Читать книгу Angel of Smoky Hollow - Barbara McMahon - Страница 9

IT WAS EARLY when Kirk kick-started his bike and headed for his grandfather’s place. He checked on the old man two or three times a week. Pops rarely came to town any more—preferring his own company on the farm to mingling with others. No one cared. He had the disposition of a surly bear.

But he was the one who raised Kirk and he had a deep abiding affection for the old man.

When he pulled into the yard a short time later, the old hound barked and ran to greet him. Soon Pops came out of the back.

“You here for breakfast?” he asked gruffly.

“If there’s any going, I am,” Kirk said. He took off his helmet and propped up the motorcycle. Glancing around he saw a farm still going strong. He hoped he had the energy and determination when he was in his seventies that his grandfather did.

“How’re you doing for eggs?” Kirk asked as he drew closer. There were no hugs. They didn’t even shake hands. But Kirk felt the love for the old man as an integral part of himself.

“Sent some over to Bella yesterday. Plenty laying now. Come on in. Coffee’s on and you can cook the biscuits.”

The two prepared their breakfast as they had many mornings when Kirk was growing up. His mother had abandoned them when he’d been about two. He really had no memory of her. His grandmother had long ago left the grouchy old man. After his father’s death, it had been Kirk and Pops.

“Saw Webb Francis yesterday,” Kirk said after he put the biscuits in the oven to cook. “Getting better?”

“Appears to be, though he looks like hell. Says he’ll be home soon, but I don’t think so.”

“You keeping an eye on his place?”

His grandfather might not be the most personable of men, but he had a strong sense of duty he’d instilled in Kirk.

“I am. He’s got someone staying there a few days. Woman from New York.”

“What’s she doing here?”

“Came to jot down some of our songs—for posterity.”

“Only posterity folks need to know are the kin of those here today. And they’ll pass them along.” He looked at his grandson sharply. “Pretty, that woman?”

“Too thin. Has tired eyes. Seems to switch from being all haughty to scared of her own shadow and back again.”

“Won’t stay long.”

“They never do, do they?” Kirk said, thinking about his family’s history with women.

“Best thing I can say of my marriage was your father. His best was you.”

Kirk nodded. He didn’t have a marriage to boast of. Would he ever find someone to make a family with? He’d once thought he and Alice would marry. But she upped and went off to Atlanta and found a rich attorney. Once he’d had his fill of seeing the world, he’d wanted to settle in Smoky Hollow. How different life would have been with a few changes along the way.

“You should marry, have some kids. I wouldn’t mind having a great-grandchild,” Pops said gruffly.

Kirk was surprised to hear him say that. “Thought you believe men are better off without women.”

“Can’t make a baby alone,” Pops said.

For a second, Kirk thought of the pretty woman from New York. It had been a while since anyone had caught his attention. She appeared too uptight to want children was his instant assessment. But for a moment, he wondered what it would be like to kiss her, to see her eyes blaze with awareness and desire. Was she cool as her coloring, or could she flare into passion with the right man?

Stupid thought, as if he could ever be the right man. Alice had been from Smoky Hollow and had moved away as soon as she was able. No city slicker would hang around beyond the summer. And he wasn’t interested in moving to New York.

“Have to make do with me,” he said.

His grandfather shrugged. “Works for me.”

After eating a hearty breakfast, he helped his grandfather with chores. The man wasn’t slowing down much, but he was in his seventies. Maybe Kirk should suggest he get some help, hire a man to work alongside him.

Farming wasn’t for Kirk. He didn’t mind helping out from time to time, but he and Pops had settled a long time ago that Kirk wasn’t going to take on the family farm. He liked building and carving. Lately the building side had slowed, giving him more time for the carving. Still, Pops was his only living relative, except for his mother who had long ago vanished from his life.

“Might go over to Bryceville later this week, check in on Webb Francis,” Pops said later when Kirk was getting ready to leave to meet Angelica.

“He’d like that. Tell him I’m introducing his friend around.”

Pops looked at Kirk. “Bring her by here one day.”

Kirk shook his head. “You come to town. You haven’t been in weeks. Do you good.”

“I’m busy.”

Kirk laughed. “Take it easy, Pops. I’ll come by in a day or two.”

He drove the short distance to home and left the bike while he walked to his next-door neighbor’s home.

Knocking on the front door, he was surprised to see Angelica open it instantly, almost as if she’d been standing behind it waiting for him. A check of his watch showed it wasn’t quite ten, so he wasn’t late. She stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind her. He caught a whiff of some light floral scent, blending with that of grass and the roses running riot in Webb Francis’s yard.

Her hair was sleek and glowing in the sunlight. Tied back he couldn’t get a good estimate of if it was wavy or not. But that honey color was delicious. Her eyes were staring at him as he caught her gaze.

“What?”

“Are we going? Or are we just standing here for the rest of the morning.”

He started to agree with standing and staring at her. She was pretty as a spring morning. And totally off limits if her attitude was anything to go by.

“We’re going. Got everything you need?”

She lifted her tote a few inches, then turned and stepped off the porch.

Walking beside her he registered the state of the lawn. He’d have to get over and cut the grass before they had to get a harvester in.

She said something. He looked at her. “Say again?”

“What?”

“What you said, can you repeat it?”

“I asked how long it’s going to take to get to wherever we are going and why aren’t we driving?”

“I thought New Yorkers walked everywhere,” he said, ignoring the first part of the comment.

“I usually take cabs.”

“Lazy,” he teased.

She flared up, then caught the gleam in his eye and relaxed a fraction, giving a rueful smile. “Maybe a bit. But I don’t want to be walking down a busy street with my violin. It could get damaged.”

“You don’t take it everywhere.”

She nodded. “Pretty much.”

“So are you famous or something?”

She shook her head. “Why would you think that?”

“Webb Francis seemed impressed—said he could learn something from you and he’s the best fiddle player around.”

“Violin,” she murmured.

“Say again?”

She stopped and faced him straight on. “Violin,” she said loud and clear.

“I’m deaf in one ear, have a hearing loss in the other,” he said.

Her eyes widened. “I didn’t know. Sorry.” She was almost yelling.

He leaned closer, taking in that light floral scent, and the heat of her. “I can hear normal tones for the most part if I’m facing the person talking. Don’t yell.”

Her eyes gazed into his and he felt a tightening in his gut. The blue was flawless, like the deep summer blue of the skies over Kentucky. She didn’t look away and he felt as if she was drawing him in closer, until he could almost brush his lips across hers, taste the sweetness he knew he’d find, discover if passion lurked beneath the cool exterior.

She blinked and stepped back.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“First to the library. Mary Margaret McBride has video tapes of other music festivals and CDs. Get to know her and you can watch and listen to them to see who you want to talk to. Then if I can find them, I’ll introduce you to Dottie and Paul, two of the members in the group Webb Francis plays with. We’ll run into Gina one of these days. She’s coordinating the festival—doing it all now that Webb Francis is out of commission.”

The day was growing warm, but Angelica didn’t notice as much as she had the previous day. Kirk’s stride was longer than hers so she had to walk briskly to keep up. She hadn’t really thought he was deaf—or partly deaf—when she’d shown her annoyance by stopping in the street. How had it happened? Had he been born deaf? Maybe that explained the intense way he focused on people when they spoke—to better understand what they were saying. Did he read lips?

She searched her mind for what little she knew about deafness. Sometimes people could hear certain ranges of sound. With his remaining hearing, did he have full range or limited? She didn’t feel she knew him well enough to ask, but she was curious. She couldn’t imagine not hearing. Listening to music, hearing the birds chirping, talking with friends—how much she’d miss if she were deaf.

“Do you work?” she asked as they turned a corner. Ten feet ahead was the start of a sidewalk. They had arrived in the town proper.

“Sure.”

“You haven’t for the last three days.”

“Neither have you,” he replied.

“Are you on vacation, too?”

“Is this your vacation?”

She bit her lip and studied the buildings and storefronts as they walked by. “Sort of.” She was not going to explain. She wasn’t sure she could. The drudgery of constant practice and rehearsals, the limited social outlets, the pressure from her parents to achieve more and more had finally reached the point where she wasn’t sure about anything any more. Music had once enchanted her. Now it was a chore. Her escape was an attempt to find the joy in music again. Try something else. Find herself. She could not envision herself playing the violin to the exclusion of everything else for the next fifty years. Should she try another instrument? Think about another career? She was too tired to do any of that.

The town consisted of two main streets, intersected by cross streets for five blocks. The predominant vehicles parked at the curb were dusty pickup trucks. Except for a couple of men talking in front of the bank, and a woman farther down the block gazing into one of the windows, the place seemed deserted. She really had arrived at another world.

“Where are all the people?” she asked.

“Mostly at work, I expect.”

She glanced at him again. “What do you do for a living?”

“Construction. A little whittling. Whatever comes along. Library’s right here.” He held open one of the double doors leading into a single story framed building. The sign hanging from the overhanging roof simply said Library.

It was blessedly cool inside. Angelica’s spirits rose.

A round woman with a merry smile looked up from the front desk. “Good morning,” she sang out.

Angelica smiled involuntarily. The woman’s happiness was almost contagious.

“Mary Margaret, I’d like you to meet Angelica Cannon. She’s staying at Webb Francis’s while he’s in hospital. She plays the fiddle and wants to study some of the music played around here.”

“Welcome to Smoky Hollow. How’s Webb Francis doing?” she asked, looking first at Angelica and then Kirk.

“Mending. Angelica is from New York. Plays some.”

“I heard you have tapes of some of the music gatherings here. I’d like to listen to them some time,” Angelica expanded.

“We’ve got a fine media room, with a DVD player and CD players. Plus a VCR for old recordings. Or you can check them out and take them home with you. I know Webb Francis has a player.”

“I’m just visiting.”

“Well, with Webb Francis and Kirk vouching for you, I reckon you can get a temporary library card. Want to look now?”

“We’ll stop back by on the way home. Pick her out a couple if you would, Mary Margaret. She wants to hear mountain music.”

Mary Margaret laughed. “Well, she came to the right place for that. Come on in any time. I’m here most days.”

Angelica agreed and turned to follow Kirk when he headed out.

“No regular hours?” she asked once the door closed behind them.

“She’s here most of the time. If she’s not, folks just go in and help themselves, leaving her a note on which books they borrowed.”

Angelica didn’t use the public library much in New York, but she couldn’t imagine it operating the same way.

Kirk turned down one of the side streets and walked swiftly.

“Are we in a hurry?” she asked, catching her breath as she tried to keep up.

He stopped and looked at her. “Want to show you around like Webb Francis asked. Then you’re on your own.”

“I can manage now. I’ll talk with the librarian and get her recommendations. You’re off the hook.”

He looked up at the canopy of trees overhead, then down the road. “Not yet. I said I’d take you around and I will.”

“I absolve you of all obligations. Face it, it’s a chore and I don’t want to be a burden.”

“I said I’d do it.”

She didn’t move when he stepped forward. Turning, he waited.

“I can start at the library. Listen to the CDs. Talk to Mary Margaret and find out more about the festival, where to find music, what to look for. I don’t need a guide. For heaven’s sake, I’ve toured Europe.”

Not that that meant much. She had visited London, Paris and Moscow and never saw much except between the hotel and concert hall. She had never visited her own nation’s capital, much less seen more of the USA.

Primitive, that’s what she thought when she thought of Appalachia. A land where people kept to old ways and poverty had a stronghold. She hadn’t realized how pretty it was. Or how much she’d like the people she’d meet. They were genuine and honest, and friendly as could be.

“Come on, I don’t have all day,” he said, reaching out to take her arm.

She felt the touch like a live wire and jerked away. Feeling stupid with her reaction, she tried to cover it.

“It’s hot just like you said. I hadn’t expected it to be this warm.” What startled her was her own reaction. Taking a deep breath she tried to quell her roiling senses. She’d been touched before. She had had her share of crushes while growing up. She was a grown woman, not to be flustered by an impersonal touch, no matter how dynamic the man was. She would not start believing he was special. He was her reluctant guide to getting acquainted with Smoky Hollow, nothing more. Yet he continued to stare at her, as if waiting for more words. Heat washed through her at the intensity. She wanted to forget about the music, sit down with him and learn all she could about Kirk Devon.

She had to stop thinking like that! It was her own convoluted thought process had her confused. She wasn’t looking for complications—but simplicity. She wanted to study a different kind of music, see if she could recover her passion for playing. Or discover something else that would bring joy to her life. Not get hot and bothered watching a sexy Kentucky man who could barely stand to be around her.

Stalemate. They stared at each other, neither moving.

She didn’t know why she found him so appealing. He wore jeans, worn and faded after years of wear. His blue chambray shirt was opened at the throat with its sleeves rolled back. He looked totally different from the successful businessmen she was used to. He probably didn’t even own a suit. He was in his element, she was the fish out of water, yet something attracted her. The awareness of him grew each time they were together. She wanted to touch that throat, feel the heat of his skin against hers. Hear him laugh, learn what he liked and disliked.

“Coming or not?” he finally asked.

“I guess. But you don’t have to go out of your way to introduce me around. I can manage.”

“Be easier in a small town to have someone vouch for you.”

“Networking.” She nodded.

He laughed. “Big city girl.” He turned and walked away. After a moment, Angelica hurried to catch up.

The sooner she got this over, the sooner she’d be on her own.

It was after lunch when Kirk walked with Angelica back to the cottage. She’d met a half dozen people, including Dottie Ferguson and Paul Cantwell who played with Webb Francis. Each person she met had been friendly and happy to talk with her about the songs she wanted to learn and write down. She had collected phone numbers and jotted down names and addresses and a sketchy map so she could find her way around Smoky Hollow. It was not a large town by any means.

Kirk was hard to figure out, she mused as he stopped in the road in front of her house. He’d done his duty, actually gone beyond in her opinion, giving her lunch at the local diner. Now he was free of any obligation. She should be relieved. She felt almost cut adrift.

He reached out and took the small spiral bound notebook she still carried in her hand and wrote his phone number down. “You’re right next door, but it is easier to call sometimes. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I can manage.”

His intense gaze was something she wished she could get used to. She was not accustomed to people focusing so intensely on her and it caused a chain reaction inside that threatened her equilibrium. His gaze dropped to her mouth. She wasn’t talking.

Was he thinking what she suddenly thought about? Kisses, long and drugging and fantastic.

She groaned softly and looked away before she did something beyond foolish.

“Thank you.” Hurrying toward the cottage she resisted the urge to look behind her, to watch as he walked away. Once inside, she leaned against the front door, refusing to look though every cell in her body clamored to do just that.

Pushing away, she went into the kitchen. She’d have something cold to drink then decide what to do next.

Resisting temptation proved too much. She looked out the side window of the kitchen. She saw nothing but the house next door. He either had already gone inside, or had gone somewhere else.

Soon thereafter Angelica retraced her steps to the library. Mary Margaret sat with a large pile of books in front of her, jotting notes on the tablet she had. She looked up and smiled when Angelica entered.

“Come to hear those CDs?” she asked.

“If now is a good time.”