Читать книгу A Bravo Christmas Wedding - Christine Rimmer - Страница 9
ОглавлениеRory let go of Clara and put a finger to her lips. Clara frowned at her, confused. So Rory turned her around and pointed at the stall.
Clara asked miserably, “Really?”
“Yeah. I think so.”
“Wonderful.” Clara marched right over there and tapped on the door. “Come on out. We know you’re in there.”
Below the door, a pair of black Dansko duty shoes and two black trouser legs lowered into sight.
The door swung inward. Rory recognized the face: one of the Sylvan Inn waitresses, though not the one who’d waited on their table.
Clara knew her. “Monique Hightower. What a surprise.” And not in a good way, considering Clara’s bleak tone. She said to Rory, “Monique and I went to Justice Creek High together.”
The waitress gave a sheepish giggle. “Hey, Clara.”
Clara didn’t smile. “How much did you hear?”
“Um, nothing?” Monique suggested hopefully.
“Liar.”
Monique giggled some more. “Well, all right. Everything. But I swear to you, Clara. I would never say a word about your private business to anyone.”
* * *
Walker stood in the parking lot, waiting, watching Clara and Rory, who whispered to each other about fifteen feet away.
After whatever had gone down in the ladies’ room, Clara had settled up in the restaurant, and then Rory had asked him to give her and Clara a few more minutes alone. So there they stood, the two of them, between his SUV and a red pickup, both wrapped in heavy coats, their heads bent close together, their noses red from the cold winter air, talking a mile a minute, both of them intense, serious as hell.
Something very weird was going on. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what.
Finally, Rory hugged Clara and then raised her hand to signal him over. They all got in the SUV. He started the engine, turned the heater up and pulled out of the parking space.
Clara asked, “Can you let me out at the café?”
“Will do.”
Neither of the women said a word during the short drive into town.
When Walker pulled to a stop in front of Clara’s restaurant, she said, “Thanks, Walker. See you both tonight. Seven?” She’d invited him, Rory and Rye over for dinner, just like old times. Kind of.
“We’ll be there,” Rory promised.
“See you then,” said Walker.
Clara got out, pushed the door shut and turned for the café.
He’d figured Rory would tell him what was going on as soon as they were alone.
But all she said was “I’ll bet you’re starving. Do you want to go in and get something to eat?”
“Naw. I’ll get something at home.” He headed for the Bar-N. Rory stared out the window, apparently lost in thought, through the whole drive.
At the ranch, she went straight upstairs to her room. He was kind of hungry, so he heated up some of last night’s stew and ate it standing by the sink, staring out at the snow-covered mountains that rimmed the little valley where he’d lived all his life. He’d just put his bowl in the dishwasher when Rory appeared dressed in jeans and knee-high rawhide boots, carrying a camera as usual.
He asked, “What now?”
“I’ve never had a chance to get many pictures around the ranch. I’d like to take some shots of the horses and of the other houses and the cabins—and you don’t have to go with me.”
“I’ll just get my hat and coat.”
“Oh, come on. Take a break.”
“I can’t do that, ma’am.” He laid on the cowboy drawl. “I take my bodyguardin’ seriously—and do you really want me to keep that money your mother sent?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then don’t you think you’d better let me do the job?”
So they put on their winter gear and he followed her out. It was no hardship really, watching Rory. She was easy on the eyes, with that shining, thick sable hair and those pink cheeks and that look of interest she always wore. Rory found the everyday world completely fascinating. He watched her snap pictures of everything from a weathered porch rail to an old piece of harness someone had left on a fence post.
He thought about how she sometimes resented the way being a princess hemmed her in, but even she would have to admit that her background had helped her in a highly competitive field. Because of who she was, she had a higher profile and an intriguing byline. Add that to her talent and drive: success. Her pictures had already appeared in National Geographic and a number of other nature, gardening and outdoor magazines.
The horses were waiting for them by the fence when they reached the corral. She took pictures of him petting them and feeding them some wrinkled apples he’d brought out from the house. They went into the stables. He mucked the main floor while she got more pictures. And then she put her camera in its case, hung it from a peg, picked up the other broom and worked alongside him.
She knew how to muck out a floor. One of her sisters was a world-famous horse breeder and Rory had grown up around horses.
They returned to the house at quarter after five to clean up. He was feeding Lucky and Lonesome when she came down at six-thirty, looking good in tight black jeans, tall black boots and a thick black sweater patterned across the top with white snowflakes.
On the way to Clara’s, he couldn’t resist asking, “So are you ever going to tell me what went on at the restaurant?”
She sent him a look—as if she was trying to figure out what he was talking about. Right.
He elaborated, “You remember. When Clara bolted to the ladies’ room and chucked up her lunch and then yelled at me to get out and then you said not to let anyone in? And then eventually you two came out with Monique Hightower, who must have been in there with you the whole time? Yeah. That’s what I’m talking about.”
She coughed into her hand, a stall so obvious a toddler would have seen through it. “Clara got sick.”
“Yeah. I figured that part out all by myself.”
“I think it might have been the cheesy potatoes.”
He sent her a speaking glance. One that said, Give me a break. “So, all right. You’re not going to tell me.”
She winced and slunk down in her seat a few inches and didn’t even bother to try to deny that she’d lied.
He said, “You should know I’ll find out eventually—whatever the hell it is.”
Rory puffed out her cheeks with a hard breath. “I just don’t know what to tell you.”
“Clara swore you to secrecy, huh? Good luck with that. Because if Monique knows, everybody’s going to know. Gossip is her life. She’s been that way at least since high school.”
“Yes. Well, Clara mentioned that—about Monique. But still. I don’t know what to tell you. I mean—it’s Clara’s business, that’s all.” She sent him another pained glance. He took pity on her and left it at that.
For now, anyway.
Clara’s house was around the block from her café, a sweet blue Victorian with maroon trim and a deep front porch. Rye greeted them at the door. He hugged Rory. And when he took Walker’s hand and clapped him on the back with brotherly affection, his gaze slid away.
No doubt about it. Something was going on and it was not good.
Rye waited while they hung their coats on the hall tree. Then he led them through the dining room to the kitchen.
Clara stood at the counter tearing lettuce into a salad bowl. She greeted them with a too-broad smile. “Ryan, pour Rory some wine and get your brother a beer. I thought, since it’s just us four, that we’d eat right here at the breakfast nook table.”
While Clara pulled the meal together, they all stood at the counter, talking about the weather and the wedding, about Clara’s out-of-control sisters and Walker’s new job as Rory’s bodyguard. Then they moved to the breakfast nook and sat down to eat.
On the surface, Walker thought, everything seemed okay. But it wasn’t okay. The evening was just...off, somehow. Over the years, the four of them had hung out a lot. They always had a good time. That night should have been the same.
But Rory was too quiet. And both Clara and Ryan seemed tense and distracted. Clara had Rye pour her a glass of wine—and then never touched it. The food was terrific, as always at Clara’s. But Clara ate no more than she drank. Maybe she really was sick.
But then why not call off the evening and take it easy?
Midway through the meal, she jumped up, just the way she had at the restaurant that afternoon. With a frantic, “Excuse me,” she clapped her hand to her mouth and ran for the central hallway.
Rye and Rory jumped up and went after her.
A minute later, Rye returned by himself. He dropped back into his chair, those brown eyes of his full of worry, his charming smile no longer in evidence.
Walker had had enough. It was just too ridiculous to keep on pretending he hadn’t guessed what was going on. “Clara’s pregnant, right?”
Rye picked up his beer, knocked back half of it and set it down. “What makes you say that?”
“Damn it, Rye. Don’t give me the limp leg on this. She threw up at lunchtime, too. In the restaurant toilet. Rory went in to help out. And whatever she and Rory said while they were in there, Monique Hightower heard, because she was in there with them—hiding in a stall, is my guess. If you were planning on keeping the news a secret, you need a new plan.”
Rye swore under his breath—and busted to the truth at last. “We were trying to get through the wedding before we said anything. Clara’s got enough to do, dealing with her crazy family and all.”
“So she is pregnant?”
Ryan fiddled with the label on his beer bottle.
“Answer the question, Rye.”
“Yeah.” He lifted the beer and drank the rest down. “She’s pregnant.”
“And that’s it...that’s why you’re getting married?”
“Hell, Walker. What kind of crap question is that?”
“Let me rephrase. Is that the only reason you’re getting married?”
“Of course not.”
Walker waited for Rye to say the rest. When Rye just sat there staring at his empty beer bottle, he prompted, “Because you’re also in love with her?”
Rye scowled. “That’s right and I always have been.”
“So you’re always saying.”
“Because it’s the truth—and why are you on my ass all of a sudden?”
It was a good question. Getting all up in Rye’s face wasn’t the answer to anything. “You’re right. Sorry, man. Just trying to figure out what’s going on. I mean, you’re stepping up, and that’s a damn fine thing.”
“What?” Rye bristled. “That surprises you—that I would step up?”
Walker looked him square in the eye. “Not in the least.”
“Well, good.” Rye settled back in his chair—and then stiffened at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. “They’re coming back...”
The two women came in the way they’d gone out—through the great room. Rye got up, went to Clara and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You okay?”
She put on a smile and gave him a nod. They all three sat down again and Clara shot a glance at Walker. “Sorry. I’ve been queasy all day. Must be some minor stomach bug.”
Walker just looked at her, steady on.
And Rye said, “It’s not flying, Clara. He’s figured out about the baby.”
Clara drooped in her chair. “Oh, well.” She reached back and rubbed her nape. “I have to admit, I’m starting to wonder why I even care who knows.”
Walker reassured her. “Don’t worry about me. I won’t say a word.”
And Clara actually laughed. “Yeah, there’s Monique for that.”
“Are you all right, really?” Walker asked her.
And Rory piped up with, “Do you want to lie down?”
Clara shook her head and picked up her fork. “All of a sudden, I’m starving.” She started eating.
And she wasn’t kidding about being hungry. They all watched her pack it away.
Rory said, “At least your appetite’s back.”
And Walker remembered his manners. “Congratulations, both of you.”
Clara gave him a weary smile and then held out her hand to Rye. He clasped it, firmly.
After that, Walker started thinking that everything was good between his brother and Clara, that the two of them and the baby would have a great life. Rye got them each another beer and a little more wine for Rory and the conversation flowed. No more weird silences. They all laughed together, just like old times.
Yeah, Walker decided. Everything would be fine.
* * *
Rory was too quiet on the way back to the ranch. But it had been a long day with way too much drama. She was probably just beat.
Inside, they hung up their coats. He said good-night and turned for the stairs.
She reached out and pulled him back. “I need to talk to you.”
He looked down at her slim fingers wrapped around his arm. She let go instantly, but somehow it seemed to him that he could still feel her woman’s touch through the flannel of his sleeve.
Woman’s touch? What the...?
He shook it off.
It was just strange, that was all. To be there in his house alone with her at night—and to know that she wouldn’t be leaving in an hour or two for her suite at the Haltersham Hotel. That they would both go upstairs to bed. And in the morning, at breakfast, she would be there, at his table.
And wait a minute. Why should that suddenly strike him as strange—not to mention, vaguely dangerous?
But it doesn’t, he argued with himself. They were friends and he was looking after her. Nothing strange or dangerous about that.
She asked, “Are things seeming weirder and weirder with Clara and Ryan, or is it just me?”
He didn’t really want to talk about Clara and Ryan—not now that he had it all comfortable and straight in his mind. Talking about it would only raise doubts.
No need for those.
But then she tipped her head to the side, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulder. “No response, huh?” Her sweet brown eyes were so sad. “Okay, then.” She tried to sound cheerful, with only minimal success. “Never mind. See you in the morning.”
He couldn’t just leave her standing there. “Hold on.” Lonesome was whining at the front door. He went over and opened it. The dog wiggled in, thrilled to see him. He scratched him behind the ears as Lucky came in behind him.
The cat went straight to Rory, and Rory picked her up and buried her face in the silky black fur. She asked, “Well?”
“Come on.” He turned for the great room at the back of the house, the dog at his heels. “You want something? Coffee?”
Still holding Lucky, she followed. “No, just to talk.”
He stopped by the couch. She put the cat down and dropped to the cushions. He went and turned on the fire, which he’d converted to gas two years before. The cat and the dog both sat by the hearth, side by side. When he went back to her, she’d lifted her right foot to tug off her tall black boot.
“Here,” he said. A boot like that was easier for someone else to get off. “Let me.”
“Thanks.” She stuck out her foot in his direction.
He moved around the end of the coffee table, took the boot by the toe and the heel, eased it right off and handed it to her. She tucked it under the end table and offered the other one. He slid that one off, too. And then he stood there, above her, boot in hand, staring at her socks. They were bright red with little white snowmen on them. Cute. He had the most bizarre urge to bend down and wrap his hand around her ankle, to take off that red snowman sock, to run his palm over the shape of her bare heel, to stroke his hand up the back of her slim, strong calf...
He was losing it. No doubt about it.
“Here.” She took the left boot from him, stuck it under the table with the right one and patted the sofa cushion beside her. Apparently, she had no clue as to his sudden burning desire to put his hands on her naked skin.
And that was good. Excellent. He sat down next to her.
She turned toward him and drew her knees up to the side. “There’s tension between them—and not the sexy kind. Did you notice?”
Tension between who?
Right. Rye and Clara. And he had noticed. “Yeah, but only until Clara finally busted to the truth about the baby. After that, everything seemed just like it used to be.”
She flipped a big hank of silky hair back over her shoulder. “Exactly.” He thought about reaching out, running his hand down that long swath of dark hair, feeling the texture of it against his palm, maybe bringing it to his face, sucking in the scent of it, rubbing it over his mouth. “Walker?”
He blinked at her, feeling dazed. “Huh?”
Her pretty dark brows had drawn together. “You still with me here?”
“Uh. Yeah. Of course I am. You said things were tense with Clara and Ryan. I said that by the end of the night, it was just like it used to be.”
“Walker. Think about it. ‘Like it used to be’ is that they were friends. We were friends, the four of us.”
He wasn’t following. Her shining hair and soft pink lips weren’t helping, either. “Yeah. We were friends. And we still are.”
“But I mean, with Clara and Ryan now, shouldn’t there be more?” She paused, as though waiting for him to speak. He had nothing. She forged on. “I do understand that with a baby coming, marriage might be an option. But is it really the right option for them? Lots of people have babies now without thinking they need a wedding first. I can’t help but wonder why the two of them are racing to the altar—and seriously, I...well, I don’t know how to say this, but...”
He knew he shouldn’t ask. “Say what?”
“Well, frankly, I just can’t picture Clara and Ryan having sex.”
Through the haze of ridiculous lust that seemed to have taken hold of him, he felt a definite stab of annoyance—with the direction of this uncomfortable conversation in general, and with Rory in particular. “Just because you can’t picture it doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.”
“It’s only...” She stared off into the fire.
“What?” he demanded.
And she finally turned and looked at him. “I don’t feel it between them.”
“What do you mean? Because they’re friends, is that what you’re saying? You can’t picture two lifelong friends suddenly deciding there’s more than friendship between them?”
“Well, no.”
“No?”
“I mean, yes. I could picture that, picture friends becoming lovers.”
Why were they talking about this? “So what’s the problem?”
“It’s just that Clara and Ryan, they’re not...that way with each other.”
“You’re overcomplicating it.”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Yeah. You are. She’s a woman. He’s a man. They’re together a lot—you know, being friends and all. It happens. I don’t see anything all that surprising about any of it. And as for them getting married, well, Rye’s a stand-up guy and Clara’s having his baby. And he was only a baby when our loser of a dad took off never to be heard from again. He’s always sworn no kid of his will grow up without him. He just wants to do the right thing.”
“But that’s what I’m saying. Maybe for Clara and Ryan, it just isn’t the right thing. They’re great together, as pals. But as husband and wife? I’m not seeing it. And you know how Ryan is.”
“Now you’re going to start talking trash about my brother?”
She flinched and sat back away from him. “Whoa. Where did that come from?”
He glared at her, feeling agitated, angry at her and knowing he really had no right to be, all stirred up over her snowman socks and her shining hair, every last nerve on edge. “What exactly do you mean, ‘how Ryan is’?”
“Walker.” Her voice was careful now. “It’s not talking trash about Ryan to say the truth about him.”
“Right. The truth. That he’s a dog, right? That it’s one woman after another with him.”
“I did not say that.”
“It’s what you meant, Rory. You know it is.”
“I meant that he likes women. In a casual kind of way. He’s a great guy, but he’s also a player. Will he really be capable of settling down? Especially with Clara, who doesn’t seem all that thrilled to be marrying him?”
Okay. Now she was just plain pissing him off. “What are you saying? You think Clara’s too good for Rye, is that it?”
“No, I most definitely am not saying that.” Now she was getting pissed. She always sounded more like a princess when she was mad, everything clear and clipped and so damn superior.
“It sure does sound like it to me.” He got up so fast she let out a gasp of surprise.
“Walker, what...?”
He glared down at her, with her shining eyes and her silky hair and those damn cute snowman socks with all that bare skin underneath them. “I’ve had about enough.”
She gaped up at him, bewildered. “But—”
“Good night.” And he turned on his heel and got the hell out of there.
