Читать книгу The Mountain Between Us - Cindy Myers - Страница 8

CHAPTER TWO

Maggie didn’t say much on the drive up to the French Mistress Mine the next day, letting Jameso carry the conversation. She gazed out the window at scenery that still took her breath away, despite its familiarity. Mountains like jagged, broken teeth jutted against a sky as blue and translucent as the finest turquoise dug from the French Mistress. Aspen glowed yellow against the darker green of conifers on the flanks of the mountains, the road a red-brown ribbon wound between the peaks. The truck engine whined as Jameso shifted into low gear to climb a steep grade.

“Most years there’d already be a foot of snow up this high,” he said. “Bob’s saying we might not get any snow at all before Christmas. Telluride’s making snow on a few slopes, but it’s not the same as the real stuff. It ices up too much.”

A native of Houston, Maggie wasn’t sure how she felt about snow. The longer it held off, the better, she thought, though Jameso didn’t share that opinion and she wasn’t in the mood to argue with him.

“You’re being kind of quiet this morning,” he finally said as he turned his truck onto the dirt track that led to the mine. “You feeling okay?”

“Just a little queasy.” That was true enough. Between the winding mountain roads and her misgivings about the news she had to give him, it was a wonder her breakfast was staying down.

“Are you coming down with something?” He took one hand off the steering wheel and laid it on her forehead. “You don’t feel like you have a fever.”

“I’ll be fine.” She blinked back sudden tears. His palm on her forehead had been cool and slightly rough, yet the gesture itself had been quite tender. The kind of gesture she could imagine a father making toward a daughter. Or a son. She swallowed hard. If she burst into hormonal tears here, Jameso might freak out and run the truck right off the side of the mountain. For the sake of her unborn child—and her own dignity—she had to keep it together.

“Let’s go by the house first and check on things,” she said.

Her father’s house—her house now—was a three-room miner’s shack with no two windows the same size. Solar panels, a wood stove, and a cistern provided all the comforts of home. Though her father had lived here year-round for years, the road wasn’t plowed in winter and Maggie had no desire to commute to work on a snowmobile, so she’d relocated to a place in town, next door to Jameso.

Three weeks ago, they’d come up to the cabin and drained all the water lines, emptied the refrigerator, and closed everything up tight for the winter. But she felt the need to revisit the place as long as they were here. It had been the first home she’d ever had that was hers alone. She’d gone straight from her mother’s house to her husband’s apartment. Living on her own had been a heady sensation—a privilege she hadn’t been willing to give up when Jameso asked her to move in with him. Judging by the look of relief in his eyes when she’d turned down the invitation, he wasn’t ready to give up his independence either, which didn’t bode well for their baby.

“I’ll go around back and make sure marmots haven’t gnawed the insulation off the pipes,” Jameso said as he and Maggie climbed out of the truck, parked on the only semi-flat stretch of dirt in the yard.

“Marmots?”

“They like the way the insulation tastes, for some reason. Porcupines like to gnaw foundations, but since the cabin’s built on rock, you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Between potential avalanches and rock slides, lightning storms and attacks by wildlife, it’s a wonder anyone ever even tried to live up here,” she said.

“Nature’s always trying to take back its own,” he said, and disappeared around the side of the cabin.

Maggie climbed the steps of the front porch, the grayed boards creaking beneath the soles of her boots. The house perched on the side of the mountain, the back porch jutting into space. She knew strong bolts kept the foundation anchored firmly to the rock, but on her first visit here she’d been sure she was in danger of sliding down into the canyon. She hadn’t known anything about her father, Jake, then, but his choice of a place to live seemed to confirm the picture his lawyer had painted of a first-prize eccentric.

Maggie had spent the first night in the house—divorced, unemployed, and absolutely unsure of the future—disappointed that her inheritance was this ramshackle house and a mine that produced no gold. Yet, she’d found everything she needed to get back on her feet right here in this mountaintop cabin.

Jameso came around the side of the house. “The pipes are okay.”

“Do you remember that first night we met, when you drove up here on your motorcycle?” she asked.

“You threatened me with a stick of firewood.”

“You accused me of trespassing.” Jake hadn’t told many people he had a daughter, so when Maggie told Jameso the cabin was hers he’d thought she was lying.

“I was a goner from the moment I met you.” Jameso closed the gap between them in a few strides. “You were so beautiful—and clearly scared out of your skull, but determined to be brave. Even without the firewood, you knocked me for a loop.” He kissed her, his lips firm and warm against hers.

She turned away, heart fluttering wildly. It’s just the altitude, she told herself. They were above 10,000 feet in elevation, where the air contained less oxygen, making breathing more difficult.

“Is something wrong?” Jameso’s dark brows drew together, giving him a foreboding look.

“I’m just”—she looked around for some excuse that would explain her attack of nerves—“it’s just sad, that’s all, closing the place for winter. I really enjoyed living here. I felt like a real mountain woman.” For the first time in her life she’d made her own decisions, done what she wanted. She’d come to understand why Jake had chosen to live here, surrounded by sky and mountains.

“Jake would love knowing that. This place was always special to him.”

Jake had been a larger-than-life figure to everyone who knew him. The people in Eureka had filled Maggie’s head with stories of things he’d done—both heroic and awful. These stories had kept company with the fantasies she’d built up over the years about the father who was only a smiling young man in a photograph to her. He’d walked out on her mother when Maggie was three days old, but before she’d died, Maggie’s mother had forgiven him. Maggie had spent months uncovering Jake’s story, and though she still didn’t know it all, she had learned how his experiences in Vietnam had left scars that wouldn’t heal—psychological wounds that made it impossible for him to stay with the ones he loved the most.

“Do you ever think much about Iraq?” she asked Jameso.

“Iraq?” His expression darkened. “Why are you talking about that now? What difference does it make?”

“I was just thinking how Vietnam messed up my dad’s life so much.”

He compressed his lips into a thin line. “I’m not your dad. Come on.” He took her arm and they started down the path toward the mine.

The air held a winter chill at this altitude, and the wind blew from the north as they headed up the path. Maggie drew her coat tighter around her. “I’m surprised we haven’t seen Winston,” she said. Her father had tamed the bighorn ram by feeding it cookies, and Maggie had continued to hand out the treats.

“He’s probably found some pretty little ewe to cozy up with for the winter,” Jameso said.

“No more Lorna Doones.”

“No, but something better.” He looked back over his shoulder at her, his gaze smoldering.

She smiled in spite of herself. Jameso was an incorrigible flirt. And maybe Barb was right about him being a romantic. His declaration at the cabin just now had been unexpectedly tender.

They reached the new gate at the entrance to the mine, which Maggie had ordered to replace the old barrier after Lucas Theriot squeezed through the bars and fell down a mine shaft. “Looks good,” Jameso said, giving the heavy iron a tug. The gate had narrower mesh at the bottom and wider spaces at the top to let the bats who lived in the mine fly in and out.

“That should be good, then.” Jameso started to turn away and Maggie grabbed hold of his shirt and pulled him back.

“What?” His gaze searched hers, questioning.

“There’s something I have to tell you.” She opened her purse and he took a step back, as if prepared to run.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I had a woman pull a gun on me once after she said those words.”

The image surprised a laugh from her. “No guns, I promise.” She took out the little cardboard box that held one of the pregnancy tests and shoved it toward him.

He stared at the box but didn’t take it. “What is it?”

“It’s a pregnancy test. It came back positive.”

“A pregnancy test?” He’d gone very white beneath the dark beard stubble.

“A positive pregnancy test. I’m going to have a baby. Your baby. Well, our baby.”

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even look at her, just continued to stare at the box in her hand, his mouth slightly open.

“Dammit, say something,” she said.

At last, he raised his gaze to hers. “I . . . I . . .”

Then Jameso Clark, modern mountain man, ski instructor, rock climber, and all-around tough guy, sank to his knees and keeled over in a dead faint.

Olivia had the noon-to-happy hour shift by herself on Thursday. This late in the season it should have been slow, but three couples from Texas came in and all the women ordered dirty martinis, forcing Olivia to use the last of the olives. When lawyer Reggie Paxton came down from his law office next door in search of a Diet Coke, Olivia recruited him to man the bar while she went to the Last Dollar Café next door to borrow more olives.

“Do you want garlic stuffed, pimento stuffed, Kalamata, black, or green?” one of the café owners, Danielle, asked, surveying the metal shelves in the pantry behind the kitchen. Petite and curvy, her dark hair in two ponytails worn high on either side of her head, she reminded Olivia of the heroine of one of the anime novels she’d been fond of a few years back.

“Pimento stuffed,” she answered. “One jar should be plenty. We don’t get that much call for martinis. I’ll pay you back when we get our next grocery order.”

“No problem.” Danielle handed over the jar of olives.

“Hey, Olivia. You’re just the woman we wanted to see.” Janelle, Danielle’s partner in business and in life, leaned around the door. Tall and willowy, her white-blond locks cut short and wound with a pink bandana, she resembled a Bond girl, complete with an alluring German accent.

“Me?” Olivia clutched the jar of olives to her chest. Her high-school principal and more than one former boss used to say the same thing when they were about to chew her out, but Danielle and Janelle were both smiling.

“We’ve decided we want to paint a mural on the back wall of the dining room,” Danielle said. “Something depicting the history of Eureka.”

“We don’t want to paint it,” Janelle corrected. “We want to hire someone to paint it for us.”

“That’s a good idea,” Olivia said. Not that she’d ever given the décor of the restaurant much thought. And she didn’t care much about the history of the town, though Lucas was into that kind of thing. He’d spent much of the summer researching local Indian tribes and mining and stuff.

“So you’ll do it?” Danielle asked.

“Do what?”

“Paint the mural. We’ll pay you, of course.” The dimples on either side of Danielle’s mouth deepened along with her smile.

“You want me to paint a mural in the restaurant?” Olivia almost dropped the olives, she was so surprised.

“Sure,” Janelle said. “D. J. said he thought you’d be interested.”

“D. J.?” Her head swam. Why had D. J. been talking to the café owners about her?

“We told him we were looking for an artist and he recommended you,” Danielle said. “He said you were really talented.”

“I’ve always admired the jewelry you make and the T-shirts you paint and stuff,” Janelle added.

Olivia fingered the dangling earrings she’d beaded, then smoothed the front of her T-shirt, a plain white T she’d decorated with a painting of a columbine. Just last week a tourist had asked where she could get one like it. But instead of thanking Janelle for the compliment, what came out was, “D. J. said I was talented?”

“He did,” Danielle said. “So, will you take the job?”

The thought of having a whole wall to cover with paint—and in such a public place—both intimidated and excited her. She’d always had a secret dream of making a living as an artist, but she’d never told a soul. How had D. J. known?

Both women stared at her, expressions expectant. “Okay. Do you know what you want?”

“We thought you could work up some drawings for us to look at and we’ll pick one,” Danielle said.

“And tell us your price,” Janelle added.

“I guess I could do that.” Could she? She hadn’t a clue how to begin, but she wasn’t about to pass up a chance like this.

“No hurry,” Danielle said. “Maybe some time in the next week or two.”

“Okay.” Numb, the jar of olives still clutched tightly to her chest, she turned to leave. “Thanks.”

D. J. was just climbing out of his truck in front of the Dirty Sally when Olivia came down the walk from the café. Still basking in the warm glow of the girls’ flattery, she forgot to be angry at him.

“Hey, Olivia,” he said.

“Hey, D. J.”

“You’re looking happy about something,” he said, following her into the bar. The three couples from Texas were still at their table near the front window, laughing about something. Bob had showed up and sat at the bar, talking to Reggie. Everything was the same as any other afternoon in the Dirty Sally, but for Olivia everything was different.

She turned to face D. J. “Thanks for suggesting me to Danielle and Janelle to paint their mural,” she said.

“They gave you the job, then?”

“Yeah, I’m going to do some drawings and get back to them. I figure Lucas can help me with the local history stuff.”

“He told me he did a bunch of research for a project in school.”

“His teacher’s idea to keep him out of trouble. He’s so damn smart.” Pride for her kid mingled with her own sudden happiness and she didn’t even try to hold back a smile.

“He is that. I’m glad you’re going to paint the mural. You deserve to have more people see your talent.”

“I can’t believe you even noticed.” For the first time in a long time she let herself meet his gaze. “It’s not like I was always painting or anything.”

“No, but you couldn’t sit still for five minutes without doodling some little drawing, and you always put your own artistic touch on things, like that shirt you’re wearing. I’ll bet you painted that.”

“Yeah.” She smoothed the shirt again, once more uncomfortable with the intensity of his gaze. She set the olives on the bar. “Well, thanks anyway for recommending me.”

“You’re welcome. I just came from the county offices. I got a job driving a snowplow.”

“What do you know about driving a snowplow?” Until he’d moved to Connecticut, D. J. had spent most of his life in Texas and Oklahoma, where they never got enough snow to plow.

“I drove heavy equipment in Iraq. A snowplow is just another big machine.”

Snowplowing jobs were some of the best paying in the county, or so the guys who propped up the bar said. The work involved early hours and long treks into the mountains to clear high passes. At least one plow driver was pushed over the side each year by avalanches. Most survived the trip, but a monument up on Black Mountain Pass testified to all those who hadn’t made it.

She pushed such macabre thoughts aside. “Bob says the snow is late this year, so you might not have any work.”

“I’ll find ways to keep myself busy.”

She couldn’t look at him anymore. He made her feel too weak-kneed and uncertain. “Yeah, well, thanks again. I better get to work.”

“I’ll see you around.” He turned and strode out of the bar, a big man with broad shoulders and a cocky attitude that alternately drove her crazy and melted her heart.

Only after the door closed behind him did she wonder why he’d stopped by the bar this afternoon. He hadn’t stayed to drink. Could it be he’d stopped to see her—to tell her about his new job, maybe, or to try again to persuade her to end the hostilities between them? Just because she’d been civil to him, she didn’t hope he thought that meant they could be friends. She wasn’t ready—would never be ready—to be that close to him again.

She retreated behind the bar and put the jar of olives on the shelf. “Thanks for holding down the fort, Reggie.” The stocky, bearded lawyer looked more like a biker than an attorney, but she couldn’t picture some dark-suited legal brain fitting in in this town that had made a virtue of informality.

“No problem. If I ever decide to give up the law, I can start a second career as a bartender.”

“If you do, I’ll have to start drinking somewhere else,” Bob said. “Having to look at you every day would spoil the taste of the beer.”

“I imagine you wouldn’t be the only one to complain,” Reg said. “Olivia here is a sight better looking than I am, I’ll agree.”

“Where have you been anyway?” Bob asked. “Reg doesn’t have any idea how to put a decent head on a draft beer.”

“I had to run next door for a jar of olives.”

“Olives!” Bob’s expression grew more sour than usual. “Fruit and vegetables don’t belong in liquor.”

“Now, Bob. Some people like to feel they’re getting a little more sustenance with their drinks,” Reggie said.

“That’s what the pretzels and popcorn and beer nuts are for.”

“Janelle and Danielle have asked me to paint a mural on the back wall of the café.” Reggie and Bob weren’t her first choice for confidants, but she couldn’t keep the news to herself anymore.

“A mural?” Bob asked. “What of?”

“They want something depicting the history of Eureka.”

“That’s a great idea,” Reggie said. “Congratulations.”

“I’d like to see that,” Bob said. “Give me something to look at over my eggs beside last year’s feed calendar.”

Olivia waited, but neither of them said anything about it being odd for the girls to hire her or acted surprised that she’d been the one to get the job.

“Guess this means you’re staying in town after all,” Reggie said.

“Yeah, I guess it does.”

“Say, maybe you can help me with my new project,” Bob said.

His words brought her back down toward earth. Even though she hadn’t been in town that long, she’d heard enough about Bob’s “projects” to make her wary. “What’s that?”

“Janelle and Danielle said I could start a pool at the Last Dollar for folks to guess when the first snow will fall in Eureka. But I need somebody to make up a chart with all the dates and names. Maybe you could do that for me.”

“Uh-huh. How much are you paying?”

“I’m not paying anything.” Bob assumed a look of martyred superiority. “This is a civic project to benefit the town. I thought maybe you’d do it out of a sense of community.”

Olivia opened her mouth to tell him she didn’t have a sense of community, that she wasn’t really part of the town, she was only passing through. But that wasn’t exactly true anymore, was it? The people in Eureka were involving her in their lives whether she wanted them to or not. Just last week one of Lucas’s teachers had asked her to volunteer at some harvest festival thing the school was having. And today Janelle and Danielle had asked her to paint the mural. People treated her as if she belonged here.

Her stomach fluttered at the thought. Olivia Theriot, citizen of a hick town like Eureka, Colorado? Six months ago, if anyone had suggested such a thing, she’d have laughed them out of the room.

How scary was it that now she actually—sort of—liked the idea?

“I’m fine.” Jameso sat up and clutched the side of his head, which had hit the ground hard when he fainted.

“You’re not fine. You passed out.” Maggie pried his hand away from his face and frowned at the golf-ball-sized knot rising above his temple. “Your head must have hit a rock.”

“I’m fine,” he said again more forcefully. “It was just the shock, that’s all. You shouldn’t spring a thing like that on a guy all of a sudden.”

“What was I supposed to do?” She sat back on her heels. “Suggest a game of twenty questions? Guess what I’ve got cooking in the oven?”

He stared at her belly, the lines on his forehead forming a deep V. “Are you really pregnant?”

“No, I made it up to scare you. Yes, I’m pregnant. Three pregnancy tests all came up positive.”

“When’s it due?” He still wasn’t smiling, and she wasn’t sure she liked the way he said “it,” as if he was referring to an alien or something.

She stood and stared down on him, at the crooked part in his hair and the cowlick at the crown. Would her baby have a cowlick like that? “I won’t know for sure until I see a doctor. I have an appointment in Montrose next week. But I’m guessing around the first of June.”

“Wow.”

“Is that all you can say? Wow?”

“What do you want me to say?”

That he was happy. Thrilled, even. That he loved her. Instead, he couldn’t even look her in the eye.

“You could come up with something better than ‘wow.’ ” She turned away, arms folded across her chest. She’d so hoped he wouldn’t disappoint her this way; though obviously, she’d been delusional. He was a man, and men disappointed her. At least all the ones she’d been involved with so far. Why should Jameso be different?

“Now you’re angry.” He got his feet under him and stood. “You’re not giving me enough time to absorb the information.”

“Take me home,” she said.

“This is a big shock,” he said. “I never thought.”

“Did you think I was too old to get pregnant?” She was eight years older than Jameso, something that had worried her from the beginning, though he and Barb had both told her it didn’t make any difference. But maybe it had. Maybe he liked her being older because he’d thought it made her safe from complications like this.

“I never thought about it one way or another.” He put his hand on her shoulder, the touch almost tentative. “When we made love, the last thing on my mind was babies.”

She hadn’t been thinking about babies then either. Jameso Clark, naked, did not bring to mind images of cuddly infants in diapers. She fought to ignore the rush of heat at those memories. “You’d better think about it now,” she said. “It’s happening.”

He bent and kissed her cheek, the softness of his goatee brushing her face. “I just need a little more time to think.”

To think about what? Was he going to ride off on that motorcycle and never come back—the way her father had run away after she was born? Jameso had been Jake’s best friend in Eureka. She’d heard enough stories to see how much the two men had in common. Maybe an aversion to parenthood was another thing they shared.

She cradled her stomach and closed her eyes. She hadn’t planned on being a single mother, but she could do it if she had to.

“What’s wrong?” Jameso asked, his face growing pale again. “Are you in pain?”

Only in my heart, she thought. “Take me home,” she said again.

“Maybe you shouldn’t be alone. Do you want me to call someone?”

She noticed he wasn’t offering to stay with her himself. She met his worried gaze with a freezing look. “No, you don’t need to call anyone. I’m pregnant. I’m not ill. And I’ll take care of this baby just fine. By myself.”

Without waiting for him to answer, she stalked ahead of him toward his truck. She didn’t need him. She’d done fine without her father. Without Carter, her first husband. She’d do fine with this baby. Barb was right. She had a lot of friends. She had a whole town that would help her.