Читать книгу That Man Matthews - Ann Evans - Страница 10

HE SHOULD HAVE SENT one of the ranch hands to pick her up.

In twenty-four hours he had to be in Dallas, negotiating his way past a school of legal sharks determined to chew up his plans for the property he’d bought in San Antonio. He should be gearing himself up for the mental gymnastics of that confrontation. Not bumping along the dusty, knotted ribbon of road that led to Luna D’Oro with Miss Joan Paxton seated primly beside him on the sun-cracked seat of the ranch pickup.

The truck smelled like feed-store molasses and needed new shocks. It was rattling the fillings right out of his teeth, for Pete’s sake. He should have thought to bring the Rover. But it had been an impulse decision to pluck the keys from Tomas’s hand at the last minute to run this errand himself.

He slid a glance across the seat as the pickup lurched into and then out of a pothole. The woman looked tired and uncomfortable, trying to hang on to that ramrod posture of hers, in spite of every rut and curve that threatened to toss her around the cab like a pea in a hollow gourd.

She’d hardly said two words since they’d left San Antonio. There was a pinched look around her lips, and he wondered if some grievance against him was fermenting in her. She was probably angry because he’d taken one look at her expensive luggage, snorted in disgust and then tossed the bags into the truck bed with little more respect than he’d give sacks of grain.

He hadn’t been able to help himself. In spite of his suggestion that she dress in casual, comfortable clothing, she’d come off the plane looking like a Madison Avenue executive: tailored suit, designer attaché case and an air of indomitability. She looked primed for a nine-o’clock appointment with a company president, not a twelve-year-old child. Cody knew that the moment Sarah saw her she’d become as balky as a barn-sour nag.

He felt some of his old rebellion and resentment rise. How could this haughty blue blood succeed where he could not? What had he seen in Joan Paxton that day in her apartment to make him think she’d have some special talent for figuring out what the hell was wrong with Sarah? The woman had admitted she wasn’t in the business of working miracles, so why had he pushed her to take the job?

’Cause you’re flat-out desperate, that’s why. And if he wanted to deny that, he had only to remember last night—the latest go-round with Sarah over the poor showing she’d made for the school year.

She was already barely hanging on by her teeth in two subjects. Last week Miss Beasley had sent home a note about Sarah’s final exam.

Maybe he ought to float the latest problem past Joan Paxton and get her opinion. No sense stalling. Hells bells, wasn’t that the reason he’d brought her here? He chewed the inside of his cheek a moment, thinking that the woman had one heck of a challenge ahead of her.

“Sarah’s in the doghouse with me right now.” He broke the silence. “I’d like to think that means she’ll be on her best behavior, but there’s no telling how she’ll react to you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her head swing in his direction. “Given what you’ve told me, I’m not expecting to be welcomed with open arms,” she said mildly. “What did you tell Sarah was the reason for my coming here?”

“I told her that I knew she was having a hard time in school lately. At home, too. And that I didn’t seem to be helping the situation much. I said you were an educational expert for children her age, and that you might be able to give us some advice.”

“How did she respond to that?”

“Suspicious looks. A surly attitude. We ended up in an argument.”

“Over what?”

“Her school progress reports this year have been going steadily downhill. Math. Science. Now history. Just before Sarah’s last test, her teacher, Miss Beasley, sent home a note saying that because she didn’t finish some big semester project, if she got anything less than a B on her exam she’d ‘jeopardize her chances for promotion.’ Which, if I remember correctly, is diplomatic teacher talk for being held back a year.”

“So how did Sarah do?”

“She thinks she passed the test. We won’t know for sure until we pick up her grades at the end of this week. But she’s all in a huff. She got a real attitude when Beasley claimed she hadn’t turned in the written portion of her project.”

“What kind of attitude?”

“She called Miss Beasley a liar.”

He sensed her grimacing reaction. “And your response to that?”

Cody took his eyes off the road for a moment to meet her inquiring gaze. “Personally, I think Miss Beasley is still the same dried-up, embittered old biddy she was when I had her as a kid, but I couldn’t let Sarah call her teacher a liar. I lectured her until I ran out of breath and then sent her to her room without supper. I told her if she got held back a year, she could kiss her horse goodbye.” He snorted, remembering what a storm of protest that comment had brought. “She still wasn’t speaking to me this morning. When I told her I would be back around noon and she’d better be there ready to meet you at lunch, she just looked at me.”

Joan Paxton nodded absently, and he wished he could tell what she was thinking. He switched his attention back to the highway.

“Why do you think she called her teacher a liar?” she asked after a long silence. “Why not just call her mean or crazy or too hard? Why specifically that accusation?”

He thought about it a moment, but came up empty. “I don’t know. Maybe she felt cornered. Maybe she’d got caught not completing an assignment,” he said at last, “and that was the first thing she could think to say.”

“Is it possible she did complete it? That Miss Beasley is wrong?”

That approach surprised him. He’d expected her to state Sarah’s behavior was classic ADD. “I’d like to think that Beasley’s wrong, but Sarah’s record on follow-through has been crap lately. More likely this is just one more project she decided not to finish.” He slid a glance toward her. “And isn’t sticking with a project a problem for ADD kids?”

She lifted an amused brow. “You’ve been reading up.”

He shrugged. “Just trying to get a better feel for it.”

She gave him a smile that made the interior of the cab feel suddenly airless, then turned her attention back out the window, seemingly absorbed in the flat, boring landscape. A few wisps of hair trailed against the high collar of her blouse, like gold filaments unraveling from a tapestry. He wondered why she insisted on confining it in that roll, when it would have looked magnificent caught in a stray breeze, swirling around her head and shoulders like the gilded hooded cape of some ancient warrior queen.

He was annoyed with himself for noticing, and for turning so fanciful all of a sudden. Experience always left its mark, and long ago he’d had his fill of women with flawless, aristocratic features who had very little going for them underneath all the window dressing. Sure, she seemed bright, in addition to good-looking. She might even have a spark of interest in him—if he could believe that list he’d read in her apartment. But there was no sense in trying to ignite that spark, because it always got out of control, and sooner or later they’d both end up burned. No more Daphnes, he’d sworn six months ago. And he’d meant it.

He squinted ahead, down the long highway. She was here to help Sarah. Not him. Whatever magic this woman might be able to work with his daughter, he’d better plan on staying immune to it himself.

SPARSE.

That was the only word that came to mind as Joan watched the dry monotony of southern Texas parade past her window. Nothing moved out here. No brooks giggling over slick rocks. No ancient hardwoods competing for space along riverbeds and waterfalls. Not even a puff of dust as a jackrabbit sprinted across the road.

The land here looked hot and hostile. Even the rock formations dotting the landscape resembled the jagged teeth of some fire-breathing dragon, and the battered pickup seemed to be rattling them down into the bowels of the beast.

As though he’d heard some unspoken complaint, the man beside her notched up the air-conditioning. Cool air fanned her cheeks.

“Gonna be another hot summer,” Cody Matthews said suddenly. His eyes flicked over her suit. “Too hot to spend it wrapped up like a New York banker. You bring anything cooler?”

She tossed a quick look his way. In jeans and a well-worn Stetson, he was once more playing the tall, laconic Texan. “I’m sure what I’ve brought will be fine.”

“Uh-huh. First scorcher we get, I’ll be scooping you up out of a dead faint.”

“I doubt that. I’m very adaptable.” She kept her voice as smooth as whipped cream, having already decided that William Cody Matthews was a man who delighted in keeping a person off balance.

“We’ll see,” came his skeptical reply. He gestured over the steering wheel, pointing toward a line of dark clouds on the horizon. “Might get some rain soon. That’ll cool things down a bit.”

“It’s much more dry and barren than I expected.”

“You get used to it.”

She couldn’t miss the affection in his voice. “You like living here.”

“I was born and raised here. My grandfather bought the property Luna D’Oro sits on when there was nothing there but an abandoned line shack. Pa got busted up on the rodeo circuit and decided to try his hand at ranching. Ended up striking oil, instead. Not enough to put us on easy street, but enough to add considerably to the land. Since that time, I’ve expanded our holdings, bought the house we live in now. I can’t imagine living anywhere else but on the ranch.”