Читать книгу Wed By A Will - Cara Colter - Страница 10

Three months later…

Hers.

Corrine shoved her hands in the back pockets of her jeans, and rocked back on her heels, studying the cabin. It stood, small and solid, under the spreading wings of a giant red maple.

Hers.

It didn’t matter to her that the porch sagged, that the shingles on the roof had grown a thick layer of moss, that the windows were grimy and needed to be cleaned. It didn’t matter to her that the second step was broken, or that the caulking was crumbling and rocks had fallen away from the top of the stone chimney.

She sighed, and allowed herself to feel a little finger of happiness. Nothing had ever really been hers before.

Of course she had owned clothing, and her beloved, if ancient Jeep that still had patches of its original green color in a few places.

But she had always rented an apartment in Minneapolis, even long after her moderate success with the Brandy picture book, Brandy being a young orphan girl of her creation who took on the world with spunk and fire and who always won.

Why hadn’t she bought a house?

Maybe because it would be tempting fate to believe in good things, to commit to anything at all beyond a deadline.

Even feeling so good about this ramshackle cabin concerned her.

Nothing in her history allowed her to believe good things lasted.

“Well,” she said out loud, and smiled, “according to sister Brit, this place doesn’t qualify as a good thing. Not even close.”

Brit had been appalled by the tiny cabin, the tumbledown barn, the falling-down fences that surrounded pastures gone wild, grass and weeds and wildflowers much higher than the fences.

“You can come live with me and Mitch,” Brit had announced shortly after Corrie had finally arrived.

“You’re newlyweds!” Corrie had said. Her sister had been married for only a week. She and her husband, Mitch, had hardly been able to keep their hands off each other long enough to say their vows. Corrie didn’t want to live with that—evidence, cold hard evidence, that dreams came true, that miracles happened all the time.

Both her sisters were evidence of that, judging by the happiness they had found since coming to Miracle Harbor. The thought made terror claw in Corrie’s throat.

Never cry, had just been the first rule. But the second rule was just as strong: Don’t hold hope. Having hope could be the most dangerous thing of all.

“We’ll come help you clean it up,” Abby had declared bravely, staring at the cobwebs inside the little cabin, her face a ghastly shade of pale.

Corrie had been amazed that her sisters shared her terror of spiders, felt that funny warm spot around her frozen heart threaten to expand.

So, of course, she had refused their offers of help. But not just because she could not stand to owe anyone anything, and not just because she felt vulnerable in the face of her sisters’ enthusiasm for her when they did not know the first thing about her.

Somehow cleaning the caulking was like claiming it. Making it hers in a way no one could take away from her. She took a deep breath, and glanced around.

There was work everywhere. The barn was practically falling down. The yard was nonexistent. Maybe she should start out here—

“Corrie,” she told herself, “get in there. Or else you’ll be sleeping outside tonight.” She debated whether there would be more spiders inside or out.

She took a deep breath, skipped over the broken step, and gave the door a shove. It squeaked open.

The interior of the cabin was simplicity itself. One large room served as both the kitchen and the living room. The kitchen had a single row of cupboards, badly in need of paint, and a countertop badly in need of new Arborite. The rust-stained sink was the old porcelain variety. The fridge and stove, thankfully, looked new and spotless.

A doorway off the kitchen, with no door, led to a bedroom that looked like it had been added to the cabin as an afterthought. The tiny bathroom, too, must have been added later, since the cabin looked to be eighty or ninety years old, and the bathroom was modern, bright and clean.

A black potbellied stove in the center of the large room acted as a divider between the kitchen and living room. On the other side was her living room, empty as yet. She liked its rough-hewn gray log walls, and the window, french-paned and huge. Once the window was cleaned she knew the light would be spectacular in this room. She would unpack her easel first, and put it right here where she could glance out the window at the wild grass and flowers, and the grove of trees and the leaning barn and know that everything she was looking at was hers.

A single beam of sunshine had found its way through the grime in the uncurtained front window, and it danced across the floor.

She went and stood in that sunbeam, scraped a layer of dust from the floor with the toe of her sneaker, and saw that the wood beneath was golden and warm.

Lost in thought, picturing bright yellow-checkered curtains at the windows, throw rugs on the floor, red tulips in a glass jar on the kitchen table, she did not hear him come in.

“Anybody here?”

She whirled around, gasping, some ingrained instinct spurring her to look for a weapon. Something to protect herself. Her mind raced back along the length of the long rutted driveway that led to her door. She was a long way from the nearest neighbor. No one would hear a cry for help.

There was nothing she could use to defend herself, and not even a coffee table to dart behind. A quick exit would do, she thought but then her mind started to kick in and she remembered. The movers. He had to be one of the movers. After all, she had been waiting for the movers to come with her meager scraps of furniture.

The light poured in the door behind him, and for a moment all she saw was his silhouette. She knew immediately he was not a furniture mover, yet her fear stayed at bay, and as she studied him she felt herself relax minutely.

Beige cowboy hat, white T-shirt, narrow-legged jeans on long, long legs, booted feet, broad, broad shoulders. Even without the hat, something would have whispered cowboy.

The confident angle of the chin, the solid plant of his feet, something in the way the muscle danced under the sunlight that glanced off the hair on his arms.

She didn’t know there were cowboys in Oregon. Of course, she didn’t really know very much about Oregon at all, except that the climate promised to be kinder than it was in Minnesota.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t startle me,” she said, cool and defensive. But his voice had already penetrated those defenses. A deep voice, a sure voice. It only penetrated just enough for her to decide she was safe in this cabin, with a stranger who had appeared on soft feet, out of nowhere.

Her eyes adjusted to the light, and the details of him came clear to her. Brown eyes, steady, unwavering, calm and strong. A lot could be told from a man’s eyes. It was a survival skill she had perfected, another remnant from her childhood.

His cheekbones were pronounced, and his nose looked like it might have been straight once. Now the perfection of his looks was marred by the bump where the nose had been broken, but oddly the flaw made his appearance infinitely more appealing than pure perfection might. The crooked nose proclaimed him a man’s man, who lived in a man’s world, and paid the price for it. He probably accepted his lumps with no more than a casual shrug.

He had a beautiful mouth. Her artist’s eyes insisted on seeing that; the sensuous fullness of the lower lip, the firm curve of the upper one.

He took a step toward her, his hand extended, and she backed up.

He lowered his hand slowly, and regarded her, the eyes narrow now, assessing.

Rule Three: Never let them see your fear. It didn’t matter if she didn’t even know why she was scared, why her heart was pumping rabbit-swift, and why everything in her knew the scariest thing she could have done would have been to accept that extended hand.

She knew exactly what it would feel like.

It would be warm, dry, infinitely strong and leathertough. The touch of his hand would invite her to look into a world where people were not alone. Just a tantalizing glimpse, before he released his grip.

A sudden yearning leapt in her that she had to fight. A yearning that made an entirely different kind of fear breathe to life within her.

“What can I do for you?” she asked, her voice ice-cold, not a trace of any sort of emotion in it.

She knew he heard the coldness, though his reaction was barely discernible. A flicker in a muscle along the line of his jaw, a slight narrowing of his eyes that had the unfortunate effect of bringing the thick sooty abundance of his lashes to her attention.

“I’m Matt Donahue,” he said, just the faintest hint of ice adding a raw edge to the warm timber of his voice. “I’m your closest neighbor,” he nodded, “on that side.”

If he expected the welcome-neighbor routine, she hoped to disappoint him. She said nothing, waited, after a moment, folded her arms across her chest.

“I actually was interested in buying this piece of land. I heard someone had bought it before I even realized it had come up on the market.”

So he wasn’t exactly here as part of the welcome-neighbor routine, either. Surprise. Surprise.

“I’m not selling.” See? That was what attachment did. She’d only just got here, and already she had decided the place was hers. A place where her heart could be at home. She felt inordinately angry at him for making her see how fragile places for the heart really were.

“You haven’t even heard my offer,” he said mildly.

“Nor do I plan to.” She saw no reason to tell him she was in no position to sell, even had she wanted to. The land wasn’t even really hers to sell, yet. And maybe it never would be. How had her heart managed to overlook that little detail when she was planning throw rugs and curtains and bright red tulips?

That while her heart was saying forever to this little shack in the trees, the legal document said something else.

Husband required.

For a moment, having the H-word in her mind at the same time that this big, handsome man with the strong, steady eyes filled her doorwell made her almost helpless with longing.

Wishing that she could be a different person than she was. Softer and kinder, like her sister Abby or more outgoing and sexy like her sister Brit.

She felt her lack of warmth should have at least backed him out the door by now, but he stood, feet planted, regarding her thoughtfully, almost lazily. His eyes drifted casually to her bare ring finger, which gave her permission to take a swift, discreet glance at his.

His fingers were long and lean and ringless. Any kind of jewelry on them—even a wedding band—would have looked foolishly out of place in contrast to the masculine power of those hands.

She wished suddenly she was not in her oldest jeans, and a T-shirt with a rip under one armpit. She wished she had not been so quick to tell Brit to leave her hair alone when her sister had tried to style it. Still, she kept her face deliberately expressionless, and hated herself for the weakness of wishing.

His attention, thankfully, wavered from her before her discomfort made her blurt out something she was sure to regret. An overreaction like get the hell off my property.

He cocked his head a little, turned a shoulder, listened. “You expecting company?”

“The movers,” she said, suddenly hearing what he heard, the growl of a big truck coming down her rutted driveway.

“I expect they’re here, then. I’ll leave you to it—” he paused, leaving a blank where she could fill in her name, but she refused. She had no intention of appearing even remotely friendly to the handsome neighbor who had his eye on her land.

And, she realized, her lips.

Stunned by the pure masculine potency that burned briefly in his eyes when they flicked ever so briefly to her lips, she found herself wanting to sway toward him. Thankfully, he had tamed the heat in his gaze when he looked placidly back into her eyes.

She narrowed her eyes and glared at him.

He raised a hand to the brim of his hat, gave it a slow tip, and took a step backward onto the porch, turning away from her. “Your livestock appears to have arrived.”

Her what? She scurried over to the doorway. He was planted on the top step now, his eyes narrowed at the old muffler-free truck that was bouncing down her drive, a stock rack in the back.

“I don’t have any livestock.”

He looked over his shoulder at her. In the full light he was even more compelling than he had been in the dimness of the cabin. The sunlight made him appear bigger and stronger and more real.

Dark brown hair that curled at the tips slipped out from under his cowboy hat and touched the nape of his neck.

She could see his pulse beating in the curve of that strong neck. The white T-shirt molded the firm, hard lines of his chest and the broad sweep of his shoulders. Where the short sleeve of the shirt ended a rock-cut bicep began. The white of the shirt made the copper tone of his skin appear deeper. Her eyes wandered down the length of that arm, to the corded muscle of a powerful forearm, the squareness of a wrist twice the width of her own.

Embarrassed for looking, she forced her gaze back up to his eyes.

She could see they were more than brown; they were dark as new-turned earth, flecked with little spangles of gold.

And in the strong sunlight, she could see those eyes held a pain in them that could compete with any of her own.

The truck pulled up at the bottom of her stairs, a vehicle in a state of disrepair worse than her Jeep.

Her neighbor stepped over her broken step with the ease of a man who was used to putting his feet in all the right places, and went up to the window, which the driver rolled down.

“Corrie Parsons?” The driver looked grizzled, and dirty. There was a look in his eyes that she could recognize at ninety yards. Plain old garden variety meanness.

Donahue looked back at her for confirmation, and she nodded, not even sorry to give up her name to him after all. In fact she was glad suddenly that he was here. She got a familiar uneasy feeling from that man in the truck, with his stained teeth and squinty eyes and stubbled jowls.

With surprise she realized that Matt Donahue had either picked up on her split second of dislike, or harbored some of his own, because there was something almost protective in the way he turned back to the truck, and answered for her.

“This is the Parsons’s place.”

No one had ever protected her before, not even casually, and she did not like the way his small gesture threatened to soften something hard within her.

At that moment, a sound like Corrine had never heard reverberated through the air. It was like amplified fingernails across a blackboard crossed with the shrill howl of a saw blade shrieking through wood.

Matt Donahue didn’t jump back the way she did. Instead, he moved away from the vehicle door, swung himself up on the deck of the truck, and peered through the worn board slats of the stock rack.

“Yup,” the man said, opening his door and sliding out, “I’m Werner Grimes, delivering a prize-winning mammoth jack and he’s all yours.”

Matt Donahue jumped back down, shot a look over his shoulder at her that was distinctly grim.

“I thought you said you didn’t have any livestock,” Donahue said.

“I don’t! I don’t even know what a mammoth jack is. It sounds like something that’s been extinct for several million years crossed with a rabbit.”

“Ha-ha. That’s ’bout as good a description of him as I’ve ever heard,” Grimes said, going around to the back of his truck and lowering a ramp. “Mister, you want to give me a hand with this?”

“She says it’s not hers.”

“And this paper right here says it is, bought and paid for.”

While the men were at the back of the truck, arguing ownership, she crept down the stairs of the cabin and came around to the side of the truck. She couldn’t see anything. She climbed up on the deck, as she’d seen Matt do, only with less grace. She looked through the slats.

The saddest pair of brown eyes she had ever seen looked back at her from under bushy eyebrows. Long scruffy ears were turned toward the men, listening. For a moment it almost seemed like maybe it was some sort of prehistoric creature crossed with a rabbit.

“A donkey,” she whispered. She stuck her fingers through the slats and felt a soft, velvety nose touch her.

“Git your hand out of there!” the man shouted at her, and she jerked back so quickly she nearly fell off the wheel well. “Darned critter is meaner than a rattlesnake. He’ll take off your arm at the elbow.”

She stared at Grimes, aghast, and thought of the soft muzzle that had momentarily touched her fingers.

“Look, there’s obviously been a mistake,” her neighbor said.

“No mistake,” Grimes insisted. “Right name. Right address. Stand back. I’m going to open the gate.”

“She doesn’t want a jack. And neither do I. I’ve got a pasture of full-blooded quarter horse mares right next door, just foaling out, and I’ll be damned if I’m planning a crop of mules next year.”

“You better have a strong fence up then.” The man spat. “He’s hornier than—”

Donahue cut a look to her falling-down fences, and then interrupted Grimes before he had a chance to educate them about exactly how horny her donkey was.

Her donkey.

“How much to take him back wherever he came from?”

Her neighbor was reaching into his back pocket, taking out his wallet, which seemed to her to be a slightly autocratic thing for him to be doing, though it was a little late to decide she wanted control of the situation.

A certain whiney note appeared in the donkeydeliverer’s voice. “Geez. It took me near three hours to load the sum-bit—”

“Just name a price,” Donahue said coldly.

“Two hundred and fifty?”

“Get real.”

“Okay. One fifty then. Not a penny less.”

“I’ll give you fifty bucks to turn that truck around, with the donkey onboard.”

He was a mean donkey, Corrine reminded herself. He’d take her arm off at the elbow if she gave him the opportunity. And apparently he had an immense appetite for things other than grass. A mean, disgusting donkey.

Whose muzzle had felt like velvet against her fingers.

And whose eyes had been so unbearably sad.

“Wait,” she said, when she saw the money about to change hands. “Wait. I want him.”

Something pitiful flashed in the donkey man’s eyes as he saw his chance to make a quick fifty bucks disappearing.

Matt Donahue turned and looked at her. “You want who?”

Since only Donahue, Grimes and the donkey were in her yard, her answer was bound to be insulting. Yet it gave her great pleasure to say, “The donkey.”

He came toward her in long strides, his eyes flashing fire. “Do you have any idea what my brood stock is worth?”

She shook her head, having only the vaguest idea whatever stock he was talking about was probably not registered on the NASDAQ.

“One of my mares is worth more than this whole place. One mare.”

She felt herself stiffen under the slight. She turned to the other man. “Unload my donkey,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said glumly.

“Do you know anything about donkeys?” her neighbor asked her.

“No,” she said proudly. “But I bet they eat grass and I have plenty of that.”

“At the moment you don’t have a fence that could hold that beast.”

She resented her donkey being called a beast in that tone of voice. “Unload my donkey,” she said again, her teeth clenched.

The man gave Matt a look that begged for his help, but he was ignored. Apparently Mr. Donahue’s neighborliness did not extend to unloading unwanted donkeys.

Cautiously Grimes walked up the ramp and inched back the gate of his stock rack.

The donkey made a whuffling noise.

“Easy there,” Grimes said roughly.

She could hear the fear in his voice. What on earth was she doing? She was having a man unload a donkey in her yard that he was afraid of. It was obviously some kind of mistake that the donkey had been delivered here. Why make it worse by having him unloaded?

Was it the grim set of her neighbor’s jaw that kept her, stubbornly, from calling out to Grimes to never mind? To take the donkey and his fifty bucks and leave? Or was it the meanness in Grimes’s eyes that made her reluctant to leave the donkey’s fate up to him? Whatever the reason, she remained silent.

There was a loud scuffle, punctuated with swear words. And then, a shriek of pain, the sound of a heavy body falling, and the unmistakable thunder of hooves across the bed of the truck.

Matt leapt forward as the donkey burst from the truck and hurled himself down the ramp, kicking up his heels at his delighted and unexpected freedom.

It was short-lived. Matt grabbed the trailing rope and was dragged halfway across the yard skidding on his chest before he managed to get his legs back underneath him, and dig in his heels. His every muscle taut, he braced himself and used his entire body to force the donkey, fighting and kicking, around.

They moved in a circle, Donahue at the center of it, the heels of his boots planted in the ground, the muscles in his well-honed body rippling with the effort of trying to control the donkey who tore at the rope in his hands.

And then, just like that, the donkey quit, and stood there, his head sagging, his ribs heaving, his belly oddly huge in light of his pathetically thin body.

Even she, with no knowledge of any kind of livestock, could read a terrible story in that donkey’s condition. His fur was matted. In places, there was no fur, only welts. He looked thin to the point of starvation, his hip bones sticking out. His mane and tail were barely visible for the burrs imbedded in them.

Grimes had pulled himself up from the truck deck. He had a club in his hand, and a look in his eye, and Corrine yelped with wordless dismay as he moved toward the donkey.

Matt turned toward her sound, and saw the man coming toward him.

“You touch this animal,” he said, his voice a low growl like a bear about to charge, “and I’ll take that club to you.”

She shivered at the pure menace Matt managed to exude without even raising his voice.

Grimes stopped, and eyed Donahue warily.

“Look at this poor dumb beast,” Matt said, “He’s been beaten. He’s starving. His feet haven’t been looked after. He’s got worm belly.” There was barely leashed fury in each carefully bitten out word.

Grimes was beating a hasty retreat to his truck. “He weren’t never mine,” he called over his shoulder as he climbed in his truck and slammed the door. “I just got paid to deliver him.”

After two or three desperate grinding tries on the starter, the truck finally sputtered to life. It bounced back down the driveway at least twice as fast as it had come in.

Donahue did not turn and look back at her. “The kindest thing to do,” he said, “would be to put him down.”

The ice edge was gone from his voice, but it didn’t make the message any less brutal.

“Kill him?” she breathed. A shudder went through her at the thought of the donkey being murdered. She didn’t even want to think how one murdered a donkey, let alone the kind of person who could suggest such a thing. “No.”

“He isn’t trained,” His voice was soft, almost gentle, a voice one might use on a stubborn child. “He doesn’t look healthy. He seems to have a mean streak. The kindest thing to do—”

“Somehow kindness and cold-blooded murder don’t go together in my world.”

He sighed. The sigh whispered with the exasperation of a country man facing a city girl, a man used to dealing with the hard cold realities of livestock coming face-to-face with a woman whose unrealistic love of all creatures great and small was probably based on a solid dose of Disney movies.

And even if she knew it was unrealistic, she wasn’t letting him kill her donkey for the flimsy reason that the animal wasn’t perfect.

After a long time, he spoke again. “Don’t you have any idea where he came from? Or why he came to you?”

“No.”

He glanced over his shoulder at her again, and sighed, the sigh even more heartfelt than his first one, if that were possible. “Then where do you want him, Ms. Parsons? And don’t say your pasture until you’ve got your fences fixed, because you’re legally libel for anything that happens to my mares.”

Aha. The real reason he wanted her donkey dead.

“There’s a stall in the barn.”

“I’ll put him in there for now. Tomorrow, I’ll come look after the fences.”

“I can look after my own fences.”

“Humor me.”

The donkey chose that moment to lunge at him, his teeth bared. Donahue sidestepped easily, shook his head and dragged the unwilling donkey toward her barn. She started to follow.

“Don’t get too close behind him. He’d probably kick you as soon as look at you.”

So, she trailed behind at a safe distance, and followed them into the murky barn. “I hope the barn doesn’t fall down on top of him,” she said, watching Donahue struggle with a rusted latch on a stall gate.

He gave her a look that said he hoped it did. He installed the donkey in the pen, stepped back and relatched the gate.

“Do you have any feed for him?”

She contemplated that for a moment. Feed for him. A hint might have been nice. Couldn’t she just go pick some of that grass and throw it in here? Donahue read her mind.

“You don’t even know what he eats, do you?” he asked, the softness of his tone not even beginning to hide his impatience.

“I’ll go to the library and find out,” she said proudly.

“That sounds a lot easier than just asking,” he said sardonically.

She fought with her pride briefly then gave in with ill grace. “Okay. What does he eat?”

“He’ll need hay, until you can get him on the grass. A couple of bales. And if you plan to build him up, he should probably have oats. Though,” he frowned, “that might make him all the more eager to get after my mares.”

“All right. I’ll go get a couple of bales of hay, then, and some oats.”

He glanced at his watch, and sighed. “Well, not today you won’t. Feed store closed at five. You couldn’t get hay there, anyway. You don’t generally buy hay by the bale. You buy it by the ton.”

The donkey let out an outraged bray that made the walls shake and made her worry the barn was going to come down around them.

“He’ll need water right away. Don’t go in there with him, you hear?”

The donkey chose that moment to lunge at the gate, so she decided not to argue with Donahue on the issue of entering the pen, even though she did not like the bossy tone of that you hear? She nodded stiffly.

“I’ll bring by some straw for his bedding and enough hay to get you through a few days until I can have a look at those fences.” He glanced at his watch, and she caught a glimpse of weariness as he tried to figure out where to fit her into his day. “I’ll try to come around by eight or nine.”

She wanted desperately to tell him that wasn’t necessary, that she would look after it herself. But the truth was, it was necessary. Her donkey could not wait on a point of pride. He looked like he might perish if he did not get the right kind of attention soon.

She didn’t know a single soul who would know the first thing about giving a donkey the proper kind of care. Certainly her sisters would not. And their husbands were a lawyer and an ex-cop. Somehow that seemed far removed from donkey land.

“I’ll pay you,” she said proudly.

“Whatever.” He stood regarding her for a moment, and then with a small shake of his head, he strode by her and was gone.

His scent lingered in her nostrils for a long, long time.

She went and put her hand cautiously over the gate to the stall, hoping the donkey would touch her fingers again with his muzzle and prove to her she had done the right thing.

But the donkey rolled his eyes at her, and stayed squished as tight against the back wall of his new home as he could go.

“I know all about that feeling,” she said, and she smiled, knowing she had done just the right thing after all.