Читать книгу Fortune Finds Florist - Arlene James, Arlene James - Страница 8

Sam shined the toes of his boots on the backs of the legs of his starched, dark blue jeans and tugged at the open collar of his freshly ironed, maroon-plaid shirt. Smoothing the sides of the boxy cattleman’s coat that he wore for protection against the cold north wind, he sucked in one more deep breath. He was as ready as he was ever going to be.

It felt odd preparing to talk business with a woman. Farming was usually a man’s province, but like he’d told the banker who’d put him onto this setup, “The times they were a-changing, and a wise man realized when he couldn’t stand against a tide.” Besides, he’d done his research, and Sam wasn’t as convinced of the folly of her plans as the bankers were. Farming flowers might be unusual in West Central Texas, but it was entirely possible, provided a man—or woman—had access to all the necessary resources. He did not, but neither did Sierra Carlton. Together…ah, now that was another proposition altogether, and one he’d come prepared to make. Couldn’t be all that different than talking his way into an equipment loan.

Sam looked up at the crisp brick front of the Lorimer building. Like Sierra Carlton, Avis Lorimer was one of the famed Puma Springs heiresses. They, along with a third woman named Valerie Keene, had each inherited a cool million from an old man whom everyone around town had assumed was a pauper, including the old man’s nephew, Heston Witt, who just happened to be mayor, a position ripe for embarrassment when people learned he had pretty much gotten left out of the will. Heston’s nose had been out of joint since because of it, much to the amusement of most of the town, although that didn’t stop anyone from repeating the gossip he spouted.

Sam didn’t have the foggiest idea what Valerie Keene had done with her money. All he knew about her was that she was rumored to have been quite the party girl before she married the town’s fire marshal.

He’d heard worse about Avis Lorimer. Some said she was a home wrecker and possibly even a “widow-on-purpose,” but she’d stepped in and used her money to erect this fine new building on the Puma Springs town square after the old one had burned and left an ugly, gaping hole in the block.

As for Sierra Carlton, it was rumored that she was the disinherited child of a wealthy Fort Worth businessman. Some said she was divorced, and some said she had never been married, though she had a daughter. Sam, however, was the last man to judge another. God knew that he lived with his own enduring scandal.

Sam pushed open the heavy glass door to the florist’s shop and stepped inside to the sound of muted chimes. Warmth and a wave of flowery perfume washed over him. He glanced around the large, attractively arrayed showroom. A moment later a short, heavy woman with a mannish haircut appeared from a doorway on the right. Assuming that she was Sierra Carlton, he introduced himself.

“I’m Sam Jayce.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Jayce. I’m Bette Grouper. How can I help you?”

“Oh. Uh, I have an appointment with Ms. Carlton.”

The wide woman motioned to a flight of stairs on the left. “It’s at the front of the building. Just knock and go on in.”

Feeling foolish, Sam nodded his thanks and moved to the staircase. He started climbing. About halfway up, he paused, wiped his palms on his thighs and checked his hair with both hands. He’d been cursed with a cowlick right in front, so he’d taken to spiking his short, thick hair, not that it needed much help to stand up on end. Frowning, he dropped his hands and took the remainder of the stairs two at a time, keenly aware that if he’d been meeting with a man he’d have just worn a cap and said to hell with it. Dealing with females—adult females, anyway—always changed the equation, and that woman downstairs had unnerved him. For a moment he’d thought he was going to be doing business with someone who put him in mind of his grandma. That could still happen.

At the top of the stairs he turned left, toward the front of the building and strode down the hall to the last door. Rapping sharply, he put his hand on the knob, but felt himself freeze. The old girl downstairs had said to just go on in, but before he could convince himself to do that, the door swung open and a tall, leggy redhead in a short khaki skirt and a tan silk blouse with the collar turned up stuck out her hand.

“Samuel Jayce, I assume.”

For a moment, Sam couldn’t quite find his tongue. This woman definitely did not put him in mind of his granny. What she put him in mind of was a million bucks, and with just that one look he felt like the lowliest plowboy in the county. Why hadn’t he worn a suit? Maybe because he didn’t own one. Duh. Sure enough, though, he should’ve worn something other than jeans. Well, it was too late for that now. Shaking himself, he belatedly clasped her hand. It felt long and smooth and delicate in his own much rougher one.

Only a few inches shorter than his own six feet, she had long, slender arms and legs and a neat little waist that called attention to the thrust of her high, firm breasts, while the graceful length of her neck led the eye upward to her face. Though a little square, the symmetry of her high cheekbones and the crisp line of her jaw, accentuated by the stubborn thrust of her chin, nevertheless struck Sam as amazingly feminine. She had a perfect nose, very delicately arched brows a couple shades darker than her bright, curly, upswept hair and big, round eyes of green hazel spoked with a soft blue. Her mouth was neither too full nor too thin, elegantly shaped and painted the same shiny pinkish-orange as her short, oval fingernails, like strawberries mixed with crushed coral. Her skin, a pale, flawless gold, literally shined with health and vigor.

By appearance alone, Sam would have put her at about his own age of twenty-four, but the cool perfection of her makeup and the graceful assurance with which she handled herself pegged her as older. Sharp interest, accompanied by an equally sharp sense of disappointment, momentarily blindsided him.

“Just call me Sam,” he managed with what he feared was a frown and added too late, “ma’am.”

Her mouth quirked at that, but she merely beckoned him into the office with a movement of her head. He let go of her hand, realizing suddenly that he’d held it too long, and tried not to gulp as he followed her through what looked like a sitting area furnished with castoffs which were probably in reality expensive antiques, not that he’d know a genuine collectible from fire kindling.

“You can leave your coat on the chair there,” she said, turning in to an inner room. He shucked his coat, draped it over the back of a threadbare easy chair and walked into the other room. Pale wood file cabinets topped with an array of potted plants lined one rust-colored wall, and two tweedy, upholstered chairs stood before a sleek modern desk set at an angle to the front window. A bright floral carpet covered the floor and pale green curtains looped and draped about the windows. The executive leather chair behind the pale desk carried the cool green from the windows into the room.

Sierra Carlton performed a smooth little pirouette on the pointed toe of one high-heeled, tan leather shoe and walked behind the desk, dropping down into that high-backed chair. She couldn’t have framed herself more perfectly. The contrast of that vibrant hair against the calm green was breathtaking.

“Won’t you have a seat, Sam?”

“Thank you.” He stepped in front of an armchair and sat, trying not to be dazzled by the bright, vibrant woman across the desk. Telling himself that it was time to take charge of this situation, he leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the arms of the chair. “Ms. Carlton, I’m told—”

She lifted a slender hand, halting the flow of his words. “Sierra, please. Only seems fair if you’re going to insist that I call you Sam.”

Nodding, he got back to business. “I’m told, uh, Sierra, that you’re planning to farm flowers on that hundred and sixty acres you bought northwest of town.”

She stiffened, pulling her shoulders back. His gaze fell instantly to the thrust of her breasts, and suddenly he had a problem of a different sort.

“What of it?” she demanded.

Jerking his gaze back up to her face, he willed himself to relax and lay out his cards. “Well, it’s like this. You’re wanting to do some farming, and I’m a farmer. Custom farming, it’s called. See, usually I hire out to the landowner to perform any or all of the farming disciplines from field prep to harvest. I have a full line of equipment, ample experience and I’ve been reading up on flower crops. Once I get a good look at your property I’ll be able to devise a planting program.”

“A planting program,” she echoed.

He spread his hands, warming to his subject. “Yeah, see, farming is organized, high-tech business now. We’re still dependent on Mother Nature, but we don’t leave any more to chance than we must. Now, most farming around here is being done on established fields, but that’s ranch land you’re sitting on out there, which isn’t to say that it can’t be farmed, because I believe it can, but it’s going to take a lot of soil preparation and hard work.”

She sat back, picked up an ink pen and began turning it end over end with her fingers. “I hope you’ll pardon me for saying so, but you seem awful young for this.”

“Yes, ma’am. Twenty-four last month, but I have a degree in agriculture from Texas A&M and plenty of personal references.” He fished a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket and began unfolding it. “I’ve been in business for myself nearly four years, and I first hired out as a farmhand at fourteen, so I have nearly ten years experience.”

She took the sheet of paper that he offered her and looked it over. “There are addresses here from Longview to El Paso. You’ve been around some.”

“From the Piney Woods to the Rio Grande and the Red River to the Gulf of Mexico, but I’ve got to say as far as farming, this is the place to be. No other reason I’d come back here.”

She blinked at that, and he realized with a sudden flush of heat that he’d said too much. Trying desperately to deflect her attention, he stumbled on.

“That and my baby sisters. Kim and Keli, they’re seven. Twins. I understand you’ve got a little girl, too.”

Sierra Carlton smiled and laid aside the sheet of references. “Yes. Tyree. She’s eight, going on nine, as she’d be quick to remind me.”

He nodded, praying he’d found ground common enough to allay any hint of doubt he might have inadvertently stirred. “Maybe they know each other, our girls.”

“Could be. I’ll ask Tyree.”

He resisted the urge to swipe a hand over his face and instead tried to steer the subject back to business. “So, what do you think? Are you interested in taking me on? I’m convinced we could pull a profit at this if we go about it right.”

She tapped the capped ink pen against her chin, eyes narrowed in thought. “May I ask how you became aware of my intentions, Sam?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I heard about it down at the bank. Mr. Ontario’s been real good to me. Gave me my first loan so I could buy equipment, helped me pay for it by referring me for work, and just recently we’ve established a line of credit for me so I can expand.”

A bright smile lit her face. “Mr. Ontario told you about my plans? Frankly, I didn’t think he approved.”

That smile had the power to dazzle, and for a moment Sam was tempted to foster it, but one thing Sam believed in wholeheartedly was honesty, especially when it came to business dealings. He cleared his throat. “Um, well, to be honest, ma’am, he didn’t exactly tell me what you were planning. I sort of, like, overheard him talking about it to someone else.”

That amazing smile dimmed. “Oh?”

Sam shifted in his chair once more. “Yes, ma’am. I was sitting in his office when some fellow named Dinsmore called. I’m sure Mr. Ontario didn’t mean to be indiscreet, but I couldn’t help overhearing what was being said.”

Disappointment stamped all over what remained of that smile. “I see.”

For some reason he wanted to get up, go around that desk and hug her, or at least pat her on the shoulder. Instead, he sat forward and said with quiet conviction, “For what it’s worth, ma’am, I disagree with Mr. Ontario on this. I mean, just because a thing hasn’t been done in a certain area before doesn’t mean that it can’t be done or that it’s foolish to try.”

She smiled again, but this time it was a warm, seemingly personal connection that did strange things inside his chest. “What would you charge me for an undertaking such as this, from scratch, as you say?”

So there it was, the moment of reckoning. Sam eased forward in his seat and splayed his elbows on the edge of her desk, reaching forward to cup his hands together over the flowered border of her desk blotter. “Well, there’s the thing, ma’am. Sierra. This looks to be a very labor-intensive operation, and I’m guessing, frankly, that we’re pretty evenly matched here. You’ve got the land, the funding and, I’m hoping, the market connections, while I’ve got the equipment, the know-how and the strong back. I’d say that makes for a pretty equal partnership.”

“Partnership?” she repeated warily, and suddenly it was do or die.

“That’s right,” he said, forcing calmness into his voice though his insides were jumping like a bucket full of crickets. “A clean fifty-fifty split. I don’t see it working any other way.”

She blinked and huffed a long breath in and out. “Hmm.” She bit her lip, displaying the smooth, clean edges of her straight, white teeth, reminding him that the dentist had said the girls were going to need braces by middle school. Seconds ticked by. It was all he could do to sit back in his chair and wait without jiggling something. Finally she tossed down the pen and spread her hands.

“I hadn’t thought of taking on a partner,” she told him. “This isn’t a decision I can make on the spur of the moment, you understand.”

Defeat stabbed at him, but he fought it off with nonchalance. “Oh, sure, sure. I completely get that. You take a few days to think it over and let me know. Meanwhile, you might want to check out those references.”

She pulled the paper toward her and glanced at it. “All right. I’ll do that.”

“You have my number,” he said, sliding to the edge of his seat.

“Yes.” She got to her feet and stuck out her hand. “Thank you for coming. This was…enlightening.”

He took her hand in his and gave it a good shake. “Thank you for hearing me out, Sierra. I hope you’ll decide soon because there’s lots to do if we’re going to have a crop this summer.”

Smiling wanly, she placed both hands on her hips, glanced down at the desk and nodded. “You’ll hear from me next week.”

He had to be satisfied with that. She walked him out into the sitting room where he collected his coat, then all the way down the stairs to the front door of the shop. They chatted about the weather, bemoaning the gray skies and frigid winds with which they were beginning the new year and wondering if they would soon get precipitation and in what form. It was all very polite and formal. As soon as he stepped out onto that cold sidewalk, a feeling of doom descended on him, and he was suddenly very sure that he’d somehow blown it.

Well, he’d give it a week, anyway. He could afford to do that and still have plenty of time to make other arrangements if she didn’t go for the deal. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d been refused, but something about this meeting rankled deep within him. He couldn’t have said why, but as he walked along the street to the battered double-cab, dually pickup parked in a lot behind the city hall, Sam felt his stomach churn with failure.

Sierra slid along the shop window, watching Sam Jayce stride down the street with a long-stepping, shoulder-rocking swagger, his hands tucked into the pockets of his coat. She didn’t really know what she’d expected to find in Sam Jayce, but she sure hadn’t expected such a supremely confident and accomplished young man.

Moments after Sam left the building, Bette came into the showroom in answer to the door chime in case they had a customer. Sierra didn’t turn around as she asked, “So, what do you think?”

“I think I wish I was at least fifteen years younger and fifty pounds lighter.”

Sierra glanced around with a wry smile. “He is pretty cute.”

“Cute!” Bette snorted. “Honey, you’ve been alone too long if those shoulders and that butt don’t strike you a little harder than cute.”

“He’s just a kid,” Sierra said dismissively. And he just might be the answer to her prayers.

A partnership, though. Pride rebelled at the notion. She was determined to make a success of herself, no matter what her father or anyone else thought, but Frank McAfree already believed that his daughter was completely incapable of handling her own finances, let alone her life. She could just imagine what he would say if she took on a partner, especially such a young, attractive partner, because no one could deny that Sam Jayce, whatever his age, was a very attractive man.

He’d put her in mind of a robust young Julius Caesar, even with that spiked, sandy brown hair. It was the shape of his head, from the perfect oval of his skull to his high forehead and prominent nose down to the square, blunt strength of his chin, which gave him that calmly powerful air. He had dimples that gouged into the lean planes of his cheeks, sleepy, pale green eyes thickly fringed with gold-tipped lashes and a perfectly sculpted mouth that added an almost feminine counterweight to the harshly masculine proportions of his face. But the rest of that package contained nothing even remotely feminine.

He wasn’t a huge man, maybe six feet tall and long and lean with broad shoulders and compact muscles that bunched and elongated with fluid power as he moved. She couldn’t help noticing the size and strength of his hands, the way his well-rounded thighs filled out his jeans, and yes, the rear view was enough to make a woman look twice. She just wished he was about ten or twenty years older.

On the other hand, perhaps his youth was in his favor. All the older men to whom she had proposed farming flowers had treated her like a foolish child. Maybe Sam Jayce was just young enough to still believe in dreams and brash enough to try to make them come true. But how could she know?

She would check his references, of course, but any name listed there would have been chosen because it guaranteed a glowing report. Better to speak with someone with no vested interest, someone in a position to know the scuttlebutt. It was time to pay a visit to an old friend.

The January wind cut like a knife when she got out of the sleek foreign luxury car that had been her first real indulgence after receiving her unexpected inheritance from dear old Edwin Searle. To say that finding herself among Edwin’s heirs had been a shock was a serious understatement, but the kind of money that he had left her, Avis and Valerie was the stuff of which dreams were made. It was also an awesome responsibility, and one with which Sierra was having a difficult time coping, though she wouldn’t have admitted it even to her own shadow.

The wind tugged at her jacket as she sprinted across the parking lot toward the coffee shop in the strip mall where she had originally opened her floral business. If anyone could tell her about Sam Jayce, it would be the coffee-shop proprietor Gwyn Dunstan. Sierra shoved through the heavy glass door and came to a halt just inside as the welcome fragrance of hot coffee and fresh-baked goods warmed her.

“Hey!” Gwyn greeted her cheerily, moving across the floor with steaming mugs and plates of oozing cinnamon rolls balanced in her hands.

The place was fairly busy, the cold Texas wind having driven folks indoors for a hot, fragrant cup and warm roll. Nevertheless, Gwyn quickly deposited the cups and saucers at a table of four men and called her teenage daughter from the back. “Molly!” Gwyn came toward Sierra with her arms open wide. “Looking good there, girlfriend. How’s life treating you?”

“Good. How about you?” Sierra returned the hug. Though known for her cynicism and caustic tongue, Gwyn was a warmer creature than many suspected, and lately she seemed softer, cheerier. She still retained that core of inner toughness that made her Gwyn, however.

“Same old, same old,” Gwyn said lightly as Molly appeared from the kitchen.

“Hi, Sierra.” Blond, pretty Molly had her mom’s same thin, taut, muscular build but with a nubile softness that drew boys like flies to honey. She occasionally baby-sat Sierra’s daughter. “How’s Tyree?”

“Looking forward to her birthday, which isn’t until the very last day of March. And we just passed New Year’s, for pity’s sake.”

“Kids,” Gwyn said. “They live from holiday to holiday.”

“Well, let us know when you put her party together,” Molly said.

“Absolutely,” Sierra promised, then she turned to Gwyn. “Can we talk?”

“Sure thing. Let’s snag a cup and head back into the office.”

Two minutes later, they were seated around the small metal table that Gwyn used as a desk in the cubbyhole behind the kitchen. “So what’s up? Dennis still giving you a hard time?”

“Perpetually, but I’m not here to talk about the magic reappearing ex.”

Dennis had turned up after a three-year absence—just as soon as the news of her inheritance had reached him—and he’d made her life miserable ever since. His influence had turned her formerly sweet, loving eight-year-old into a greedy demanding brat that Sierra sometimes didn’t even recognize.

“What do you know about a young man named Sam Jayce?”

Gwyn’s eyebrows went straight up. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m thinking about going into business with him.”

Gwyn sat back and folded her arms. “You remember that woman who was murdered a few years back?”

Sarah Jayce. No wonder Sam’s name had sounded familiar. “She was that woman beaten to death by her husband.”

Gwyn nodded. “She was also Sam’s mother.”

“Ohmigod.”

“Jonah Jayce was a brutal drunk. He beat her to death because she hid their baby girls from him.”

“Twins,” Sierra remembered.

“That’s right. Sarah was afraid, apparently with good reason, that Jonah would hurt them. Sam himself was long gone by the time they were born. He left home at fourteen, went to foster care at his mother’s insistence. A neighbor boy to the west of me was best friends with Sam. I remember that Sam’s foster mother used to drop him off so the boys could spend time together. He was always very polite, Sam was.”

“He still is,” Sierra murmured.

“Not surprised.” Gwyn shifted forward in her chair. “I heard that Jonah used to get drunk and show up at his foster home spoiling for a fight, and that’s why Sam dropped out of high school at sixteen and disappeared. He was twenty when his mom died. They must’ve been in contact because he showed up, assumed guardianship of his baby sisters and disappeared again. A year later the three of them moved back into the Jayce house about six miles west of town, and somehow that boy convinced old Zeke Ontario down at the bank to take a chance on him and started buying up equipment. Calls himself a ‘custom farmer.’ I hear he’s got a college education and a keen business sense. You could do worse.”

Sierra sat back with an expelled breath. “Wow. Gwyn, if your customers ever knew you retained this much about them… Sounds like life gave Sam lemons and he got busy making lemonade.”

Gwyn nodded. “I’ll tell you something else. He’s utterly devoted to those two little girls. I don’t think he has any sort of social life apart from them, and they’re happy, well-adjusted children, which is surprising, given everything they’ve been through. I know that for a fact because Molly baby-sat them for a couple weeks last summer. She had a killer crush on Sam for a while after.”

“I can imagine,” Sierra muttered, and Gwyn laughed.

“Yeah, he’s the sort to make the girls’ hearts go flitter-flutter, all right, not that he seems to notice.”

Sierra smiled, deliberately ignoring that, and picked up her coffee cup. “Thanks, Gwyn. I knew I could get the straight dope from you. Now tell me how you’ve been doing.”

Gwyn chatted about the recent improvement in her business and her concerns about Avis, who had been keeping mostly to herself. Genuinely interested, Sierra listened and nodded, sipping her excellent coffee. But in the back of her mind, she felt a little “flitter-flutter” of her own. Not because of Sam’s masculine, clean-cut good looks, of course—she wasn’t a teenager—but rather with the possibility that she might have found the means to making her dreams come true.

At least that’s what she told herself.