Honey and Smoke (3 page)

“Your lantern is still burning inside the cave. Wait here.” He took the gun from his back, laid it on the ground at her feet like a warrior surrendering his sword, then slid into the cave opening. “Be right back.”

Betty numbly tugged her gloves off, then used her cap to wipe her face. So he thought she looked steady?
Her hands were trembling, and inside she was nothing but a tangle of questions. Max Templeton. Max. She mouthed the name. He was local. She’d see him again. The thought gave her a trill of excitement along with dismay.

A throaty, plaintive
meow
caught her attention. Betty looked toward the tall stump of a dead tree. Faux sat there, a wary expression on her face. “Come here, baby. It’s all right.” The brindle cat leapt down and trotted to her, using the stump of its hind leg almost as gracefully as a foot.

Faux crawled into her lap and curled up, her body spilling out over Betty’s knees. Her tufted ears twitched at the sounds of Max Templeton’s return. “It’s all right, Faux,” Betty assured her, stroking her head. “I
hope
so, anyway.”

Max Templeton shoved himself half out of the cave, then spotted Faux and halted, his eyes narrowing in scrutiny. “The stealth cat,” he said gruffly. “What kind of cat is it?”

“Half bobcat, half Manx. The product of a very strange romance.”

Betty’s attention was riveted to him. He must be over six feet tall, almost a head taller than she. The paint had begun to streak on his face, accenting the hard thrust of his chin but also curving around the sensual lines of his mouth. His nose was straight and chiseled; his eyes were large. It was a surprisingly elegant face in contrast, to a brutally handsome body. A unique and troublesome combination.

Betty set Faux Paw down and rose to her feet. Max Templeton stood also, and she discovered that she had been right—he was a good six inches taller than she. “Ms. Quint,” he said politely. “Your cave is secure. Your strange cat is safe. You’re not hurt. Will you accept my apology?”

He could sound so formal. He had a very straight-backed, chin-up posture. His voice had the light drawl of a southerner who’d spent a lot of years away from
home. It wasn’t as crisp as her voice, with its urban-Atlanta lilt, but it wasn’t gruff and twangy, the way the natives talked up here.

“Please accept my apology,” he repeated, gazing at her curiously. “Are you all right?”

Distracted, she nodded. “This was obviously just one of life’s fiascos. A quirk of coincidence and misunderstanding. I accept your apology.”

“Does this mean that I’m allowed to learn your first name?”

“Betty.”

“Nice. I’ve never known a Betty before.”

“Not one under eighty years old, at least. It’s not a fashionable name anymore.”

“Were you named after a relative?”

“No. My father insists that I was named after Betty Rubble, on
The Flintstones
.”

“I think I’d like your father. And what’s the stealth cat’s name?”

“Faux Paw. It’s a play on the French phrase faux
pas
, which means—”

“I know.” He looked at her with mild rebuke. “Yes’m, I done learned a little French myself.”

“Sorry. I was just—”

“Judging a book by its camouflage.”

She shifted awkwardly, feeling like a nervous teenager under his assertive attention. “I’m sorry. Good-bye. Meeting you was an interesting experience.”

“I take it that now is not the time to say that you look great in dirty overalls and that you’re very pretty despite the bat poop on your face. Or that I’d like to take you to dinner tonight.”

“That’s right.”

“Bad timing. I’ll try again later.” He picked up his rifle and hitched the strap over his shoulder. “Well, it’s a long hike back to my Jeep. If you change your mind about filing charges, you can find me in Webster Springs.”

“I accepted your apology. I don’t go back on my acceptances.” She couldn’t resist. “Do you work in town?”
“At the courthouse. Part-time. Monday through Friday, nine to one.” He nodded to her graciously, but his eyes were less subtle as he scanned her one last time from head to toe. “And where can I find you?”

“At the old Colton house. Right off the square.”

“You bought one house in town and another outside of town?”

“I’m turning the Colton place into a restaurant. I’m a professional caterer. I’m expanding my business.”

“Terrific. I’ll see you again. Soon.”

Very soon
, she suspected, and her mouth went dry.

He nodded to her. “Good-bye, Betty. Au revoir, Faux Paw.” Smiling, he started into the woods.

“What kind of work do
you
do?” Betty called.

He turned, framed by the beautiful golden poplar trees, imprinting himself on her mind forever. His smile widened, cheerful and irresistible despite his harshly painted face. “I’m the justice of the peace.”

He pivoted and walked away whistling, while Betty stared after him in astonishment.

“He really is the justice of the peace,” Grace Larson told her as they watched workmen fit a stainless steel smoker into a niche of the restaurant’s kitchen wall. Grace, trim and neat in designer jeans, a gold-braided belt, and a cashmere sweater, was the mayor’s wife. She was also head of the chamber of commerce and the owner of the clothing shop next door to Betty’s restaurant.

“The state legislature changed things a few years ago,” Grace continued. “The position is really called ‘magistrate’ now, but it’s the same as justice of the peace. Max was elected last month. His father was justice of the peace in this county for more than forty years.” Grace stroked a gray curl coyly and laughed. “Bartram Templeton was a legend, let me tell you.”

Betty, her jeans and workshirt already coated with a film of dust, frowned as she knocked more dust into the air while scrubbing a countertop. “A good legend or a bad legend?”

“Depends on your point of view. If you were the husband of one of Bartram’s lady friends, you might say it was a bad legend.”

Betty halted and stared at her. “Are we talking ‘town lecher’ here?”

“No, honey, we’re talking ‘town Romeo’ here. Bartram never stole a heart that didn’t want to be stolen.”

“He cheated on his wife, Max’s mother?”

“Oh, no. She died when Max was a baby. Some people say she was the only woman Bartram ever loved—he didn’t get married until he was over forty, and after she died, he never married again. Didn’t stop him from having a good time, though.” Grace smiled. “Before I was married, I had a few dates with him myself. He was very hard to forget.”

“Then why—”

“He wasn’t the marrying kind. I was.”

“So Max grew up here with an aging playboy for a father.”

“Uh huh. Max cut a pretty wide path through the local girls himself, though he was no match for his daddy. After he graduated from high school, he joined the marines, and I bet we didn’t see him more than a handful of times after that. Just when he’d visit Bartram. Last winter he came back for his daddy’s funeral and then, a few months later, he came back for good.”

Grace bent her head closer so the workmen couldn’t hear. “Bartram was over eighty years old. But he died in the saddle, if you know what I mean.”

Betty swallowed a smile. “Any horse I’d know?”

Grace nodded. “Connie Jean Brown.”

“Not the grandmotherly little lady who runs the yogurt shop!”

“The same. Thank goodness her husband didn’t get upset. I think he was sort of proud of Connie Jean for being a sexy senior citizen.”

Betty slumped against the counter and tossed her brush down. She couldn’t help laughing. “Grace, I moved up here to get back to basics, to live in a place where most people still believe in traditional values. If Bartram Templeton’s escapades are the kinkiest gossip you’ve got, then I’m happy. That’s a great story.”

Grace laughed too. “This’ll make it even better then. Do you know what Bartram did besides working as justice of the peace? Ever hear of the Hitching Post?”

“Hmmm. I vaguely remember an article in one of the
Atlanta magazines about a strange little business up here—”

“That was it. Bartram ran it.” Grace grinned. “And Max just reopened it.”

Betty crossed her arms over her chest and eyed Grace grimly. “You mean that he runs a wedding chapel? He marries people?”

Grace hooted. “Yes, honey. You make it sound like he marries them to himself.” She raised a gray eyebrow rakishly. “We call it a wedding
parlor
, not a chapel. If Max Templeton is like his daddy, his weddings are like no weddings you’ve ever seen before. Do you know how people get married at that parlor?”

Betty stared at her wide-eyed. “How?”

“They get married in costumes. I mean, if they want to. There’s an extra fee for it. Civil War, Indian, pioneer—even got a suit of armor one of the local welders made. The groom can dress up like a knight. If Max runs the place the same as his daddy did, getting married is a big joke.”

“That’s awful.”

“I sort of think so too.” Grace looked at her curiously. “But you look really upset.”

“I think weddings should be dignified. I think marriage is too important to be treated as a joke.” Betty hesitated, then admitted softly, “I’m a recent dropout of the ‘we-don’t-need-a-formal-commitment’ school of relationships. Trust me, it’s a tough course. I believe in marriage. I think that it’s still the most loving and most dedicated way to live.”

Grace patted her hand in consolation. “Honey, you’re gonna find yourself a good ol’ boy up here who’ll marry you in a second. You’re only thirty years old. You got a few good years left.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Just don’t get involved with Max Templeton unless you want a good time but not much else.”

“I’ve had that kind of good time already. It wasn’t so good.” Betty had barely finished grinding her teeth before the delivery boy arrived.

“Present for Ms. Quint,” he announced, standing in the doorway of the restaurant’s screened veranda.

Betty stared at the basket he carried. It was wrapped in a florist’s colorful cellophane and topped by a large red bow. It was filled with mushrooms. “Who’s this from?” she asked, although the answer loomed in her mind.

“Here’s the card, ma’am.”

After the boy left, she set the basket on a table and read the car’s message.
Don’t keep me in the dark
, the thick, bold script cajoled.
I owe you a dinner
. It was signed by Max, of course, and included his telephone number.

Grace peered over her shoulder. “Oh, Lord,” she whispered in awe. “Max Templeton is after you. The legend lives on.”

The young couple looked good dressed up as Scarlett and Rhett, Max thought. He’d given them a discount on the costume fee because they were just twenty-one, and from the looks of the boy’s ancient sports car, they didn’t have much money.

But business was business. He didn’t want to work more than three nights a week and an occasional Saturday, so he had to keep a tight schedule. He’d just reopened the parlor two weeks ago, and he hadn’t done any advertising besides a notice in the Webster Springs paper, but word had gotten around fast.

Scarlett and Rhett were his six o’clock couple; at six forty-five he had a thirtyish pair who had already married and divorced each other two times, each marriage courtesy of his father, and now they were going for number three. They wanted the medieval outfit—a dress straight out of
Camelot
for her, armor for him. In this case, maybe both of them should wear armor.

At seven-thirty he had a couple who wanted nothing but the plain package—no costumes, one round of the wedding march on the parlor organ, and a gilt-edged
certificate. At eighty-thirty he had another plain package, except that the couple wanted the ceremony videotaped, so he had to take time to set up the equipment.

After that he’d give Norma a hug good night, walk to his weathered old house on the hill above the parlor, and check the answering machine for a message from the fascinating Betty Quint. The thought made him impatient.

He stepped from his carpeted platform for a second and leaned across the organ. Norma Bishop peered at him over her bifocals, her expression stern. Max bent his head beside Norma’s grizzled Afro and whispered in her ear, “Step on the gas.”

“I was playing the wedding march on this organ when you were still sucking your thumb. Get your butt back where it belongs. And straighten your tie.”

Grinning, Max went back to the platform. He slid a hand over the black string tie he wore with his marrying outfit—a Templeton tradition, black boots, black trousers, a long-tailed black coat, a stiff white shirt, and a string tie. It was the country-judge look, his father had always said. People liked it.

Scarlett and Rhett were halfway down the aisle between rows of folding wooden chairs, only a few of which were occupied by their friends. Scarlett’s hoop skirt got caught on a chair, and as she tugged it loose Max made a mental note to widen the aisle a bit.

The double doors at the back of the parlor opened just enough for Betty Quint to squeeze through. She slipped quietly into the last row of chairs and studied the scene with wide eyes. Gray eyes, Max recalled instantly, straightening and staring at her in pleased surprise. Eyes the color of pewter.

Since their encounter two days ago she’d traded her mushroom clothes for soft-gray slacks and a Nordic-looking sweater of grays and blues. Without the overalls it was even more clear that she was slender, athletic looking, and the owner of some terrific curves.

He hair was a burnished black with auburn highlights,
and it was gently layered from bangs in the front to gleaming curves that clung to the tops of her shoulders. She had an offbeat face, angular and serious, but it was softened by wide, full lips and those big gray eyes hooded in black lashes.

Those eyes met his with rueful humor and more than a little disgust. She gave him a once-over that made the hair stand up all over his body, a significant effect, considering the amount of hair he had. Of course he knew she was trying to wither him, not flatter him.

He nodded to her; she responded with a frosty smile. As Scarlett and Rhett plodded up the aisle Max did a brief mental inventory of the information he’d garnered on Betty Quint today. The merchants in town claimed that she was outgoing, businesslike, and very nice.