Читать книгу An Ideal Father - Elaine Grant - Страница 12

THE AIR WAS COOL and clear at the top of Bozeman Pass and the unrelenting wind whipped through Cimarron’s open truck windows as he enjoyed the panorama spread before him. This part of Montana called to his heart, even more than his native Idaho.

Why return to a place that triggered unhappy memories of the medicinal smells, sickbeds, and the depression and hopelessness of watching one parent die while the other spiraled into a void of alcohol and irresponsibility? Where roots no longer existed, except in the lonely country graveyard where his brother was now buried next to their mother. His only remaining family—that he was willing to claim, anyway—was firmly planted in the backseat of the pickup as they barreled along.

Cimarron hadn’t expected the determined challenge from Sarah James, but he stood a good chance of wearing her down—especially since he suspected she didn’t have the money to put up a convincing fight. He’d just have to hang around until everything was resolved.

That had a definite upside. Cimarron arched an eyebrow and smiled. Even at her maddest, she was cute as a freckled puppy, with her shining red hair, flaming cheeks and eyes the color of an endless sky.

Maybe everything would actually work out. Unless she managed to destroy the big house while he was gone. Not a good thought. He barely knew the woman, and judging by her brother’s character, anything was possible. He pushed the speedometer up a notch. She could burn his place to the ground by the time he made the round-trip to Bozeman.

“Unca Cimron, are we gonna live in that house?”

Cimarron glanced at Wyatt, then back at the highway. Buckled into a booster seat, Wyatt rotated his toy truck in his hands, pretending to study it.

“Maybe for a while. Why?”

A small shoulder shrugged. “Don’t look very nice.”

“Well, I plan to fix it up.”

“Oh. Do you have a house somewhere else for us to live?”

“No. I don’t have a house. I live in this truck. And sometimes I live in a trailer, when I’m working on a house.”

“Can we live in a trailer while you work on that house?”

“Might be fun to live in the house. We can pretend we’re camping out.”

“That lady said no.”

“That lady doesn’t know everything.”

“It’s kinda spooky. That old house…”

“You scared?” In the rearview mirror, Cimarron caught a glimpse of Wyatt’s lower lip trembling. “Come on, you’re a big boy. Besides, it’s just old. Nothing in there to be scared of. Anyway, we won’t be here that long.”

Wyatt brightened. “Okay.”

“Listen, Wyatt…” Cimarron licked his dry lips. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think you’d be happier living with somebody besides me? I mean, I’m on the road all the time and…”

“My daddy,” Wyatt said softly. “That’s all.”

“Yeah, I understand. But you know how that is. I was just wondering…” Cimarron let the words trail off as his palms grew sweaty on the steering wheel. Sooner or later, he had to tell Wyatt about his plans, but somehow he chickened out every time he tried to explain. He had no business scoffing at Wyatt for being afraid of a spooky old house. He was completely frightened by a five-year-old. Not to mention his brother’s ghost.

“I don’t want to live with nobody else.”

Cimarron pulled into the parking lot of a large home-improvement store, hoping to find the part he needed. Three stores later, he found a replacement burner and they headed toward Little Lobo once more. Cimarron breathed a sigh of relief when he pulled into the parking lot. The house was still standing.

He took the new burner and the tools required from the back of his truck. Sarah was nowhere to be found, but the rear door to the café stood open and the screen was unlatched. The place was spotless. Apparently she’d made it through lunch. Cimarron put Wyatt in the booth with his backpack of toys and went behind the counter to work.

Sarah came in the kitchen door a few minutes later and busied herself there while he continued to work in the dining area. Half an hour later, he wiped the last trace of grease from the stainless griddle. He walked into the other room to clean his hands.

Chopping an onion with a vengeance on a cutting board near the double sinks, Sarah didn’t look up. Through the windows the disputed house loomed, a reminder of the reason for the tension hovering in the room.

“Your griddle’s fixed.”

Silence.

A to-do list hung on the corkboard above the counter.

Chop onions

Soup base

Fry bacon

Slice tomatoes

Peel boiled eggs

Ice in front bin

Slice deli meat

Brew fresh coffee

Cimarron stopped reading and put a large skillet on the stove. Adjusting the heat, he rummaged in the refrigerator until he found a butcher-paper packet marked Bacon. He laid the strips side by side until the bottom of the pan was covered, the only sound in the room that of the meat beginning to sizzle and the rat-a-tat-tat of Sarah’s chopping. Sarah cut her eyes around at him.

“I don’t want your help,” she said.

“I know you don’t. But you need it.” He turned the crisping bacon with tongs taken from overhead hooks that were laden with a conglomeration of kitchen tools. A larger rack hung nearby, loaded with industrial pots and pans.

While the bacon continued to cook, Cimarron peeled one after another of the boiled brown eggs that were sitting in a bowl on the counter. Sarah scooped her chopped onions into a container, popped the top on it and began to slice the blood-red tomatoes nestled in a colander set in the sink.

The comforting smell of bacon filled the room, making it hard to hold a grudge.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “For the griddle…and this…”

“I don’t see how you do it alone.”

“I usually have help. He’s sick.”

“Just two of you?”

“Yes. Bobby used to help out, but—” She laid the sliced tomatoes in a container, then diced the rest. “You’re pretty good at this.”

“Lots of practice when I was young.”

“I see. Why?”

Cimarron busied himself moving the bacon to a paper towelndash;lined pan. “Do you want this bacon whole or crumbled for the salad?”

“A third of it whole, the rest for the salad.” She turned and leaned against the counter, her eyes on him as she dried her hands on a towel. “You’re not going to answer me, are you?”

He met her clear gaze straight on. “Nope.”

“Why are you helping me like this? To bribe me?”

“No. I don’t work that way.”

“How do you work, Mr. Cole? How did you talk my brother into selling out to you without so much as a word to me?”

Cimarron almost told her the truth, but then he bit back the words. She probably loved her brother, even though right now she’d never admit it. No need to paint her a picture of the louse Bobby really was. He shook his head and went back to his task with the bacon.

“What? Did you get him drunk? Or just keep offering him more money until he couldn’t resist?” Lingering fury smoldered in her words. “Have you been after him for a long time? Until finally you wore him down?”

She dumped stock and sautéed vegetables into a tall soup pot, seasoned the mixture and put a lid on to let it simmer.

“I think you’re a cheat.”

“Well, I’m not. I didn’t cheat your brother out of anything. Have you located him yet?”

“No.”

“Not likely to, either,” Cimarron muttered.

Sarah huffed, but backed off. “Where’s your little boy now?”

“Playing in a booth.”

“He’s very quiet. Most kids that age make a lot more racket. What’s his name?”

“Name’s Wyatt. Don’t worry about him, he’s fine.”

The bell over the front door tinkled and Sarah threw the towel aside, smoothing her hair back.

“Thanks for helping. Do you want to feed Wyatt before you go?”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“No, really, I’ll get by tonight. There’s no need for you to stay. If you’ll leave your name and a way to get in touch, I’ll have my lawyer contact you to straighten this out.”

Cimarron shook his head, amazed at her stubbornness.

“You won’t have a problem there. We’re going to sleep in the house.”

“You are not! I won’t let you in.”

Cimarron reached in his pocket and brought out the key ring, dangling it in front of her. “Why would I buy a house and not get the keys for it?”

She stiffened and stared at the jingling keys. “Ooh, I’m going to kill Bobby.”

“I’d better get Wyatt out of your way.”

“Wyatt is not the one who’s in my way. And we’ll deal with this later.”

Cimarron followed her as she pushed through the swinging doors and went to greet the first dinner customers. He motioned for Wyatt, and the child came obediently through the kitchen door. Cimarron had a look through the cupboards and coolers until he found some sliced turkey and bread. He made Wyatt a sandwich and found a safe corner for him to play away from the kitchen appliances.

“Sorry, bud, you’re on your own for the rest of the evening.”

Wyatt settled down with his backpack at his side and took the sandwich and glass of milk Cimarron offered. “Okay.”

Enough with the okays! Maybe one day the kid would learn another word.

Cimarron continued to work in the kitchen, doing most of the cooking according to Sarah’s clipped directions while she waited tables through the next three chaotic hours. He wiped his brow with a shirtsleeve and sweat trickled down his back, the heat of the kitchen intensified by Sarah’s anger. He held on to his own temper by the thinnest thread. No place for a blowup between them, with a café full of customers who would have very long memories and very loose tongues, if Cimarron’s recollection of small-town life held true.

When all was quiet and the last customer had paid and left, he let out a long sigh as he heard Sarah click the lock on the front door. He was whipped, tired to the bone, just as he was at the end of every long day since his brother died. The feeling was nothing like the exhausted satisfaction of hard physical labor on a house. Not at all. He could leave now and let Sarah finish on her own, but knowing she would be stuck working for hours if he did, he started scrubbing the pots and pans.

SARAH PAUSED in her cleanup of the dining room to cock an ear toward the kitchen. In there, Cimarron whistled softly amidst the clatter of metal as he washed dishes. He had worked like a Trojan tonight and now he was cleaning the kitchen, yet anger still roiled inside her. She didn’t want him doing anything else thoughtful to make her feel guilty.

She knew she was taking out her frustration with her brother on Cimarron, but she couldn’t help it. All her dreams, her plans, her future income had been blown to pieces by her brother’s greed. Cimarron seemed like a nice enough guy, but under the circumstances he could be a saint and she’d still feel the same way. She wanted her property back.

She rolled the cleanup cart to the doorway. “You can go now. I’ll finish up.”

“Most everything’s done in here, anyway.”

The pans sat on the drainboard, shining clean, the counters had all been wiped down. Damp dishcloths waited in the laundry basket in the corner. Unused food had been put away. All Sarah had to do was load the dishwasher and start the linens washing.

“Wow…thanks,” she said, wishing she liked him better. He’d saved her a ton of work. “I…I can handle breakfast myself in the morning. That’s the only meal I serve on Sundays.”

He nodded. “All right.”

“There’s a little motel a few miles down the road.” She hoped he’d take the hint.

“I know. I saw it on the way to Bozeman.”

“So, you can stay there.”

“I think not. I don’t have to pay to stay in my own house.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts.” She jerked open the door to load the dishwasher, then straightened and looked around. “Where’s Wyatt?”

Cimarron turned to a corner of the kitchen, started to speak, then paled when he saw the cubbyhole was empty. “He was right there.”

“Maybe he slipped out the back door.”

“I would have heard him. He’s here somewhere. Wyatt?” Cimarron moved to the area where Wyatt’s toys were still strewn about. He squatted and let out a breath of relief. “Here he is.”

Sarah followed Cimarron’s gaze. The child was curled into a ball on an open shelf under the counter, all but hidden from view. Cimarron stuffed the toys into the bag and gently slid Wyatt out. He hoisted the bag by its strap over one shoulder and lifted the boy over the opposite.

Sarah studied the two of them. Neither was at ease and she wondered why. Newsreels of kidnapped children ran through her mind. True these two looked just alike, but family abductions happened all the time.

“You’re not very good at looking after him, are you?” she said bluntly.

“I knew where he was.”

Sarah shook her head. “I saw that look of panic. You’d forgotten about him. Didn’t have a clue if he was still in the room.”

To her surprise, he didn’t argue. “I’m going to put him to bed now.”

“In that dirty old house?”

“We’ll sleep another night in the back of the camper.” Cimarron lowered his voice as Wyatt shifted and mumbled something. “You and I will talk tomorrow about the house.”

The screen door slammed after him and Sarah was left alone and thoroughly dispirited. When all the closing chores were done, she did a final circuit of the café, double-checked the locked doors and climbed the stairs to her apartment. She loved living above the café for convenience, but she was looking forward to having more space when she moved into the bed-and-breakfast—a prospect now put on hold because of her double-crossing brother.

Although the café was decorated in pink, she’d chosen an array of other colors for her personal quarters—sunny yellow for the spacious living room and kitchen, and peaceful celadon green for the bedroom. Casual furnishings and a minimum of clutter made the apartment a perfect retreat after long hours in the café.

She opened a window and let the cool air and soothing night noises calm her nerves as she looked down on the parking lot. Cimarron’s truck, dark inside, was parked at the back. Hoping it would be gone in the morning, she began to get ready for bed. But she was pretty sure her worst nightmare would still be around when the sun came up.