Читать книгу Wild Horses - Bethany Campbell - Страница 8

ON TUESDAY, Martin Avery came to the house to discuss Enoch’s will. Martin, in his mid-sixties, had rosy pink skin and snow-white hair.

Mild, mannerly and tidy, he had practiced law longer than anyone in Claro County. He was a peaceful man who worked hard to bring about peaceful solutions.

He sat at the dining room table with Carolyn and Vern. Because Mickey handled so much of the ranch’s business, Carolyn asked her to stay and listen to what Martin had to say.

Martin touched the two wills that lay before him. “These are simple documents. Enoch didn’t like doing things in complicated ways.”

Martin summed up the agreement Enoch had originally made with Carolyn’s mother. As long as she paid the lease monies, she was heir to the land. When she’d died, Enoch had the will redrawn naming Carolyn as heir, but nothing else was changed.

He paused. “Did he ever express dissatisfaction with the arrangement?”

Although Carolyn’s face showed concern, she shook her head no. “Every year he endorsed the check and wrote saying that the will stood according to agreement.”

“And when’s the last time he confirmed it?”

“A year ago.” She frowned. “But last year’s lease was legally up on April 21st, and he never cashed this year’s check. If he didn’t cash it, technically, right now, I’m not leasing the land. Is that a problem?”

“Let’s hope not. He probably didn’t cash it because he was ill.”

Vern spoke up. “It still worries me, and so does this executor. Who is he? Why’s he coming here? I don’t like the sound of it.”

Martin laid a slim, pink hand on the older document. “A will has to name an executor. In the first one, he named my father. But my father was retired when Enoch made you heir, Carolyn. He didn’t know or trust me—I was just a young whippersnapper to him.”

He touched the more recent will. “The executor for this one’s a judge in the Bahamas. If he retired or died, Enoch would have to name someone to replace him. Someone he trusted, and he didn’t trust easily. He’d be hard to hoodwink.”

Vern didn’t seem convinced. “Wouldn’t he have to rewrite the will to do that?”

“A handwritten codicil with witnesses should do it.”

“I hope you’re right.” Vern muttered. “But it bothers me. Duran sounds like a crank.”

Martin smiled and handed the two wills to Vernon. “Enoch was a crank himself. It figures he’d hook up with one of his own kind.”

“I wonder why he wanted this man to come to Texas,” Carolyn mused. “What’s the point?”

Martin gave a good-natured shrug. “Maybe that’s how he wanted it done. A friend to carry it out in person. Not to hand it off to some long-distance lawyer.” He made a wry face. “We lawyers are reputed to be a shifty lot, you know.”

Vern laughed, and Carolyn and Mickey both smiled. Carolyn said, “So I shouldn’t expect any surprises?”

Martin’s expression grew serious again. “There can always be surprises. If there are, we’ll deal with them as they arise. In the meantime relax, Caro. You’ve got a blessed event coming up. Don’t let some vague worry spoil it.”

Bridget Blum, the cook, knocked at the door frame. “Carolyn, that antique dealer from Austin’s on the phone. He wants to talk to you about the high chair from England. He can get it after all.”

Carolyn whooped. “He can? Fabulous! I’ll be right there—excuse me, everybody.”

And she was dashing off, the will forgotten for the time, her thoughts happily centering again on the coming of little Carrie.

Vernon pretended to hold his head in despair. “Antique? From England? The shipping alone will break us. She’s a woman possessed.”

“But it’s a good way to be possessed,” said Martin.

Mickey and Vernon walked him to the front door. As they watched Martin climb into his car, Vern said, “She has been extravagant lately. Beef prices aren’t what they used to be. It’s harder for her every year to keep this ranch in the black.”

Mickey knew. Every year she’d seen the profits wobble and sometimes shrink. “It’s just that she’s so excited right now. She’ll come back to herself. You’ll see.”

Vern patted her shoulder. “You’re exactly right. She’s kept a tight budget for a long time. She ought to be able to indulge herself.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to get back to the courthouse, but I’ll be home as early as I can. Mick, are you ready for this Duran character to descend?”

“Ready as I can be.”

Early that morning the man with the Caribbean accent had phoned and left a message on Carolyn’s answering machine. He said that he’d told Duran of the invitation, and Duran sent word he would stay if she wanted him to. But only if.

Carolyn and Mickey had found the message cryptic and wondered why Duran hadn’t phoned himself. Carolyn said maybe he was one of those people who didn’t like phones, and Mickey guessed that he was deaf, and they’d spend the whole visit shouting into his ear.

“I’m sure Carolyn’s delegated you the job of getting ready for Duran.” Vern smiled. “She’s too busy in Babyland.”

Mickey shot him a grin. “Bingo.”

She’d already seen to the guest room and given Bridget a supper menu. If Duran needed entertaining, she’d made a list of things that might amuse him. The Hill Country was in full spring bloom now, and if she had to, she’d drive him past every bluebonnet in the county.

Mickey spanked her hands together. “Don’t worry,” she said with total confidence. “I’ll handle him.”

THAT AFTERNOON Mickey was going over Carolyn’s extensive lists of Things That Must Be Done For the Great Journey to Denver.

Round-trip first-class tickets from Austin to Denver. Check.

Rental car in Denver. Check.

Arrange to courier extra luggage. Check.

Get Vern’s prescriptions refilled. Check.

Carolyn’s travel wardrobe. Fifty-two items, stored in guest-room closet, ready to be packed. Check, except two pairs of shoes.

Vern’s travel wardrobe (as if Vern cared). Twenty-one items. Stored with Carolyn’s to be packed. Check.

Presents for Beverly, twelve items. Check.

Presents for Sonny, nine items. Check.

Presents for baby, thirty-seven items. Check except locket to be picked up from jeweler in Austin.

Regular camera. Check.

Digital camera. Check.

Video camera. Check.

Film. Check.

Videotape. Check.

Mickey was starting page two of the list, when Carolyn called her into the living room. She was once again obsessed with The Matter of the Panda. Vern had just got home from work, and Carolyn wanted to talk to him, too.

“I’ve decided yes on that pink panda from Saks,” Carolyn announced. “But I don’t want to send it, I want to take it. I’ll have to carry it on the plane. See what the airline says, will you, Mickey? I’d hate to buy an extra seat for it. But I will if I have to.”

“Good grief!” Vern said. “A seat for a panda? We’ll be bankrupt.”

“Oh, hush,” Carolyn said. “When we come back home again, I’ll behave. You know I will. But that panda’s going to Denver.”

“That thing’s four feet tall,” he protested. “How can you carry it on? It’s big enough to carry you.”

“I don’t care,” said Carolyn. “It’s the most wonderful panda I’ve ever seen, and I want to give it to her myself.”

“Her? She’s a baby, Carolyn,” Vern reasoned. “She won’t even be able to see it.”

But Carolyn wouldn’t be budged. “I want to make Beverly laugh when she sees us deplane. It’s the cutest panda in the world. It’ll tickle her to pieces.”

“It won’t fit in the overhead.”

“I’ll hold it on my lap,” Carolyn replied. “It’s only a thousand miles or so.”

Vern rolled his eyes heavenward in mock despair. But when he let his gaze rest again on Carolyn, he couldn’t disguise his affection for her or his pleasure at her excitement.

Carolyn was thinking out loud. “But if I’m going to carry a pink panda, I can’t wear the red suit. I’ll wear the new pink one. But the shoes haven’t come yet. Mickey, will you call the store? I ordered them three weeks ago. What’s so hard about dying shoes pink?”

“Should be easy,” Mickey agreed and wrote,

Call airline about panda.

Call about pink shoes.

Carolyn laid her finger against her chin thoughtfully. “I should make an appointment at Curly Sue’s just before we go. This new tint she put on my hair isn’t holding. I want my old brand. I don’t want to go to Denver half blond and half gray….”

“I’ll call her for you,” Mickey promised, adding Curly Sue—old tint, to her list.

“You’d be gorgeous if your hair was green,” Vern said and kissed his wife’s forehead. “Settle down, honey. The baby isn’t due for three weeks.”

“Don’t pay any attention to me,” Carolyn said cheerfully. “I’m losing my mind, that’s all.”

“You need reality therapy,” Vern said. “Go change into your jeans. Maybe we’ll have time to take a little canter before this Duran fella comes.”

“But—” Carolyn started to protest.

“Go change,” Vern said firmly. “It’ll do you good. I’m going to get a glass of tea.” He ambled toward the kitchen.

Just as Carolyn headed for the master bedroom, the telephone jingled. Mickey reached for it, but Carolyn, brightening again, said, “I’ll get it. Maybe the locket’s ready.”

But when she picked up the phone and listened to the voice at the other end, her expression changed, and her body tensed as if she’d been physically struck.

Mickey had been on her way to her office, but the transformation in Carolyn alarmed her. She halted, staring in concern.

Carolyn sank onto the sofa as if her knees no longer had strength to support her. Her shoulders sagged, and her hands shook so hard she had to use both to hold the receiver. Her face turned ashen, and suddenly she looked every one of her fifty-six years.

She hardly spoke. From time to time she stammered out a question. But mostly she listened. And listened. Tears welled in her eyes.

Mickey’s heart went cold and clenched up like a fist. She had a sickening certainty: only one thing could hit Carolyn this hard. Something’s happened to Beverly. Or to the baby. Or to both.

When Carolyn hung up, her hands shook worse, and tears streaked her cheeks. Mickey, frightened, hurried toward her just as Vern stepped back into the room.

“Sometimes Bridget puts too much sugar in that stuff,” Vern grumbled, “Doesn’t even taste like tea anymore. Tastes like—”

He stopped when he saw Carolyn’s face. “Caro?” He went to her side and put his arm around her. “What’s wrong, honey?”

Carolyn could hardly speak. She struggled to keep her chin from quivering, but her lips moved jerkily, and she had to choke out the news.

The caller had been Beverly’s husband, Sonny. He’d had to rush Beverly to the emergency ward that morning just before dawn. Doctors had performed an emergency caesarian.

The baby was undersized, and her skin had a bluish cast. Her heart had a serious defect.

Carolyn started to cry harder, but forced herself to tell the rest. Sonny said that little Carrie had an obstruction of the right ventricle. She’d been put in a special neonatal unit. She needed open-heart surgery as soon as possible. Without surgery, she could not survive.

Then Carolyn lost control, and Vern drew her into his arms, holding her tightly.

Mickey, stunned and feeling helpless, put her hand on Carolyn’s shoulder. Never before had she seen Carolyn break down completely. Never.

“They’ll try to operate tomorrow,” Carolyn sobbed. “But she’s—she’s so tiny. And Beverly doesn’t know yet. They haven’t told her how serious it is. Oh, Vern, I want to go to them now.”

“Then we’ll go.” Vern held her tighter.

As he stroked her hair and rubbed her back, his troubled brown eyes settled on Mickey. “Mick, call the airport, will you? Get us on the first flight out of here.”

“I want to get to Beverly,” Carolyn said. “And my grandbaby. I’ve got to.”

Mickey’s mind raced, searching for the best way to meet this crisis. “What if I call J.T.? Maybe he could fly you.”

J.T., Carolyn’s brother-in-law, was a pilot, with his own small jet.

Vern looked at her gratefully. “Bless you, Mick. I didn’t even think of J.T.”

“I’ll phone him,” Mickey said. “Then I’ll pack for you.”

J.T. NOT ONLY AGREED to fly Caro and Vern to Denver; he insisted on it. He would be ready to take off in an hour, and urged Mickey to just get them to his place. And so Mickey packed only two suitcases instead of the dozens Carolyn had so painstakingly planned.

Carolyn refused, superstitiously, to take any of the presents, especially the baby gifts. If the worst happened, it would be too unbearable to have them there, each like a pulsing wound.

Mickey drove Carolyn and Vern to J.T.’s ranch. As Carolyn climbed into the plane, she looked dazed. She wasn’t wearing her pink suit or pink shoes or carrying the big pink panda designed to make Beverly laugh.

Mickey noticed, sadly, that Carolyn had been right. Her hair was half gray and half blond. She had planned to get off the plane in Denver looking glamorous and confident, ready to buck up Beverly’s spirits. Instead, she would arrive wan, disheveled and shaken.

Mickey brooded on the unfairness of it all the way back to the Circle T. Carolyn, Vern, Beverly and Sonny were good people, kind and generous. Carolyn had been like a second mother to Mickey—no, in truth, she’d treated Mickey far better than Mickey’s own mother had. She had been Mickey’s salvation. And so had Vern.

As for Sonny, he was himself a doctor, easing suffering and saving lives. Beverly was a hospital administrator. She, too, had worked to serve and heal people. Why was their child stricken? Life wasn’t simply unjust, it was random and cruel.

Lost in these gloomy thoughts, it wasn’t until late afternoon that Mickey realized she’d forgotten something. Worry and sorrow had driven all else from her mind.

She was puzzled when she heard an unfamiliar-sounding car come up the drive and stop. Its door slammed, and someone mounted the front porch steps. The doorbell rang, buzzing like an impatient wasp.

Mickey stifled a swearword. Oh, no, she thought. Adam Duran. Who needed him at a time like this? And Carolyn had invited him to stay.

The last thing Mickey wanted at this point was to guest-sit a stranger and pretend to be hospitable. She stamped to the entrance foyer, feeling anything but welcoming. But Carolyn would want her to be gracious, so she tried to hide her irritation as she swung open the door.

She saw the man standing there, and she blinked in amazement.

Good grief, he’s gorgeous, she thought in confusion. This can’t be him.

But it was. “I’m Adam Duran,” he said. He had a low voice, slightly husky. “I’m here to see Carolyn Trent.”

He held out his hand. She grasped it. It was warm and seemed to vibrate in hers, as if his gave off an electrical charge.

He was six feet tall with unfashionably long hair that fell past his ears and curved in a thick forelock across his brow. The hair was dark blond, and he was as tanned as a construction worker. His eyes were azure-blue.

He was dressed casually, almost insolently so for someone on a legal errand. His jeans were faded. The cotton shirt, too, was washed out, laundered so often the fabric was thin.

Yes, she thought, slightly awed, he looked like someone who lived on a sun-drenched island, who swam in the ocean every day, who was a different breed of man altogether from the land-bound cattlemen she knew.

The only thing that seemed out of place was that he had on cowboy boots, well-worn black ones, scuffed and down at the heels. In his left hand he carried a battered duffel bag.

A giddy, fluttery sensation filled her with bewilderment. He was a striking man, but handsome men didn’t have this effect on her—ever.

The expression on her face must have gone odd. He looked at her more closely and frowned. “This is Carolyn Trent’s place?”

Mickey, embarrassed by her reaction, tried to seize control of herself. She’d been carrying her reading glasses, and thrust them on as if donning a protective mask. The lenses blurred her vision. This helped her regain control of herself. Dimmed and out of focus, he was not as disturbing.

“Yes,” she said in her crispest tone. “I’m Mrs. Trent’s secretary. She said you’d be here. Come in.”

He took a step closer then paused. The sea-blue eyes had a critical glint as he looked her up and down. “And your name is…?” he prompted.

Her smile felt stiff, forced. “Miss Nightingale. Michele Nightingale. Er, Mickey.”

“Miss Nightingale,” he repeated with an edge of sarcasm in his voice.

“Yes,” she said, opening the door more widely. “Please, come in.”

She stood well back so that his body wouldn’t brush hers as he stepped inside. He stopped in the middle of the foyer and looked about. The living room was gracious, yet homey.

“Nice place,” he said, but he had that same edge in his voice.

“I imagine you had a long trip,” Mickey said, primly as an old-fashioned schoolmarm. “May I get you something to drink? We have coffee, soft drinks, sweet tea, juice, beer, wine—the wine’s local. Made just down the road, in fact. Or water, if you’d prefer.”

“Water’s fine,” Adam said. His eyes drifted to a painting over the fireplace and lingered there. Mickey stole a glimpse at him over the top of her glasses. Most men, seeing that painting for the first time, were bewitched.

Adam Duran also seemed struck by it, but his expression was critical.

“That’s Beverly, Mrs. Trent’s daughter,” Mickey said, keeping her teacherlike tone. “She lives in Denver now.”

He said nothing, just kept staring at the portrait. Beverly looked stunning; she was the sort of woman men could fall in love with at first sight—even if their first sight of her was only a picture.

Mickey turned away sadly from the image, for it made her wonder how Beverly and Sonny were, and if Caro and Vern had reached Denver yet. How was Caro holding up? If anything happened to this baby, Carolyn would be shattered, destroyed—Mickey could not bear to think of it.

Trying to push the fears from her mind, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water. Her job right now was to tend to Adam Duran. He should be told as soon as possible that Carolyn wasn’t there.

Carolyn had invited him to stay at the ranch, but with her gone, there was no need for him to stay. Mickey hoped he’d have the good grace to know it. Who cared about the technicalities of the stupid lease land at a time like this?

She carried the glass back to the living room and handed it to Adam, who still gazed up at Beverly’s likeness. “She looks like the sort that entered beauty contests,” he said. “And ended up marrying a doctor.”

Mickey didn’t like his tone. “She was,” she said coldly. “And she did.”

He smiled, as if smug about his own power of observation. Resentment tore through Mickey’s frayed nerves. Who was he to walk into Carolyn’s home and make a snide remark about her suffering child?

She no longer needed defenses against such a man. And she forgot that Carolyn would want her to be cordial. Almost defiantly, she laid her reading glasses aside and gestured at the couch.

“Sit,” she said, as much an order as an invitation. “I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

He raised a brow questioningly. But he sat. He didn’t sink back against the couch. He stayed on its edge, his posture alert, gazing at Mickey with narrowed eyes. “Okay. Bad news. What?”

She sat down in the chair opposite him. She crossed her ankles and clasped her hands in her lap. “Mrs. Trent and her husband were called away this afternoon. It’s a family emergency. I don’t know when they’ll be back. It may be a few days. It may be longer.”

He straightened his back and frowned. “I have to talk to her. As soon as possible. I can’t hang around here waiting. I’ve got tickets back home for Friday—”

“Nobody foresaw this, Mr. Duran,” she said. “It’s unfortunate for everyone concerned.”

He gave her a piercing look, almost intimidating. “You’ve got no idea how unfortunate. How can I get in touch with her?”

“I don’t know. She’s probably still en route.”

He gritted his teeth and cast an angry glance toward the ceiling, as if demanding that heaven give him patience.

Mickey said, “She invited you to be a guest here, and she’s not a woman to go back on her word. If you can’t change your ticket to go back sooner, you’re welcome to stay on until Friday or—”

“I can’t go back sooner,” he retorted. “The fare would be higher. I tried to get here as cheaply as I could.”

Well, Mickey thought, that was almost a point in his favor. At least he didn’t want to squander the estate money on travel expenses. But, still, his interest was only in himself. He hadn’t even asked about Caro’s troubles.

But then, though he still looked unhappy, he said, “What’s the family emergency? If I can ask.”

Mickey clasped her hands together more tightly. “Her daughter’s just had her first child. A little girl. The baby has a serious heart condition. They’re going to have to operate tomorrow.”

He looked at her, frowning as if such a thing could not be, should not be.

“A serious condition? You mean the baby could…”

Die. He didn’t say it, but the word hung in the air like a curse: The baby could die.

“Yes,” she said, her throat tightening.

“That’s lousy,” he said. “That’s terrible. I—I’m sorry.” The sarcastic tinge had vanished from his voice.

Her throat clamped even harder. She couldn’t speak. Only nod mutely.

He leaned toward her. “I really am sorry.” He paused. “You said it’s a little girl?”

“A little girl,” Mickey managed to repeat. She thought of the dozens of pink outfits Carolyn had bought for the child. They were still wrapped and stacked in the closet.

Her gaze fell to the coffee table. The Saks catalog lay there, still turned to the page picturing the enormous pink-and-white panda with its huge, rosy bow.

Again it flashed through Mickey’s mind: Carolyn’s plan to get off the plane, dressed all in pink, holding that ridiculously large animal, just to make Beverly laugh and not be nervous about the birth…. But now…

Mickey couldn’t help it. Tears welled in her eyes. She’d fought them ever since Sonny’s call, and until now she’d won. Suddenly they overtook her, and she turned her face so Adam wouldn’t see.

But he already had. “Are you all right? Miss Nightingale?”

She heaved a shaky sigh of anger at her own weakness. “I’ll be fine,” she managed to say. But memories cascaded madly through her head.

Carolyn had shopped so lovingly, had refused store gift wrap, because every purchase had to be brought home and shown to Vern and Mickey for approval. Then she and Mickey had wrapped them all, to make them more personal. Carolyn had gone through extravaganzas with paper and imaginative bows…she and Mickey had fussed and giggled and carried on, and Carolyn had been so happy….

Mickey swore to herself and covered her eyes. She’d never considered herself sentimental, but now she was coming apart over booties and ribbons and bows. She should be made of sterner stuff. But the tears spilled over and slipped down her cheeks.

Get hold of yourself, dammit.

Suddenly Adam Duran was before her, bending on one knee in front of her, putting a hand on each arm of the chair. “Miss Nightingale?” he said. “Michelle? Mickey—don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”

Now chagrin compounded her grief and fear. How stupid to let a stranger see her like this—and his kindness made it worse. It had been easier to be steely when she’d thought him cold and smug.

She kept her eyes covered and bent her head lower, but she could feel more tears coursing down, and her body shook with suppressed sobs.

“Well, no,” he said, sounding flummoxed, “Cry if you need to. Cry if it helps.”

He dug into the pocket of his faded jeans and pulled out an equally faded blue bandana handkerchief. She’d balled her free hand into a fist. He took the clamped fingers in his hands and gently pried them open. He tucked the handkerchief into her palm then closed her fingers back over it.

“Take that,” he said. “It’s old—but it’s clean. Really.”

She raised the handkerchief to her face. It smelled of old-fashioned laundry, the kind that dried by sunlight and breezes. She scrubbed at the offending tears.

“I—don’t—usually—do—this,” she said.

He touched her arm, a surprisingly gentle gesture. “Can I get you something? You want my glass of water? Or a fresh one?”

The sensation of his hand against her flesh sent a strange, new frisson through her. She hazarded a glimpse of him over the handkerchief. His forehead was furrowed, and his eyes were filled with worry that seemed real.

She realized she would do better if he were not so near and so tensed with empathy. “I—I’d like a glass of water,” she said, her voice thickened by crying. “There’s a pitcher in the fridge. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“Sure thing,” he said, patting her arm. “You bet.”

He rose and went toward the kitchen. Perhaps he understood she needed to be alone awhile to pull herself together. He took his time.

She stopped crying. She dried the last of her tears, straightened up in her chair. Taking slow, deep breaths, she got up and went to the coffee table. Without looking at the page, she slapped the catalog shut and thrust it deep into the magazine rack. She would not allow herself to look again at the picture of that damned panda. Not until she knew the baby was well.

And little Carrie Dekker would get well, she told herself. Doctors could do miracles these days, and Sonny knew the finest ones. But still, her mind nagged, but still…

Adam came into the room again, holding a blue glass misted with cold. He offered it to her. “Feel better?” he asked.

She took it. “Much better. Thank you.”

The drink cooled her aching throat. He watched her, concern still etched on his face.

“I really don’t usually do that,” she apologized.

He nodded, hooking one thumb in his belt. “I didn’t think so.”

“I—I’ve been holding it in. I didn’t want to break down in front of Caro. She didn’t need that. She was having a tough enough time herself.”

“I imagine she was.”

“This is her first grandchild,” Mickey said, feeling she owed him an explanation for her outburst. “She’s been planning for months. This really blindsided her. Did I mention Beverly’s her only child? She’s worried about her, too. Beverly’s wanted a baby for so long.”

He cast another look at Beverly’s portrait over the mantel. He no longer looked critical. “How long?”

“They’ve been married nine years.”

“I hope it all works out for them.”

“So do I,” Mickey said with feeling. “They’re good people. All of them.”

He looked suddenly troubled. “I shouldn’t impose on you at a time like this. I’ll go. I noticed a motel when I came through town.”

The motel, she thought dully. Oh, Carolyn wouldn’t want that.

“No,” Mickey said firmly. “You came all this way. You were invited to stay, and the invitation stands. Carolyn would be mortified if you checked into a motel.”

He said nothing. He stared down at the carpet, rubbed it with the heel of his scuffed cowboy boot.

Mickey was starting to feel more like her usual, efficient self. Or at least she thought she was. “Everything’s ready for you. The guest room’s waiting. Bridget’s got everything for supper…”

He looked up, meeting her gaze. Again she was startled by the vivid blue of his eyes. “Bridget?”

“She’s the cook and housekeeper,” Mickey said. “She lives here. We both do. And she likes company. She’s been looking forward to your visit.”

Mickey didn’t add that Bridget was the only one who’d looked forward it. But now she herself was determined to show Adam that the Circle T was a hospitable place, even in crisis.

Adam still looked conflicted, his mouth twisted with doubt.

“It’s a big house,” Mickey said. “You can have all the privacy you want. There’s a den with a TV and—things. And there’re horses, if you ride. Can you ride?”

His chin went up, and he seemed to stand taller. Any aura of uncertainty vanished. “Yeah,” he said. “I can ride.”

“Then it’s settled. Come with me. I’ll show you the guest room.”

A frown line appeared between his eyes, but he lifted the battered duffel bag and slung its strap over his shoulder. She led him down the hall, past Carolyn’s open office and her own. She noticed that he glanced in both rooms. He seemed to be observing the house with unusual keenness.

The guest room was a large, airy room with an adjoining bath. The white curtains had been pushed open, and the windows overlooked a garden of native Texas wildflowers. It was May, and they bloomed in profusion, the delicate gold of the daisies, the bolder gold and scarlet of the Indian blankets and the deep, tender blue of the bluebonnets.

Mickey had set a white vase of the flowers on the antique oak dresser with its framed oval mirror. Matching the dresser was a four-poster bed. It had a long white skirt and was covered with a colorful patchwork quilt.

A bookcase was filled with volumes old and new, from classics with faded spines to recent best sellers, their covers still crisp and shiny. A television sat on a low oak bench across from a pair of chintz-covered armchairs. Framed Audubon prints of songbirds hung on the walls.

She said, “The den’s next to the living room. There’s a bigger TV there, videos, more books and a pool table. If you need me, I’ll be right down the hall in my office.”

She moved to the door and stepped into the hall. “Supper’s at seven-thirty. Since there’s just you and me, I thought we’d eat in the kitchen, if that’s all right with you.”

He looked her up and down, then nodded. “It’s fine.”

She had never before thought of the guest room as womanish. But in contrast to his masculinity, it suddenly seemed so. He looked out of place in the midst of the snowy curtains and polished furniture and delicately framed prints. He didn’t seem a man suited for chintz and flower arrangements.

With his faded jeans and work shirt, and his skin so burnished by the sun, he would have looked far more at home on the deck of a boat on a lonely sea, tugging ropes and raising sails. As she closed the door, she had the uneasy feeling that he was the sort who wouldn’t be comfortable shut up in any room. He gave off the air that he wasn’t quite tame.

What sort of person was he, anyway? Who was this man, really, suddenly sharing the house with her and Bridget?

WHAT THE HELL have I walked into? Adam thought, staring at the closed door. He felt like an animal trapped in a cage.

He’d known this trip was going to be hard. And he refused to lie to himself; he’d felt edgy about meeting Carolyn Trent. What sane man in his position wouldn’t?

During the whole trip, he’d hardened himself to face her. When he’d climbed the front stairs, his heart had pounded like a sledgehammer. He’d supposed she’d be polite—initially. After that, he’d been prepared for anything.

Except for this. The woman he’d come so far to meet was gone. Because of a sick, newborn baby. Maybe a mortally sick baby.

He swore under his breath and pitched his bag onto the bed to unpack it. He’d been thrown off from the first moment by the strange, starchy Mickey Nightingale.

When she’d first opened the door, she’d stared at him as if he were a freak. He supposed that in her eyes he was. She was neat as a pin. The creases in her jeans looked sharp as blades. Her long-sleeved white blouse was ironed to perfection. Almost everything about her radiated purity and order, except her tousled hair. And the wildly startled look in her eyes.

She’d even put on her glasses, as if to make sure of what she was seeing on Carolyn’s respectable porch. He supposed he looked like a bum.

Before he’d come, he’d thought about getting a haircut. He’d thought about buying new jeans, even a dress shirt. Then he’d remembered the maxim: Distrust any enterprise that requires new clothes. To hell with upgrading his wardrobe.

He’d meant to show up as himself, not pretending to be anyone or anything else.

Yet he’d been immediately daunted by the Nightingale woman. She was attractive in an odd, unattainable way. In spite of her primness, there was something about her that was—only one word came to him—exquisite.

Her skin was so perfect he’d been tempted to reach out to find if it could possibly feel as smooth as it looked. She wore no makeup except for a touch of pink on her lips. Could her face really be so flawless?

Her hazel eyes were a rich, brownish gold. Her hair was brown slightly tinged with dark gold—a color as mysterious to him as autumn, a season that never came to the Caribbean. Her curls were rumpled, the only slightly untidy thing about her. Yet that one touch of disorder became her. It made her seem human, after all.

Otherwise she was the very essence of a proper, civilized, well-bred young woman. The complete opposite of him.

But as haunting as he found her looks, her manner had set his teeth on edge. She’d seemed snippy and stuck-up.

Or so he’d thought until the moment she’d burst into tears.

He’d been confounded by her news about Carolyn Trent and the ailing baby. He hadn’t noticed Mickey’s growing distress in talking about it. He’d been bewildered, wondering what in hell he was going to do now.

Then, before he knew it, the facade of her primness broke. Who could have thought such storms of feeling could toss within her?

What alarmed him was how deeply grieved she seemed. Her body had heaved in the effort to control the sobs that threatened to break out of control. She said she was a secretary, but she obviously cared a great deal about Carolyn Trent and her family.

Adam was not cruel. When he saw suffering, his first impulse was to ease it. And her tears brought the reality home to him: Carolyn might well be a person worth caring about. And Carolyn, too, was suffering.

He swore aloud again. What to do now? Everything had to be rethought. Everything.

And as for the Nightingale woman, she’d gone from tempestuous sorrow back to cool efficiency so quickly that she’d thrown him off balance yet again. Well, he was stuck here with her until Friday. He supposed that having dropped her guard once she’d be careful not to do it again.

So be it. It’d be easier on both of them.

He hung his two spare shirts and other pair of jeans in the closet. He truly wasn’t much for clothes. For him, living on his small boat, wearing more than a pair of ragged cutoffs was dressing up. What he had on now was like formal wear to him.

The rest of the contents of the duffel bag were books, photos, a videotape, a folder, two sealed manila envelopes with Enoch Randolph’s legal papers and some documents. He put everything but his books into a dresser drawer.

He looked about the room, and homey as it was meant to be, he still felt trapped. He resisted the impulse to pace. He picked up one of his books and flopped down in a chair, draping one leg over the arm.

He opened the book and began to read, although he knew it nearly by heart. His eyes fell on one of the opening sentences.

“At present I am a sojourner in civilized life again.”

That’s me, he thought, more restless than before. A sojourner in civilized life. I don’t live here. I’m just here for a temporary stay.