Читать книгу Home To Texas - Bethany Campbell - Страница 9

DEL DREAMED HE WAS LOST on a dark planet. Shadowy craters pitted the bleak landscape, and three red moons hung in the sky. He was all alone, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.

Behind him, he heard noises rustling wetly in the depths of the closest crater. He turned and saw what he always saw: a terrible set of tentacles reaching up from the darkness. They whipped and twisted toward him.

He wanted to run to safety, but couldn’t; there was no safety. Out of every crater, jungles of tentacles rose, writhing and glistening in the red moonlight, and they lashed, slithering toward him from every side.

Slime creatures! Surrounded by slime creatures! A dripping tentacle shot out and seized his ankle. A second wrapped around his shoulders in a crushing embrace.

He screamed while he could: “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

His eyes flew open and blearily he saw what seemed to be his room—but wasn’t. The familiar yellow night-light, shaped like a star with a smiling face, gleamed reassuringly.

His Buzz Lightyear curtains hung at the window, shutting out the night. His Buzz Lightyear bedspread covered him. His own yellow toy chest stood in the corner with his name stenciled on it in red letters.

But Del realized this was not his room. The walls were pale and dirty, the furniture was all wrong, and Lono was not in bed with him. I’ve been kidnapped by slime creatures! I’m in slime creature prison!

He took a deep breath and screamed again with all his might. “Mom! Mom! Mom!”

Then his mother was there, warm and kissing and hugging. Her hair was loose and tickled his cheek like a nice friend he had known forever. Her flannel nightshirt was soft.

Sleepiness was in her voice and the way she moved. “What’s wrong, honey? What’s wrong?”

“Slime creatures,” he moaned. “They caught me. They changed my room. They took Lono.”

She smoothed his hair. “There are no slime creatures.”

She always said this. As great as she was, for some reason she didn’t believe in slime creatures. Still, she could always chase them away. She just couldn’t keep them away.

“They got Lono,” he repeated, trying to convince her.

“Lono’s right here,” she said. And Lono himself leaped onto the bed, gave Del a sleepy kiss, then turned around and lay down next to him.

“Where was he?” Del asked. Had Lono, faithful Lono, tried to trick him? What was happening?

“He came to bed with me,” his mother said. “Let me fix your covers.”

“Why’d he do that?” Del demanded.

“Sometimes you kick in your sleep.”

“He’s supposed to stay with me.” His voice wobbled with fear and a sense of betrayal.

“He’s with you now.” His mother tucked the covers more firmly around him. “Everything’s fine.”

“They changed my walls,” he argued. He felt almost safe now, but groggy and grumpy and as if things were still very wrong but he couldn’t put it into words.

“We’re in a different house, that’s all.” She smoothed his hair again. “I put up your curtains and your own sheets and bedspread. Your toys are here. We’ll paint these walls so they’ll be just like your old ones.”

“Paint them now,” Del insisted. Suddenly he hated these walls. He blamed them for everything.

“It’s three o’clock in the morning. We’ll paint them tomorrow. I promise.” She kissed his forehead. “Go back to sleep.”

“I’m afraid.” This was true. He was afraid of the walls, he was afraid Lono would leave him again, he was afraid to go to sleep because the creatures were probably waiting to slither back and slime him to death.

“Okay. I’ll stay with you.” She settled down, soft and snuggly, beside him, one arm around him in protection. He wrapped his fingers around a soft strand of her hair because it made him feel better, like a magic charm.

Although he wasn’t supposed to, he put his thumb into his mouth. He settled more deeply into his pillow. It wasn’t just the walls; this whole place wasn’t right. It was Texas, and he hated it, and with all his heart he wanted to go home.

BY THE COLD, RATIONAL LIGHT of morning, Tara regretted her rash words. She didn’t have time to paint Del’s walls. A hundred other tasks screamed to be done. But she had made Del a promise, and she would keep it.

Of course, Murphy’s Law was operating full force. Everything that could go wrong was going as wrong as possible. The woman Lynn had hired to help Tara phoned to say that she wasn’t coming after all.

Mrs. Giddings said her husband drove a tow truck and had been injured in a terrible accident yesterday. He had a broken right wrist and could not do one single thing for himself. He was helpless as a newborn baby.

Furthermore, he’d had to be scrubbed so hard at the hospital to get the canola oil off him, he was as raw as a butcher’s bone.

“Canola oil?” Tara echoed.

Yes, and the man was traumatized by the whole accident, as well. “He’s all shook up,” said Mrs. Giddings. “He’s itching like a man on a fuzzy tree. I told him, ‘Albert, you have become an Elvis song.’ I can’t leave him alone like this.”

Tara sighed and looked at the kitchen walls, which, like all the others, needed to be scrubbed before they were painted. She’d already washed Del’s with a mixture of water and vinegar.

A man had been scheduled to come at eight to put up a temporary paddock and stalls for the horses, but he hadn’t shown, either. Although the horses might not arrive for a month or more, Tara wanted everything ready for them. Del had cried when they’d left the pony behind. Putting up the stalls and paddock would prove to him that they were coming.

In the living room, Del, settled deep in the beanbag chair, watched a video of Peter Pan. This worried Tara. If she let him, he’d watch videos day and night. Yet she could not send him out to play. This was wild, unknown country, and he could wander off as soon as she wasn’t looking.

She decided to call Lynn to ask for guidance. “I’m sorry,” Lynn said. “I don’t know where Joe Wilder is. He swore to me on a stack of Bibles that he’d be there at eight o’clock. I’m really sorry, Tara.” Then she added, “It’s hard to get help around here.”

Well, Gavin said it wouldn’t be easy, thought Tara, gritting her teeth.

Lynn went on, “It took Daddy and Cynthia forever to find a housekeeper for the Double C. As for Albert Giddings, well, he was in this really bizarre accident yesterday. Oh, I know! I’ll call the Double C and—”

Tara heard the sound of an engine in the driveway, and her heart took an optimistic leap. “Somebody just drove up. Maybe it’s Joe Wilder.”

“He’s a little fat man,” Lynn said. “With bright red hair. He drives a beat-up white truck. He’ll introduce himself as ‘Fat Joe.’ You’ll see.”

Tara peered hopefully out the window. The truck was not white, but sleek, shiny and black. A man got out, slamming the door. He was not little and fat and red-haired. He was tall. He was dark. He was—Tara swallowed—sinfully handsome.

He walked toward the back porch with an easy, narrow-hipped amble. Her heart speeded up. “I don’t think this is Fat Joe.”

She saw the stranger mounting the jerry-built steps. Lono, hearing the sound of his boots, barked insanely. He hurled himself at the kitchen door, his neck hair bristling, his voice rising an octave and a half.

“Good Lord,” Lynn said.

Above the wild barking, a knock sounded loudly at the door.

“Hang on, will you?” Tara asked. “I have no idea who this is.”

“Absolutely. You make me nervous out there all alone.”

Tara set down the receiver on the marble countertop. She seized Lono firmly by his collar with one hand and unlocked the door with the other. Lono barked even more frantically.

She swung open the door. On the other side of the screen, the stranger swept off his Stetson. The sun gleamed off hair as black as a crow’s wing. His white shirt set off his tanned face and dark, dark eyes.

“Hello, ma’am,” he said. “I’m Grady McKinney—”

Lono’s shrieks became a piercing, hysterical yodel. “Excuse me,” Tara said, struggling to subdue the dog. “Lono, down! Quiet!”

Lono quieted himself to a mere rumbling snarl, his teeth bared. His neck hair bristled more fiercely, and he was tensed and ready to spring.

The stranger grinned, an engaging blaze of white. Good Lord, thought Tara. There’s enough wattage in that smile to light the whole state of Texas.

Hat still in hand, he said again, “I’m Grady McKinney. My father’s manager over at the Double C—”

She tore her gaze from his face and looked at the gleaming truck. Now she saw the crest painted in gold on its door: two overlapping C’s within a gilded wreath. Her eyes went back to his, as if by magnetic attraction.

“Y-you work at the Double C?” Grady? This was the one Lynn had said she wouldn’t meet. Or had Tara misunderstood?

His gaze was bold, warm and slightly wicked. “No, ma’am. I just got in from Nevada. You’re Mrs. Hastings, I believe.”

Lono growled more horribly, his body shaking with suppressed rage. “Yes. I—I’m Tara Hastings.”

He put his hat back on and tilted it. “We have mutual friends, I think. My cousins. Second cousins, actually. Cal. And Lynn.”

Her breath felt trapped in her throat, but she managed to say. “Lynn? I’m on the phone to her right now.”

That smile again. Oh, Lord, he has dimples. Just like Cal’s.

He said, “That so? Tell her hello. I’ll be over to see her soon.”

“I will,” Tara said. “Just what can I do for you, Mr. McKinney?”

He hooked his thumbs on either side of his belt buckle. His belt was slung low, the buckle large and silver. It was engraved with a large cactus reaching skyward. How phallic, thought Tara in confusion.

He looked slightly rueful. “Frankly, Mrs. Hastings, I’m sort of marooned at the Double C. Meant only to be passing through, but I lost my truck in an accident. Borrowed this one from the foreman. I heard you just moved in and thought maybe you might need a hand. I’m a dependable worker, and I could use a job.”

He could use a job? Tara stared at him slightly dumbfounded. No, this would not do at all. He was far too good-looking. He was a McKinney, but unemployed? Something must be wrong with him, seriously wrong.

He seemed to see her doubt. “It’s been my experience that when people move, they need help. My father and brother’ll vouch for my honesty. So will Cal and Lynn, I reckon.”

She considered this. “What exactly do you—do, Mr. McKinney?”

“A little bit of everything, ma’am. I’m a sort of jack-of-all-trades.” He nodded at Lono. “I helped train guard dogs once. That fella’s little, but he’s a natural. Hello, boy. Good boy. Good dog.”

Grady McKinney had a low, rich, lazy voice, and amazingly, it seemed to quiet the dog. Lono stopped showing his teeth. He no longer strained at his collar. His growl lowered to a halfhearted grumble deep in his throat.

“What was your last job?” Tara asked.

“I worked with horses. Andalusans. In Nevada.”

“Andalusans?” she said, impressed in spite of herself. “What did you do with them?”

“Handled them, worked them out for Caesar’s Palace. Before that I crewed on a yacht out of Sausalito. Before that I did construction in New Mexico. I got some letters of reference if you’d like to see ’em.”

Grady reached into the back pocket of his jeans and drew out a long yellow envelope.

He’s a rolling stone, remembered Tara. That’s the problem. She looked him up and down, trying not to be distracted by his sheer male appeal. He was confident, friendly, clean-shaven, and his white shirt was ironed to perfection. His boots were worn but polished.

She put on her most professional air. “Let me talk to Lynn.”

“Fine.” His smile was close to cocky. But charming. Too damned charming.

Tara dragged Lono to the phone, though the dog was now wagging his tail tentatively.

Tara turned her back on the man and picked up the receiver. “Lynn, there’s a man here who says he’s your cousin Grady. He wants a job.”

“Grady?” Lynn practically shrieked his name in delight. “That’s just what I was going to say—I’d call the Double C and find out if Grady could help you. I just heard he was back. Grady’s the handiest guy in the world.”

Tara lowered her voice. “You mean I should hire him?”

“Is a bluebird blue?” Lynn laughed. “Grady can do anything. Your problems are solved.”

Tara gripped the receiver more tightly. “He’s—trustworthy?”

“Absolutely. He’s held down some very responsible jobs. My aunt Maggie used to keep us filled in on what he was up to. He’s a fascinating guy. He’s just got itchy feet.”

Tara repeated it mechanically. “Itchy feet.”

“It’s his only real flaw. He won’t stay put for long. But while he’s here, grab him and cherish him.”

Tara dropped her voice to a whisper. “If he’s so great, why’s he have to knock on a stranger’s door, asking for a job? Nobody sent him, right?”

“He probably heard you’d just moved and figured there’d be work. And he’s also probably too proud to ask his father for favors. Big Bret’s a good man, but with his sons, he’s—demanding. Bret’s very structured. And Grady, well, Grady’s a free spirit.”

“How long do you think the free spirit will stick around?”

“Who knows? This mess about his truck may take time to straighten out. Tell him to give me a call. Grady—I can’t believe it. And tomorrow Lang comes. They’re all going to be at the Double C.”

As Tara hung up, her heart beat hard and her palms were moist. She wiped her free hand on the thigh of her jeans and went back to the door.

Grady McKinney stood staring up at the sky. When he heard her approach, he turned to her. “You talked to Lynn?”

Tara had control of herself again. She was not a woman easily addled, but she was confounded by her own reaction to this man. It was just that he was so unexpected, she told herself.

Careful to keep Lono inside, she opened the door and stepped out on the raw boards of the porch. She was disconcerted by the gleam of sexual appreciation she saw in his eyes. He was attractive, sure of himself—perhaps too sure—and probably used to conquest. If he thought she was susceptible, she’d knock that idea out of his head fast.

She gave him a cool look of assessment. She held out her hand with a no-nonsense gesture. “I’ll see those references.”

He gave her the envelope, then stood, his hands resting on his hips, watching her skim the letters. “I hope you’ll find that my papers are in order,” he said. She didn’t miss the sarcasm, and it needled her.

But he had almost a dozen letters. One from the Parker Ranch in Hawaii, two from yacht captains, others from a startling array of people: a building contractor, a horse rancher, a security specialist, a stock manager.

“You don’t seem to stay in one place long,” she said, an edge in her voice.

“As long as I stay, I work hard,” he answered.

She thought of Del’s room and the walls that put him at the mercy of his nightmares. “Can you paint?”

“I worked for a painter in Sacramento. Yeah. I can paint.”

She thought of the fencing supplies lying in the mountain pasture up the slope. Lynn had had them delivered and waiting. But Fat Joe Wilder, the man hired to put them up, was a no-show. “Can you put up fencing? Temporary horse fencing? Set up portable stalls?”

“Done it many a time,” Grady said. “No problem.”

“I’ve got a lot of restoring to do on this house. Can you mend roofing? Do cement work?”

“All that and more.”

“And how long could I count on you being here?”

This was the first question that seemed to throw him. A shadow passed over the confident face. “I could promise you a month or two, I reckon. By then I hope to be on my way.”

A month or two, she thought. A hardworking man could get a lot done in that time. She took a deep breath. “When could you start?”

“Right now, if you want. You won’t regret it, I promise you that.”

Your problems are solved, Lynn had said. Tara thought hard, conflict still roiling deep within her.

But the prospect of a man who was strong and skilled was too tempting. She kept her voice brusque, almost cold. “All right. You’re hired. Today I want you to paint my son’s room.”

He nodded. “You got the paint?”

“No,” she said in the same tone. “I need to go into town and get it. Go home and change clothes. You’re going to get dirty before the day is over.”

He touched the brim of his hat in salute. The gleam came back into his eyes. “I’ve never been afraid to get dirty, missy.”

She stiffened involuntarily. Was he being suggestive? She’d put him in his place double quick. “Call me Mrs. Hastings. Be back in an hour. Don’t be late.”

“I’ll be here,” he said. “At your service—Mrs. Hastings.”

He sauntered back to his borrowed truck. He climbed in, backed up and touched his hat again in farewell. As he drove off, she thought, I hope I haven’t just made a really, really stupid mistake.

THE WOMAN WASN’T WHAT HE’D expected, Grady thought, driving back to the Double C.

She was from California, so he’d figured blond. Her brother was rich, so he’d figured, she’d be thin as a bean sprout, with diamonds rattling around her bony wrists. He’d thought she’d look brittle and expensive. It wouldn’t matter if nature had made her pretty or not; money would make her seem so. She would be as rigorously groomed as a prize poodle.

Wrong on all counts. Her hair was russet, not blond, pulled back from her face, and she wore no makeup. It was as if she didn’t want people to notice she had beautiful hair, a beautiful face.

At first glance, she’d seemed plain. At second glance, she had a kind of simple, almost elegant prettiness. And at third glance, she was stunning.

Best, she was stunning without trying. Her freckled skin was so perfect it was like delicately flecked silk. The mouth was full and well-shaped and innocent of lipstick. The nose was straight, the eyes a peculiar cloudy gray with darker gray around the irises. She’d been dressed in jeans, riding boots and a plaid flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

At first, she’d seemed bewildered to see him. And then he’d been sure he’d glimpsed a spark of sexual interest in those smoky eyes. Hey, from a woman like that a man would gladly accept a sensual invitation.

But she’d canceled it. If he’d caught her off guard, she’d jerked back on guard with a vengeance. At first, a charge of eroticism had leaped between them. But she’d made it stop, as if she’d thrown a switch and shut down the current. She’d become so cold and businesslike that a lesser man might have felt frostbite.

But so what? She’d hired him anyway. Was Mrs. Hastings a snob, letting him know she wasn’t about to slum with a lowlife like him? Or was she basically cold? Was she one of those frigid, ungiving women? Or had she been hurt? Well, whatever the answer, she was easy on the eyes. He’d watch her.

He drove back to the Double C, borrowed a tool chest and post hole digger from the foreman, Ken Slattery, and swapped him the black truck for an older model. Grady hadn’t seen his father this morning, and there was no sign of him now. “Gone into town,” Ken said.

Grady went to the pink bedroom and found that Millie Gilligan had washed and ironed all his clothes, including the ones he’d thought had been clean. She’d even patched the knee of his oldest pair of Levi’s.

He’d awakened early this morning to shine his boots, but before he could get out the back door, she practically wrestled him down and stripped off his shirt so she could iron it. “I delight not in wrinkled raiment. Scabby donkeys scent each other over seven hills,” she’d muttered. She’d demanded to iron his good jeans, too. Then she’d scrambled him the most delicious eggs he’d ever eaten.

Now he went into the kitchen to thank her for doing his laundry. She only repeated her strange pronouncement. “I delight not in wrinkled raiment.”

He asked if he could make himself a sandwich. Her answer was sharp and to the point. “No. Sit.”

She said it with such authority, he sat. Without saying another word, she packed him a whole lunch in plastic things with lids and put them into a sack with a thermos of coffee and a bottle of spring water.

She was an odd little thing, but kindhearted in her way.

The kitchen was fragrant with the scent of freshly baked chocolate cookies; they smelled ambrosial. She wrapped a cookie and put it into the sack. She looked at him with glittering eyes.

“North, south, east, west. It’s not only the chick that needs his nest,” she murmured. “To take the woman by the heart, take the child by the hand.”

Startled, Grady said, “Say what?”

“I wasn’t talking to you,” she said, almost snappishly. “I was singing. An old, old song.”

GRADY GOT BACK TO TARA’S HOUSE before she returned from town. He looked more critically at the place. Jonah had said it was in rough shape. The kid had put it kindly.

Structurally the house seemed sound enough, but the place had an air of having been assaulted. He looked at the graffiti on the wall and garage doors with loathing. He’d get rid of that ugliness.

As for the other damage, porches had been ripped off, the patio torn up. An outdoor spigot dripped forlornly. Grady wasn’t a man who liked being idle. He found the water main, shut off the flow and hauled the toolbox out of the pickup.

Just as he was screwing the faucet handle back in place, a gray panel truck drove up. He stood up, a wrench in one hand, wiping his other on the thigh of his jeans.

Tara Hastings parked and got out. A little kid, thin and blond, hopped out on the other side. Except for his blond hair, he resembled his mother.

The kid acted shy at facing a stranger. He put his thumb into his mouth as if the act could somehow protect him. Grady had a gut instinct that the kid was deeply unhappy. He felt a surge of sympathy for him.

“Del, take your thumb out of your mouth.” Tara said it almost mechanically, as if she’d said it hundreds of times. Del pulled his thumb away. By his furtive glances at his mother, he seemed already planning on how he could slip it back.

Tara struggled to get paint cans out of the truck. Grady went to her side and took the heavy cans from her hands. His hard hand brushed her cool, smaller one. She didn’t blink or react in any way.

“Thank you.” Her voice was clipped.

“This your boy?” He nodded toward the child, who stared at him with wary eyes.

“Yes. Mr. McKinney, this is Del. Del, this is Mr. McKinney, the man I told you about. I hired him to help us.” She kept the same brisk tone. Hoisting an armful of hardware-store bags, she made her way up the back stairs and fumbled to get her key into the lock.

Grady took the key from her so smoothly that she didn’t have time to protest. With a flick of his wrist, he unlocked the door and swung it open for her. “I’ve had your water off,” he said. “To fix that spigot. It was leaking. I’ll turn it back on.”

“Thank you,” she said in that maddening cool way. “It seems like a sin to waste water in country like this.” She set her sacks on the counter and unpacked them with snappy efficiency.

The dog danced around them, and this time he didn’t bristle or bark at Grady. He sniffed at Grady’s boots, the legs of his jeans, then looked up at him, bright-eyed and wagging his tail.

“Hi, boy,” Grady said, and stooped to pet him. The dog fairly wriggled in delight. Grady scratched, petted and stroked him, but at the same time stole a look around the interior. The boy, Del, silently slipped into the living room and switched on the television. A video was already on the player, and the screen blazed into color with a ticking crocodile chasing Captain Hook.

Del sank down in a worn beanbag chair, gazing transfixed at the screen. He popped his thumb back into his mouth and sucked it solemnly. Grady rose, and Lono went to join the boy in the living room.

Grady put his hands into the back pockets of his jeans as he looked at the neglected living room. The woman and the kid were really camping in this house. No frills, no luxuries and the necessities were a hodgepodge of secondhand stuff.

Again she surprised him. Someone like her, living like this? It made no sense. She should be staying at a suite in a hotel, sending her pricey Austin decorator out to manage this mess.

She hadn’t dressed up or put on makeup to go to town. What you see is what you get, her bare face and plain clothes seemed to say. But she couldn’t disguise her natural grace.

“What do you want me to do first?” he asked, looking her up and down, trying to figure her out.

She gave him a perfunctory glance. Her eyes had long, sooty lashes, barely tinged with auburn. They seemed to look through him as if he were barely there. She started sorting the equipment on the counter.

“You said you could paint? I need my son’s room painted. That robin’s-egg-blue. With cream trim. It’s the first one down the hall. On the east side. There are tarps in the garage.”

He studied her profile. With her gaze downcast, her face seemed surprisingly delicate, almost vulnerable. His curiosity was growing.

“Those garage doors. I could cover up that spray paint first.”

“No. First, my son’s room. It’s most important.”

“All these walls look like they need cleaning,” he said. “It smells like mold. It leaked in here, right?”

She didn’t answer him directly. “I cleaned Del’s walls this morning. His room has the least damage. You’ll find a ladder in the garage, too.”

“If there’s much patching, it’s going to be a two-day job,” he cautioned. “The patching compound needs to dry—”

“I got the fast-drying kind. Paint, too,” she said. “I’ll show you the room, then let you get about your business.”

“You’ll be here if I have questions?” he said. What he really wondered was if she’d be around while he did her bidding.

“Yes. I’ve got plenty to do.” She turned from the counter, but didn’t look at him. She tilted her pretty chin up and kept her voice icy. “There’s your equipment. Excuse me now. I want to get to work on the living room. So I’ll need water. I need it now.”

He raised an eyebrow at her tone. But she’d clamped her mouth into a grim line and was ignoring him. She grabbed a bucket and a stiff brush from under the sink. He cast an appreciative glance at her derriere, knowing she’d be offended if she saw him do it. That only sharpened his appreciation. Then he went out to turn on the water.

When he came back in carrying the tarps, he caught a glimpse of her in the living room. She sat with the kid before the TV, her arms around him, her cheek pressed to his. The boy was clearly close to tears. Her face was earnest and unhappy as she tried to comfort him.

“I know how hard Scotty laughed at the crocodile last time,” she said, rubbing his back. “I know you wish Scotty could be here. But he can’t, sweetie. He’s in California.”

The intensity of her concern caught and held Grady. She was no longer the aloof creature he’d first met. She radiated love and a kind of desperation to protect the child from whatever troubled him.

She held him tighter. “I know you’re lonesome. But you’ll make friends here. You’ll get to like it, you’ll see. No, sweetie, don’t put your thumb in your mouth.”

Then she saw Grady, and her face paled, her expression going defensively blank. She looked away, but hugged the child more warmly. “Let’s just sit here and watch the end together,” she murmured and kissed his forehead. “You and me, babe.”

The boy said nothing, but he didn’t look as sad as before. Grady went into the back bedroom, revising his opinion of Tara Hastings. Coolness and control were not her true nature.

No, she was fighting fears, not only hers, but those of her child. He sensed something had gone badly wrong in their lives, and she was bound and determined to put it right again—especially for the boy. More for the boy than for herself. He sensed a kind of gallantry in her.

She clearly loved the kid; he had seen that in that brief scene in the living room. And she would protect him with her life. She was scared of something, but she was resolute, and she had valor.

A complex set of emotions stirred deep inside Grady. He didn’t know what they were or what shape they were taking. He only knew they were foreign, and he had no name for them.