Читать книгу Thunderbolt over Texas - Barbara Dunlop - Страница 7

Most people loved a good wedding.

Cole Erickson hated them.

It wasn’t that he had anything against joy and bliss, or anything in particular against happily-ever-after. It was the fact that white dresses, seven-tiered cakes and elegant bouquets of roses reminded him that he’d failed countless generations of Ericksons and had broken more than a few hearts along the way.

So, as the recessional sounded in the Blue Earth Valley Church, and as his brother, Kyle, and Kyle’s new bride, Katie, glided back down the aisle, Cole’s smile was strained. He tucked the empty ring box into the breast pocket of his tux, took the arm of the maid of honor and followed the happy couple through the anteroom and onto the porch.

Outside, they were greeted by an entire town of well-wishers raining confetti and taking up the newly coined tradition of blowing bubbles at the bride and groom.

Somebody shoved a neon-orange bottle of bubble mix into Cole’s hand. Emily, the freckle-faced maid of honor, laughed and released his arm, unscrewing the cap on her bottle and joining in the bubble cascade.

Grandma Erickson shifted to stand next to Cole. She waved away his offer of the bubble solution, but threw a handful of confetti across the wooden steps.

“Extra two hundred for the cleanup,” she said.

“Only happens once in a lifetime,” Cole returned, even though the soap and shredded paper looked more messy than festive.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

Cole could feel his grandmother’s lecture coming a mile away. “Grandma,” he cautioned.

“Melanie was a nice girl.”

“Melanie was a terrific girl,” he agreed.

“You blew that one.”

“I did.” Grandma would get no argument from Cole. He’d loved Melanie. Everyone had loved Melanie. There wasn’t a mean or selfish bone in her body, and any man on the planet would be lucky to have her as a wife.

Problem was, Cole had plenty of mean and selfish bones in his body. He couldn’t be the husband Melanie or anyone else needed. He couldn’t do the doting bridegroom, couldn’t kowtow to a woman’s whims, change his habits, his hair or his underwear style to suit another person.

In short, there was no way in the world he was getting married now or anytime in the foreseeable future. Which left him with one mother of a problem. A nine-hundred-year-old problem.

“You’re not getting any younger,” said Grandma.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Cole as Kyle and Katie climbed into a chauffeur-driven limousine for the ten-mile ride back to the ranch and the garden reception.

“About time.” Grandma harrumphed.

“I was thinking the Thunderbolt of the North would make a perfect wedding gift for Kyle and Katie.”

Even amid the cacophony of goodbye calls and well wishes, Cole recognized the stunned silence beside him. Heresy to suggest the family’s antique brooch go to the second son, he knew. But Kyle was the logical choice.

Cole had already moved out of the main house. He’d set up in the old cabin by the creek so Kyle and Katie would have some privacy. Soon their children would take over the second floor, making Kyle the patriarch of the next Erickson dynasty. And the Thunderbolt of the North was definitely a dynastic kind of possession.

As the wedding guests moved en masse toward their vehicles, Grandma finally spoke. “You’re suggesting I throw away nine hundred years of tradition.”

“I’m suggesting you respect nine hundred years of tradition. Kyle and Katie will have kids.”

“So will you.”

“Not if I don’t get married.”

“Of course you’ll get married.”

“Grandma. I’m thirty-three. Melanie was probably my best shot. Give the brooch to Katie.”

“You are the eldest.”

“Olav the Third came up with that rule in 1075. A few things have changed since then.”

“The important things haven’t.”

“Wake up and smell the bridal bouquets. We’re well into the twenty-first century. The British royal family is even talking about pushing girls up in the line of succession.”

“We’re not the British royal family.”

“Well, thank God for that. I’d hate to have the crown jewels on my conscience.”

Grandma rolled her eyes at his irreverence. She started down the stairs, and Cole automatically offered his arm and matched his pace to hers.

She gripped his elbow with a blue-veined hand. “Just because you’re too lazy to find a bride—”

“Lazy?”

She tipped her chin to stare up at him. “Yes, Cole Nathaniel Walker Erickson. Lazy.”

Cole tried not to smile at the ridiculous accusation. “All the more reason not to trust me with the family treasure.”

“All the more reason to use a cattle prod.”

He pulled back. “Ouch. Grandma, I’m shocked.”

“Shocked? Oh, that you will be. Several thousand volts if you don’t get your hindquarters out there and find another bride.” Then her expression softened and she reached up to pat his cheek. “You’re my grandson, and I love you dearly, but somebody has to make you face up to your weaknesses.”

“I’m a hopeless case, Grandma,” he told her honestly.

“People can change.”

Cole stopped next to his pickup and swung the passenger door open. He stared into her ageless, blue eyes. “Not me.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated. But if he wanted her support, he knew he had to be honest. “I make them cry, Grandma.”

“That’s because you leave them.”

“They leave me.”

She shook her head, giving him a wry half smile. “You leave them emotionally. Then they leave you physically.”

“I can’t change that.”

“Yes you can.”

Cole took a deep breath. “Give Kyle the brooch. It’s the right decision.”

“Find another bride. That’s the right decision. You’ll thank me in the end.”

“Marital bliss?”

“Marital bliss.”

Cole couldn’t help but grin at that one. “This from a woman who once threw her husband’s clothes out a second-story window.”

Grandma turned away quickly, but not before he caught a glimpse of her smile.

“You know perfectly well that story is a shameless exaggeration,” she said.

His grin grew. “But you admit there were men’s suits scattered all over the lawn.”

“I admit no such thing, Cole Nathaniel.” She sniffed. “Impudent.”

“Always.”

“You get that from your mother. May she rest in peace.”

Cole helped Grandma into the cab of the truck. “The Thunderbolt would make a perfect wedding gift.”

“It will,” Grandma agreed, and he felt a glimmer of hope.

Then she adjusted the hem of her dress over her knees. “You just have to find yourself a bride.”

So much for hope. “Not going to happen,” he said.

“You need some help?”

Cole’s brain froze for a split-second, then it sputtered back to life. “Grandma…”

She folded her hands in her lap and her smile turned complacent. “We’re late for the reception.”

“Don’t you dare.”

She turned to him and blinked. “Dare what?”

“Don’t you try to match me up.”

“With whom?”

“Grandma.”

“Close the door, dear. We’re running late.”

Cole opened his mouth to speak, but then snapped it shut again.

His grandmother had inherited the stubbornness and tenacity of her ancestors. He knew all about that, because he’d inherited it, too.

He banged the door shut, cursing under his breath as he rounded the front grill. There was no point in arguing anymore today. But if she started a parade of Wichita Falls’ fairest and finest through the ranch house, he was going bull riding in Canada.

Cultural Properties Curator Sydney Wainsbrook felt her stomach clench and her adrenaline level rise as Bradley Slander sauntered across the foyer of New York’s Laurent Museum. A champagne flute dangled carelessly from his fingers and that scheming smile made his beady brown eyes look even smaller and more rat-like than usual.

“Better luck next time, Wainsbrook,” he drawled, tipping his head back to take an inelegant swig of the ’96 Cristal champagne. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he smacked his lips with exaggerated self-satisfaction.

Yeah, he would feel self-satisfied. He had just outbid her on an antique, gold Korean windbell, earning a hefty commission and making it the possession of a private collector instead of a public museum.

It was the third time this year he’d squatted in the wings like a vulture while she did the legwork. The third time he scrabbled in at the last second to ruin her deal.

Sydney had nothing against competition. And she understood an owner’s right to sell their property to the highest bidder. What galled her was the way Bradley slithered around her contacts, fed them inflated estimates to convince them to consider auction. Then he bid much lower than his estimate, disappointing the owner and keeping important heritage finds from the community forever.

“How do you sleep at night?” she asked.

Bradley leaned his shoulder against a marble pillar and crossed one ankle over the other. “Let’s see. I spend an hour or so in my hot tub, sip a glass of Napoleon brandy, listen to a bit of classical jazz, then crawl into my California king and close my eyes. How about you?”

She pointedly shifted her gaze to the stone wall beside them. “I fantasize about you and that broad ax.”

He smirked. “Happy to be in your fantasy, babe.”

“Yeah? The broad ax wins. You lose.”

“Might be worth it.”

“Gag me.”

His lips curved up into a wider smile. “Whatever turns your crank.”

A shudder ran through Sydney at the unbidden visual. She took a quick drink of her own champagne, wishing it was a good, stiff single malt. It might have been a long dry spell, but she wouldn’t entertain sexual thoughts about Bradley if he was the last man on earth.

Bradley chuckled. “So, tell me. What’s next?”

She raised an eyebrow.

“On your list. What are we going after? I gotta tell you, Wainsbrook, you are my ticket to the big time.”

“Should I just e-mail you my research notes? Save you some trouble?”

“Whatever’s most convenient.”

“What’s most convenient is for you to stick your head in a very dark place for a very long time.”

“Sydney, Sydney, Sydney.” He clucked. “And here I tell all my friends you’re a lady.”

“It’ll be a cold day in hell before I voluntarily give you any information.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself.” Then he leaned in. “I have to admit. The chase kind of turns me on.”

Fighting the urge to fulfill her broad-ax fantasy, Sydney clenched her jaw. What was she going to do now?

She was on probation at the Laurent Museum due to her lack of productivity this year. If Bradley scooped one more of her finds, she’d be out of a job altogether. Her boss had made that much clear enough after the auction this afternoon.

What she needed was some room to maneuver. She needed to get away from Bradley, maybe leave the country. Go to Mexico, or Peru, or…France. Oh! She quickly reversed the smile that started to form.

“See?” purred Bradley. “You like the game, too. You know you do.”

Sydney struggled not to gag on that one.

He held up his empty glass in a mock salute. “Until next time.”

“Next time,” Sydney muttered, having no intention whatsoever of giving him a next time. She figured the odds of Bradley following her overseas were remote, which meant the Thunderbolt of the North was wide open.

She had three years’ worth of research notes on the legendary antique brooch, including credible evidence it was once blessed by Pope Urban the Fifth.

Forged by the Viking King, Olav the Third, in 1075, the jewel-encrusted treasure had journeyed into battles and crossed seas. Some claimed it was used as collateral to found the Sisters of Beneficence convent at La Roche.

Most thought it was a legend, but Sydney knew it existed. In somebody’s attic. In somebody’s jewel case. In somebody’s safe-deposit box. If even half the stories were true, the Thunderbolt had an uncanny knack for survival.

And if it had survived, she’d pick up its trail. If she picked up its trail, she’d find it. And when she found it, she’d make sure it stayed with the Laurent Museum—even if she had to hog-tie Bradley Slander to keep him out of the bidding.

Life was looking up for Cole. He’d spent the past three days at a livestock auction in Butte, Montana, with his eye on one beauty of a quarter horse. In the end, he’d outbid outfits from California and Nevada to bring Night-Dreams home to the Valley.

He might not be in a position to produce the next round of Erickson heirs, but he was sure in a position to produce top-quality cutting horses. That had to count for something.

Cole tossed his duffel bag on the cabin floor and kicked the door shut behind him. Of course it counted for something. It counted for a lot. And he had to get his grandmother’s voice out of his head.

It had been months since the wedding. He wasn’t a stud, and she could only make him feel guilty if he let her.

He pulled a battered percolator from a kitchen shelf and scooped some coffee into the basket. As soon as Katie was pregnant, he’d make his case for the Thunderbolt again. If Olav the Third could start a tradition, Cole the First could change it.

He filled the coffeepot with water and cranked the knob on his propane stove. The striker clicked in the silent kitchen. Then the blue flame burst to life.

A four-cylinder engine whined its way down his dirt driveway, and Cole abandoned the coffeepot to peer out the window. His family drove eight-cylinder pickups. In fact everybody in the valley drove pickups.

He leaned over the plaid couch and watched the little sports car bump to a halt beneath his oak tree.

He didn’t recognize the car. But then a trim ankle and a shapely calf stretched out the driver’s door and he no longer cared.

He moved onto the porch as a telltale hiss of steam shot out from under the hood and a spurt of water dribbled down the grill. The engine gurgled a couple of times, then sighed to silence.

Another shapely leg followed the first. And a sexy pair of cream heels planted themselves in the dust.

The slim woman rose to about five-foot-five. She wore a narrow, ivory-colored skirt and a matching jacket. Thick, auburn hair cascaded over her shoulders in shimmering waves. Her cheeks were flushed and her skin was flawless. She hadn’t even been in the valley long enough to get dusty.

She smiled as she turned, flashing straight white teeth and propping her sunglasses in her hair. Cole sucked in an involuntary breath.

“Hello.” She waved, stumbled on the uneven ground, then quickly righted herself as she started toward him.

He trotted down the three steps to offer his arm.

“Thank you,” she breathed as her slim fingers tightened against his bare forearm.

A jolt of lightning flashed all the way to his shoulder and he quickly cleared his throat. “Car trouble?” he asked.

She turned to look at the vehicle, frowning. “I don’t think so.”

He raised a brow. “You don’t?”

She blinked up at him with jewel-green eyes. “Why would I? It seemed fine on the way in.”

He stared into those eyes, trying to decide if she was wearing colored contacts. No. He didn’t think so. The eyes were all hers. As was that luscious hair and those full, dark lips.

“I think you’ve overheated,” he said, breathing heavily. He knew he sure had.

She gazed up at him in silence and her manicured nails pressed against him for a split second. “You, uh, know about cars?”

He pulled himself up a fraction of an inch. “Some.”

“That’s good,” she said, her gaze never leaving his, the tip of her tongue flicking over her bottom lip for the barest of moments. “I mostly use taxis.”

“I take it you’re not from around here?” Stupid question. If she lived anywhere near Blue Earth Valley, Cole would have spotted her before now.

“New York,” she said.

“The city?”

She laughed lightly and Cole’s heart rate notched up. “Yes. The city.”

They reached the porch and a loud spattering hiss came through the open door. The coffee. “Damn.”

“What?”

“Hang on.” He took the stairs in two bounds, strode across the kitchen and grabbed the handle of the coffeepot, moving it back on the stove as he shut it down.

“You burned the coffee?” she asked from behind him.

“Afraid so.” He wiped up the spilled coffee then rinsed and dried his hands. Then he held one out to her. “Cole Erickson.”

Her smile grew to dazzling. “Sydney Wainsbrook.”

She shook his hand and the jolt of electricity doubled.

“You want me to take a look at your car?” he asked, reluctantly letting her go.

“I’d rather you offered me a cup of that coffee.”

“It’s ruined,” he warned.

She shrugged her slim shoulders. “I’m tough.”

He took in her elegant frame and choked out a short laugh. “Right.”

“Hey, I’m from New York.”

“This is Texas.”

“Try me.”

Cole bit down on his lip. Nope. Not going there.

Her eyes sparkled with mischief and she shook her head. “Walked right into that one, didn’t I?”

He quickly neutralized his expression. “Walked right into what?”

She brushed past him and retrieved two stoneware mugs from the open shelf. “Don’t you worry about my delicate sensibilities.” She held them both out. “Pour me some coffee.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Sydney ran her fingertip around the rim of the ivory coffee cup. Even by New York standards, the brew was terrible. But she was drinking every last drop. Black.

She needed Cole to know she meant business, because he looked like the kind of guy who’d walk right over her if she so much as blinked.

She contemplated him from across the table. He was a big man, all muscle and sinew beneath a worn, plaid shirt. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing tight, corded forearms. He had thick hair, a square chin, a slightly bumped nose and expressive cobalt eyes that turned sensual and made her catch her breath.

He was going to be a challenge. But then, anything to do with the Thunderbolt of the North had to be a challenge. She’d have been disappointed if it had gone any other way.

“So what brings you to Blue Earth Valley, Sydney Wainsbrook?” he drawled into the silence.

She smiled, liking her audacious plan better by the second. She’d worried he might be obnoxious or objectionable, but he was a midnight fantasy come to life. Why some other woman hadn’t snapped him up before now was a mystery to her.

“You do,” she said.

“Me?”

She took a sip of her coffee. “Yes, you.”

“Have we met?”

“Not until now.”

He sat back, blue eyes narrowing. Then a flash of comprehension crossed his face and he held up his palms. “Whoa. Wait a minute.”

“What?” Surely he couldn’t have figured out her plan that quickly.

“Did my grandmother put you up to this?”

Sydney shook her head, relieved. “No, she didn’t.”

“You sure? Because—”

“I’m sure.” The only person who had put Sydney up to this was Sydney. Well, Sydney and a thousand hours of research in museum basements across Europe.

She moved her cup to one side and leaned forward, her interest piqued. “But tell me why your grandmother might have sent me.”

He tightened his jaw and sat back in purposeful silence.

Sydney wriggled a little in her seat. “Hoo-ha. I can tell this is going to be good.”

He didn’t answer, just stared her down.

“Dish,” she insisted, refusing to be intimidated. She had a feeling people normally gave him a wide berth. And she had no intention of behaving like normal people. Surprise was one of her best weapons.

He rolled his eyes. “Fine. It’s because she’s an incorrigible matchmaker.”

Sydney bit down on a laugh. “Your grandmother is setting you up?”

He grimaced. “That sounded pathetic, didn’t it?”

“A little.”

“She’s a meddler. And…well…” He seemed to catch himself, and he quickly shook his head. “Nah. Not going there. You tell me what you’re doing in Blue Earth Valley.”

Sydney wrapped her hands around her coffee cup. Right. Stalling wasn’t going to change a thing. She’d plunge right in and hope to catch him off guard. “I’m a curator from the Laurent Museum.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t show any signs of panic. That was good.

“I’ve just finished three months’ research in Europe.”

He waited. Still no reaction.

“It supplemented three years of previous research. My thesis, actually.”

“You wrote a thesis?”

“Yes, I did. On the Thunderbolt of the North.”

Okay. That got a reaction from him. His eyes chilled to sea ice and his jaw clamped tight.

“I understand you’re the current owner.”

His palms came down hard on the table. “You understand wrong.”

“Let me rephrase—”

“Good idea.”

She leaned in again. “I know how it works.”

“You know how what works?”

“The inheritance. I know it goes to your wife. And I’m here to offer to marry you.”