sarah Jane rushed up, wiping her hands on a bar towel and reaching for the kid. "You don't need to —"

"She's fine," Tate said, not putting down the burger or letting her take the kid. "You're busy. I'm just sitting here. She didn't want to be back there on her own. So we're fine right here."

Sarah Jane stared at him, speechless, until Rosie strode over and poured him another beer. "Tate, you son of a gun. I think my ovaries just exploded, looking at a fine piece of man as yourself holding a baby. Kiss her head and I might have to excuse myself to change my pants."

He laughed, bouncing the baby as she stood on his thigh, and turned his attention back to his French fries. "Can't have that, Rosie."

She hustled into the back to retrieve more orders, but Sarah Jane just stared at him until Tate turned to look at her as well. "What?"

"Why are you holding my baby?" With her hands on her hips, she looked almost as fierce as Zoe in mama bear mode.

Tate didn't smile, not wanting to antagonize her. She didn't smell like a shifter, but there were ways to hide it. He'd hidden his nature from Simon for a long time. "Because she was crying and you were distracted and I asked you for a beer four times and you still haven't gotten it. I figured if anyone was going to get their drinks tonight, someone had better look after your kid. So go work. We're fine."

She didn't want to. She really wanted to punch him, from the look in her eyes, and Tate braced himself to fall backwards so the baby would land on his chest. But instead Sarah Jane turned on her heel and stormed off to help Rosie carry a new keg in from the back. So Tate worked on his French fries and didn't say anything when Sarah Jane finally got around to pouring him a new beer, even though it was mostly head and not particularly cold. She needed practice to be even a mediocre bartender. Hopefully she didn't stick around long enough to learn at Rosie's.

She was a much better mother — she stopped every ten minutes, it seemed, to say something to the baby or check her temperature or adjust the tiny pink socks she wore, and Tate might as well not have existed. He was just a stand for the baby. He didn't mind. Every time Sarah Jane whirled past, a little more of her scent drifted into his senses, latched into his brain, and the lion got more and more interested. She was familiar, all right, and maybe more than familiar. The baby, too, started moving from 'small helpless thing to protect' closer into 'family,' as far as the lion was concerned.

That made him the tiniest bit nervous, particularly when the baby cooed and wrapped her little fingers in his beard and nearly tore half his face off. He hadn't cried in years, but those tiny fists full of facial hair almost killed him. Rosie must have seen his face, because she started laughing so hard she tripped over the pool table and fell flat on her face — but she didn't do a damn thing to help him as Tate hopped up and tried to pry the baby off without dropping her.

She got away with a few of his whiskers. Tate held her facing the bar so she couldn't get at his face at all, though that meant he had to protect his French fries from her little grabby fists. Normally he'd kill anyone who went for his food, particularly when the lion was irritated about something else, but he didn't mind the baby knocking half his food on the bar and sucking on a French fry despite his efforts to keep her from getting anything. At least she left his burger alone.

Rosie whirled past and left a small jar of pureed baby food on the bar, giving him a sideways look. "You're a hell of a man, Tathan, and don't think I haven't noticed."

"Keep moving, Rosie," he muttered, not wanting any more attention over it. And when he looked at the rest of the bar, he realized his mistake — the townie girl and her friends practically had stars in their eyes as they gazed at him, and Tate wanted to retreat to the back room for the rest of the night. Shit and double shit. That was the last thing he needed.

The baby squealed suddenly, her little voice deafening his one ear, and Tate replaced the soggy French fry she'd dropped in his lap with a fresh one as he eyed the jar that Rosie left. Strained peas. Well, that was some bullshit. No one wanted to eat that. He lifted the little girl so she stood on his thigh again, and muttered, "I'd want fries, too, sugar bean."

One of the drunks hanging out at the end of the bar gave him a sideways look, and Tate scowled until the asshole looked away. Just because he liked kids didn't make him a softie. He squared his shoulders and figured he'd have to get into a few fights later that week, just to make it clear he wasn't a pushover. Well, he wasn't a pushover for anyone except that baby in her tiny pink socks. God help him if Simon and the guys ever heard.