Читать книгу Rio: Man Of Destiny - Cait London, Cait London - Страница 8

Prologue

In the city of Jasmine’s old feed store, Boone Llewlyn watched his grandaughter. His ten grandchildren thought of him as a friend who kept them safe while their mothers were away; they didn’t know he was their grandfather. He’d been too ashamed of failing them and his scheming sons. The eight-year-old girl bore the Llewlyn stamp—a gangling rawboned body, an angular jaw and black gleaming hair. Paloma’s sky-blue eyes came from her great-grandmother, a St. Clair. Dressed in bib overalls and a warm flannel shirt, she crouched beside the baby chicks in the feed and seed store, cradling them in her hands. This was her favorite place, where gardeners came for seed and ranchers for livestock needs. And every spring, the baby chicks would arrive—the store was a place that began, nurtured and sustained rural life in the Wyoming valley.

Boone was old now, worn by life and his sons. As a young man, Boone had been in love with Garnet Holmes Blaylock, but he’d wanted to seek out the riches of the world and she’d stayed in Jasmine. Still in love with Garnet, Boone had married Sara, a cold woman but one with skills to help him in his search for money and power.

In his search for money, he’d forgotten his two sons needed him. They were weak men now, and bigamists, using different names to marry several women. Boone had bought his sons free of the legalities, of course, but his grandchildren had paid a heavy price. Their mothers were as immoral and hard as his wife. Boone still loved his sons, but he kept them from his cherished Llewlyn land; he feared they would destroy everything he loved. Lacking a love of land and heritage, and easily bought, they stayed away.

Boone had stayed out in the world for thirty years, then returned to Llewlyn House to live, near Jasmine. The Llewlyn Ranch, all ten thousand acres, was for his grandchildren, these small perfect bits of his parents.

“You look lonely, Boone.” Paloma came to him then, easing the soft, fluffy chicks into his scarred hands. She leaned against him, a small girl bearing his mother’s scent after trying on the old dresses. They were too large for Paloma, and safely packed away until one day when they would be hers. In his heart, Boone knew that he would never see the woman she would become, but he could see that she would be strong and tall and straight and her heart would be pure. She’d love the land, his land, homesteaded by Llewlyns—because she was his blood, his past and his future.

“I’m glad you’re my friend, Boone,” she said. “I’m glad you let me stay with you...when my mother lets me.” She wiped a tear away from his weathered cheek and she whispered, ”Don’t cry, Boone. When we get home, I’ll play the best music you’ve ever heard. That old music that your mother used to play, and we’ll have tea in your mother’s china cups.”

Boone studied the girl’s vivid sky-blue eyes. He raised his gnarled hand to stroke her gleaming blue-black hair. She was a part of his mother, of him and the Llewlyns. Though he couldn’t tell her that he was her grandfather now, one day she would come back, he hoped, to find how much he loved her and the land he wanted her to inherit.