Читать книгу A Weaver Proposal - Allison Leigh - Страница 8

“What on earth are you doing here?” Sydney murmured the question to herself as she yanked a thick sweater over her head. She was wearing two layers of sweaters, on top of a long-sleeved thermal undershirt, and she still couldn’t get warm. January in Wyoming was a long way from January in Georgia.

She shook her head sharply, freeing the ends of her hair from the turtleneck and pulled the cuffs of the sweater even farther down over her hands as she gave the furnace a baleful look.

The offending item was housed behind a door—currently open—off her small kitchen. After failing to get the thing to run for the last forty-eight hours, and considering her dwindling supply of firewood, she’d finally given up and called a repair service.

That had been nearly eight hours ago.

They’d promised to send someone in two.

Clearly, the three impatient calls that she’d made since then hadn’t sped things along.

Not for the first time, she wondered if moving herself—lock, stock and metaphorical barrel—out to this small town in Wyoming was a monumental mistake.

But making monumental mistakes was truly the one thing at which Sydney Forrest excelled.

She rubbed her hands down her flat belly, then picked up the hammer she’d been trying not to pitch at the broken furnace and eyed the cabin wall again. She’d already hung one of her Solieres and had two more to go.

The modern American style of the paintings didn’t match the cabin’s interior—early-American leftover—but she loved the original oils, anyway. They were the first pieces of art she’d ever purchased, and the only ones in her sizeable collection that she’d bothered bringing with her to Weaver, Wyoming. The rest she’d left back in Georgia on loan to various galleries and she could honestly say she didn’t care whether she ever saw any of them again.

But the Solieres…these, she loved.

If she could hang them here, then she’d be home.

She hoped.

She placed the nail and hammered it into the thick log wall. Only when she stopped did she realize that someone was hammering at her door, too.

She dropped the hammer on the hideous green-and-orange-plaid couch that came with the place and headed toward the door, only to stop short.

She eyed the thick, glossy-covered book lying on her couch. The Next Forty Weeks. Maybe it was silly of her, but she shoved it behind a cushion, anyway, before hurrying the few steps to the door.

“You’re late,” she said flatly when she threw open the door.

The tall man standing on the doorstep of the cabin tilted down the dark glasses he was wearing and looked at her over the rims. “I am?”

The fact that there was amusement in the bright green eyes he trained on her face didn’t help her irritation. “I called for you nearly eight hours ago.” Her voice was only a few shades warmer than the cold air that seeped inside around him. “I don’t know what kind of service your employer expects you to provide but he assured me—more than once over those hours—that you would be…right here.” She sounded like a witch and didn’t particularly care. She pointed her index finger at the offending furnace. “It’s over there.”

Still peering over the tops of his sunglasses, he finally shifted away in the direction she was pointing. “I see.” He stepped past her into the cabin, turning slightly sideways as he did so.

To avoid touching her, or to even fit through the door, she wasn’t sure. He was wearing a thick down jacket that, despite the rip in one shoulder seam, nevertheless made his shoulders look a good six inches wider than they probably were.

“Let’s just take a look, then,” he murmured as he passed her.

She shivered and slammed the door shut.

She wasn’t going to remotely entertain the idea that she was reacting to his deep, soft voice.

She was absolutely done with men.

Been there. Done that. With far too many.

She folded her arms around her waist and watched him as he crouched down in front of the furnace. His thighs strained against the faded, dirty jeans he was wearing and she wasn’t going to admit that she, even for one moment, glanced at his rear visible beneath the coat he wasn’t bothering to remove.

Why would he take it off?

The cabin’s interior was freezing.

Her irritation mounted even more. “Didn’t you even bring a toolbox? What kind of a repairman are you, besides a late one?”

He glanced at her over his shoulder. He’d pulled off his sunglasses and she got a full-on view of that scruffy face and striking eyes.

He needed a shave, a haircut and, she was betting, a shower.

“Actually, I have a toolbox in my truck.” His drawl seemed to have deepened. “Ma’am,” he added after a moment.

Her lips tightened.

Smart-aleck repairmen she didn’t need. What she did need was heat. Or she was afraid she was going to have to give up the idea of staying in the cabin on her own.

She might as well have a tail that she could tuck between her legs if she had to admit, already, that she couldn’t hack it by herself in Weaver.

The idea tasted bitter. As bitter as the fear that ran deep and strong inside her that she wouldn’t be able to hack it.

And then where would she be?

Back in Georgia? Lolling away her time and inheritance in a place where nobody really cared about her—or heaven forbid—felt sorry for her?

No, thanks.

“If you wouldn’t mind getting to it, then,” she prompted flatly when the guy just kept watching her. She was used to men watching her, but seriously, he wasn’t at all her type. She didn’t go for unshaven, unkempt laborers even if he did come with a pair of emerald eyes. For all she knew he had a wife and a half-dozen kids waiting for him back at his single-wide trailer.

But even her judgmental thoughts shamed her. She hugged her arms around her waist.

Weaver was supposed to be a chance for her new life.

A better life.

That was the whole point of this. A better life.

More importantly a better Sydney now that it wasn’t only herself she had to think about.

This man, emerald eyes and all, was entirely incidental.

She cleared her throat and made herself walk a few steps closer. “I’m not used to this type of furnace,” she admitted. Back home, the climate controls were the very best that money could buy. If she had to push a button, that was doing a lot. “I know it runs on gas and I already had that checked. Yesterday. The guy from the gas company said there weren’t any leaks.”

“Yesterday.” His eyebrows—several shades darker than his blondish-brown hair—shot up a little. “You haven’t had heat since then? You know it’s barely thirty degrees out there. Why didn’t you call before now?”

“I do know. And I did.” Her voice was bordering on withering and she tried not to cringe. “I found a listing for handyman services and called this morning,” she added, determined to sound friendlier. The guy was here. Finally. She needed him to fix the darn thing, not leave because she was acting like a witch.

He looked back at the furnace and shook his head. “Warned Jake that furnace was on its last legs.”

She frowned a little at his easy mention of her brother, but told herself that was all probably part and parcel of living in a small town.

Everyone knew everyone.

The repairman shifted and leaned down closer to the furnace. “At least you had the sense to check for a gas leak.”

It didn’t sound like praise to her. “I’m not an idiot.” Not about everything, at least.

He gave her a glance again with that amused glint in his eyes that put her teeth on edge. “Didn’t say otherwise. Ma’am,” he said mildly. Then he pulled off a panel and set it on the floor beside him, studying the inside of the furnace for a moment before reaching in and fiddling with something, then pushing to his feet. He turned to her. “I’ll be back.”

He walked past her and went out the door, closing it behind him.

She shivered again and stared at the guts of the furnace, visible behind the missing panel. It might as well have been a nuclear reactor for all of the sense it made to her.

Through the wide window next to the door she could see him stomping across the snowy ground to a big pickup truck. It was so filthy she couldn’t even tell what color it was, unless mud had a place now on the spectrum. He pulled open the door and climbed up inside.

Then he just sat there with the door open, despite how cold she knew it was outside, his sunglasses back in place while he looked at the cabin.

Even from her distance she could see him shake his head.

Her lips tightened again.

She deliberately turned away and picked up the large, square painting and fit it over the sturdy nail, nudging up one corner until she was satisfied. Then she stepped back to survey her work.

But even her satisfaction at having her favorite paintings hanging in her new home didn’t help her forget the man in his truck outside.

She could practically feel his gaze burning through the window.

She picked up her hammer again and set the next nail where she’d already measured off the spot and in just a few minutes, she had the third and last painting hanging in place.

She looked out the window again. Now the man—still sitting in his truck—was talking on a cell phone.

She exhaled noisily and went into the kitchen. It didn’t possess a microwave. Nor a dishwasher. And the pot filled with water that she put on the stove was hardly the latest in design when it came to making coffee.

But then coffee wasn’t on her list of allowable drinks any longer.

She turned on the flame beneath the pot and emptied a packet of hot chocolate mix into a thick, white mug. If her furnace wasn’t working by that evening, she might have to go stay at her brother’s new house.

It was what he’d wanted her to do in the first place. The cabin was barely habitable, he’d said. Sydney figured what he really meant was that it would be barely habitable for her, given her usual taste for luxury with a capital L. He and his wife had left for California the day after she’d arrived four days ago, taking their aunt and her new husband with them. They’d already planned to spend a month visiting Jake’s twin sons, who spent part of the year there with their mother. But no. Sydney had insisted that she was determined to do this on her own. That she loved the quaint little place where she could have all the privacy that she desired.

Jake had just shrugged and told her she’d always been stubborn about getting her own way. What he hadn’t added, but had probably thought was, even when it was a mistake.

Mistake or not, she’d set a course, and she was determined to stick to it. Her brother didn’t know the entire reason she’d sought refuge in Weaver. She’d tell him when she was ready. But right now, she couldn’t bear to admit failure already, and that’s how it felt if she had to give up and go stay at his place.

A failure.

She leaned against the knotty pine cupboards that formed the small L-shaped kitchen and waited for the water to heat. Small bubbles were just beginning to form in the base of the pot when she heard the door open again and she peered around the short wall into the main room of the cabin.

The sunglasses were gone. But the repairman still wasn’t carrying any tools.

“How long do you think this is going to take?”

“Not long.” He crossed to the closet and crouched down. “My tool.” He removed a long-nosed lighter from inside his coat, giving her that amused look again. “Pilot light is out. And you need the light to have heat.” He leaned down again toward the furnace, his broad body blocking her view.

She could feel her nerves tightening up all over again in the face of his exaggerated patience. “Wait,” she said sharply.

He hesitated and glanced back. “Thought you were in a hurry for some heat. Ma’am.”

She really detested his way of tacking that last bit on, as if by reluctant duty, and she gave him an icy look. “I want to see what you’re doing.”

He just shrugged as if he didn’t care one way or the other, and he waited until she turned off the stove and forced herself to crouch down beside him. The smell of him hit her just as strongly as she’d feared.

Just not in the way she’d feared.

Because he didn’t smell as dirty as he looked. He smelled fresh. Like the first scent of the wide outdoors that she’d gotten when she’d climbed out of her car after driving hours and hours and hours from Georgia to Weaver. Vaguely pine-like. Vaguely earthy. Fresh. Breathtaking.

She realized his gaze was slanting over her and blamed her crazy hormones when she felt her face actually start to warm. She’d stopped blushing when she was about ten years old. It had to be her hormones that were causing her to think this man smelled enticing. Same way her hormones had told her she absolutely had to have both sliced pickles and potato chips on the peanut butter sandwich she’d eaten for breakfast. “Well? Are you going to show me or not?”

His eyebrows lifted a little and his jaw canted slightly to one side as he gave his head the faintest of shakes. But regardless of his personal opinion—obviously lacking—where she was concerned, he tapped one long index finger against a knob. “This controls whether the pilot is on or off. I turned it off before I went outside.” He turned it, and a bit of dried blood on his scratched knuckle stood out. “Turn it to where it says Pilot.” He held up the long lighter with his other hand and clicked it on. A small flame burst from the end and he tucked it inside the furnace, angling his messy head a little in front of her so he could see.

He really did have thick hair.

She averted her eyes back to what he was doing.

“Set the flame there,” he continued, “and keep the knob pushed down.” He pulled out the lighter, letting the flame die.

But she could see the small blue flame burning inside the furnace and ferociously kept her gaze on it, even though she could feel him looking at her again. Then he abruptly leaned down and blew out the tiny flame.

“Here.” He held out the lighter. “You wanted to learn, right?”

She nodded and took the lighter, careful not to touch his greasy fingers.

His lips twisted, as if he noticed. But all he said was, “Don’t be afraid. You’ll never know unless you try.”

She hesitantly pressed the knob where he indicated, clicked the lighter and set the flame where he had.

“That’s it. Give it about a minute, then let up on the knob.” She did as he said and he showed her that the pilot remained lit. “Thermocouple sensed the flame, which triggered the gas valve, and hello, heat. Turn the knob from Pilot to On … you see?” He waited until she nodded and then he put the panel back in place. “You oughta be good to go.”

He pushed to his feet, walked to the other side of the room and held his hand over the register for a moment. “It’s coming.” His gaze passed from her face to her newly hung paintings then back to her again.

She’d straightened, too. There was no question that he didn’t appreciate her modern artwork. It was as plain on his face as his amusement, and her temper glowed warm all over again. “I assume your employer will send a bill.” It wasn’t a question. “I’d have given you a tip if I hadn’t had to wait eight hours for you to show up.”

Derek Clay managed to keep from grinning outright as he looked at Sydney Forrest, the sister of his cousin’s husband.

He’d come by the place to check on her as a courtesy, since he lived closest to the out-of-the-way cabin that she’d moved herself and her ugly paintings into a few days ago. And while he was genuinely concerned that she’d been living without heat, he wasn’t all that interested in the woman herself.

Definitely a looker. But he knew from Jake that she liked living in the fast lane. Along with that, she was snooty. And undoubtedly high-maintenance coming from the moneyed background that she had. None of these qualities was high on his list of attractive attributes in a woman, no matter how good she looked.

“I’m sure they’ll appreciate the prompt payment,” he offered, then stuck out his hand. “I’m Derek, by the way.”

She eyed his hand—which admittedly had a smear of grease on the back of it and had since he’d been wrangling with an ancient tractor engine inside which his mom’s latest cat had decided to have her kittens—with clear distaste. But then she seemed to swallow hard and stuck her slender hand briefly into his. “Sydney Forrest,” she offered.

“I know. You’re Jake’s sis.”

Her fine, dark eyebrows drew together over a narrow nose that tilted up just a bit at the end, saving her oval face from being too classically pretty. “You know my brother?”

Her tone implied that anyone of his ilk couldn’t possibly, and despite his efforts, his ornery grin cracked through. “‘Fraid so, Syd.” He couldn’t help laying on the hick, given her obviously appalled reaction. “You and me? We’re practically kin seein’ how your brother’s hitched to my cousin.”

He didn’t think her ivory face could get any whiter, but it did. “You’re … related to J.D.?” Her rosy lips spread in a thin smile that wasn’t reflected at all in her dark blue eyes.

“Yup. Derek Clay. So some might even call you and me kissin’ cousins,” he added, because she obviously was not going to see the humor in any of this.

Still, something about the situation left him feeling itchy and irritated because—snooty or not—she was pretty damn beautiful.

Her eyes were a deep, dark blue and now, as a steely glint came into them, they iced over. They reminded him of black ice.

“You could have just told me who you were.” Her voice was cold as a witch’s behind, but the cadence of her words nevertheless had an almost hypnotic molasses-smooth sway.

“You maybe could have waited three seconds for me to do so before jumping on that high horse of assumptions you ride,” he returned blandly. “Don’t worry your pretty head any, though. I won’t tell if you won’t.”

“You can tell whomever you like.” Her vaguely pointy chin was set. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

“No, ma’am,” Derek agreed. She was no more in the right or wrong than he was, when it came down to it. Still, her snooty attitude wouldn’t get her anywhere in Weaver, even though she was Jake’s sister and thereby connected to the Clay family, which was generally well thought of in the community. “I guess you haven’t.”

And since she was connected to the Clays—to him—he pushed aside his general irritation with himself and her and reminded himself of the way he was raised.

He looked past her sweater-bundled shoulder into the cabin’s interior. “Watch that pilot light,” he warned. “If the thermocouple is failing, it’ll go out again no matter how careful you are. And don’t wait an entire day to ask for help when you need it.”

She crossed her arms and managed to look down her narrow, turned-up, sexy nose at him, even though she stood about a head shorter than his six-three. “I did call for help,” she reminded him as if he were dense enough to have somehow missed that point.

“Did you call the number for the Double-C that Jake left you?” He didn’t need to see the chagrin she tried to hide to know that she hadn’t. He’d been at the Double-C since before dawn that day working with his father, Matthew Clay, who ran the family ranch. If Jake’s sister had called, he’d have known about it.

She hadn’t called.

“I didn’t want to impose.” Now that enticing sway to her voice had gone all stiff.

And he was irritated all over again with himself because he felt some regret for that. “Nobody in the Clay family would consider it an imposition. Maybe you’d know that if you’d have bothered to come to Jake and J.D.’s wedding last summer and taken time to get to know us.”

Her jaw dropped a little. “Is that what Jake said? Or is this just your know-it-all take on it?”

Jake hadn’t said a word against his sister. “Weddings tend to bring out the crowds in my family.”

“As they do in mine,” she returned coolly. “If I could have made it, I would have. I was here for my Aunt Susan’s wedding to Stan Ventura a few months ago. He’s sort of family to you Clays now, isn’t he, yet I don’t recall seeing you there.”

He had missed that wedding, but not because he’d wanted to. “I was in Cheyenne. On business.” He gave the lie with no regret. He’d been attending a funeral.

She smiled with no humor. “Is that an excuse that only applies to you? Maybe I was away on business when Jake and J.D. were married.”

“Were you?”

Her head tilted slightly and her shining blue-black hair slid away from her high, patrician cheekbone. “Yes.”

“And what is your business, Sydney Forrest? I hadn’t heard that you worked for Forco.”

Her chin rose a little. “My sister and brother run Forco. I sit on the board.”

“Anything else?”

“Racehorses and art.”

In her Southern warm-honey voice, art came out more like ahhht, and it sent heat down his spine that he didn’t welcome. “Art like those monstrosities you hung on the wall in there?” He jerked his chin over her shoulder.

“I suppose you prefer a paint-by-the-numbers nude lounging on black velvet?”

“Don’t go knocking the combination of velvet and naked skin until you’ve tried it.” He leaned closer. “Kissin’ cousin.”

She jerked back, a flash coming and going in her eyes. “I cannot believe you are even related to J.D. She is perfectly lovely and you are—”

“—not a woman, that’s for sure.”

“Odious,” she finished, witheringly.

“And you’re a snob,” he countered. “You work on that little problem, cupcake, and I’ll work on mine.”

“Cupcake?” Her eyes narrowed to slits and she took a step back, shutting the door smack in his face.

Not that he didn’t deserve it.

If he had a door to slam in her face, he’d probably do it, too.

“Nice meeting you, cuz,” he said loudly through the door. Then he turned away and headed toward his truck.

He’d give her about a week, and then she’d be hightailing it back to her pampered life in Georgia.

As far as he’d ever been able to tell, that’s what spoiled rich girls always did when the going got tough. Ran.

He reached the truck and swung up into the driver’s seat, looking back at the cabin despite his intention not to.

She was looking back at him.

Hard to tell which one of them looked away first.

Derek’s pride hoped it wasn’t him. But with the tires crunching over the snow as he turned a wide circle, he had to admit that it might well have been.