Читать книгу My Montana Home - Ellen James - Страница 8

“WHY IN HELL did I have to be right-handed, anyway?” Andrew grumbled. He was attempting to undress himself, and not doing a very good job of it. His splint kept getting in the way of things like buttons and buckle. At last he was down to the basics—not that sitting around in his underwear was ordinarily his idea of a well-spent afternoon.

After the encounter with Dr. Gwen, he’d had Cassie drop him off at his hotel. He’d had in mind getting cleaned up and taking care of business here in Billings. Only, his hand had started to hurt again, and all he really felt like doing was stretching out and catching a game on TV. The childproof container on the pain medication proved even more of a challenge than his pants. But finally he managed to down a couple of the big white pills and flick on the remote. The Rangers and the Dodgers—baseball perfection. He had box seats for all the Texas home games, but rarely had time to go.

He smiled a little grimly to himself as he lowered the sound with the remote. His grandmother had often accused him of using his career to avoid solving the personal problems in his life. Problems—according to Hannah—such as his lack of a wife and children. Those were the only things that really mattered, she’d told him. Love…family… What was he afraid of? she’d asked him. Did he think there was too much potential for hurt, too much possibility of loss? But the past doesn’t have to repeat itself, she’d told him.

The irony of her remembered words made Andrew restless. He clicked off the game, stood up and began to pace around the hotel room, a space too small and confining. He’d had the option of staying at his grandmother’s house, where the surrounding acreage gave a sense of openness and freedom. So why hadn’t he stayed there? Was he really still running away from all the old memories?

“Crazy,” he muttered to himself. He’d hit the far end of thirty-five. After all this time, he should have gained some perspective. Some peace.

In Texas, at least, the shadows always seemed more remote. A background of darkness always there, but muted somehow. Distanced, as if he was watching a storm from very far away. In Texas it was easy—much easier—to go about his life. Keeping busy with work that mattered to him, seeing women he genuinely liked even if the relationships never went anywhere.

In Montana it was different. Time seemed to play tricks on him here. He’d be thinking about something inconsequential, and then, without warning, the years would seem to vanish, falling away and leaving him unprotected. Leaving him a kid again. And he would see the whole damn thing play over again in his mind, every detail as vivid as if it were happening right at that instant. Every sound, every whisper of pain.

So he’d stayed away. It had been up to Hannah to fly out and visit him. Sometimes she’d complained about it, but he knew that deep down she’d loved all the fuss and bother and adventure of her trips. She’d arrive in Dallas with far too many suitcases, take over his apartment and deluge him with the everyday dramas of her own life. On her last trip, she’d been full of stories about the boarder she’d taken in at her guest house. A vulnerable, redheaded woman who had a seven-year-old son.

Now Andrew stretched out again on the hotel sofa and clicked the game back on. Usually baseball could keep him occupied for an hour or two. But the image of lovely Cassie Warren kept intruding. The guarded look in her eyes, and then the dismay on her face when she’d fallen—quite literally—into his arms. Dislocated finger and all, it had been a rather intriguing experience. He smiled a little…a real smile this time.

The painkillers were making him drowsy, and he closed his eyes. The sound of the game drifted over him. And, for the moment at least, the old memories faded away.

WHAT WAS IT you were supposed to do with spaghetti? Throw a piece at the wall to see if it would stick? Ridiculous, of course, but Cassie never had been a whiz with pasta. Whatever help she could get…

She eyed the piece of spaghetti dangling from her fingers, and considered the wall beside the stove. Exasperated, at last she shook her head. Maybe she just should have chosen a frozen casserole and been done with it. But when you’d inflicted bodily harm on a man, you needed to make it up to him somehow—a home-cooked meal seemed a good way to go.

Cassie stirred the sauce simmering on the stove. There didn’t seem any way she could mess that up. All she’d had to do was open the jar. A familiar guilt stirred in her. She’d never been much of a cook, which was fine when you were on your own. But when you had a son to raise, surely you ought to provide him with nourishing, lovingly prepared meals. You shouldn’t rely on the local fast-food joint and the freezer section at the grocery store. But Cassie, usually so exhausted from her job, did exactly that.

So maybe this evening would help motivate her. If the spaghetti was successful, maybe she’d try a lasagna or a pot roast next. Feeling inspired, she went to the base of the front stairs and called up to her son.

“Zak…Zak! Dinner’s almost ready. Wash your hands and come down.”

The guest house remained determinedly quiet. Cassie waited another minute, and then climbed the stairs. She poked her head into Zak’s room. He was sitting cross-legged on the bed, an oversize book spread in front of him. Cassie knew which one it was—an illustrated history of medieval castles that he’d chosen from the public library. Lately he seemed fascinated by stories of knighthood. At any time, Cassie could find him carefully turning the pages of that volume, and studying the pictures. Maybe she ought to feel grateful that Zak liked books at such a young age. Except that a book was like everything else in Zak’s life these days—another excuse to retreat, to hide. Cassie longed for disorder, chaos, noise…all the ordinary signs that a little boy lived here.

“Zak,” she said now. “Mr. Morris will be here any minute. I want you to get ready and come down.”

Zak continued to turn the pages as if she had not even spoken. She battled a growing frustration.

“Zak—” She heard the way her voice sharpened, and she tried again. “I think we’ve caused Mr. Morris enough trouble for one day. Let’s at least provide a pleasant evening for him.”

Zak finally raised his head and stared solemnly at her. “I’m not the one who fell on top of him,” he said.

“A mere technicality. If it hadn’t been for you taking off with the ladder, I never would have fallen…” She gave Zak a stern glance. “And, by the way, you haven’t had your punishment for taking the ladder.”

“Okay. I’ll skip dinner,” Zak said, and he buried his head in the book again.

Cassie gazed at her son. “You don’t get to choose your punishment,” she said firmly. “You’ll wash your hands, and come downstairs, and you will be exceedingly polite to Mr. Andrew Morris when he arrives.” With that, she turned on her heel and marched downstairs before her son could respond—or ignore her.

Back in the kitchen, Cassie found that the sauce had splattered. Cursing under her breath, she wiped the stove and then checked the spaghetti. Now maybe it was too soggy. The casserole in the freezer was starting to seem like a very good idea.

But then the doorbell rang. Cassie felt suddenly, unaccountably nervous. She hurried out to the hall, glancing in the mirror as she went. Perhaps she should have worn something less casual than jeans and her embroidered Mexican top. And she could have brushed her hair at least one more time—

She was behaving for all the world as if she’d invited Andrew Morris here on a date. It was nothing of the kind. It was an apology dinner, as simple and uncomplicated as that.

But when she reached the front door, somehow she couldn’t bring herself to open it.

ANDREW RANG the doorbell again, then stood back to survey his grandmother’s guest house. In the dusk it looked like something out of a storybook—the kind of cottage you’d expect to find deep in a magical forest somewhere. It was two stories high, with dormer windows and vines growing up a trellis. It had been built almost fifty years ago, when both his grandparents had been young. Back then, they’d used it as mother-in-law’s quarters for Hannah’s mom—Andrew’s great-grandmother, a very independent and outspoken lady who’d lived to the impressive age of ninety-three. Andrew thought of his family enduring generation after generation in Montana. He had been the one who’d broken with tradition by moving away to Texas.

His gaze wandered back to the door. He was about to ring the bell a third time when at last the door swung open reluctantly. Cassie Warren stepped forward—and in the dusk she, too, seemed like someone from a storybook. Long red hair, a wariness in her hazel eyes, her skin beginning to take on the beguiling flush that highlighted her freckles.

“Before you apologize again,” he said just as she was about to speak, “no more apologies.”

She gave a shrug. “I constantly seem to be disrupting your life. I mean, when I called you at your hotel earlier, I could tell I’d woken you up—”

“I don’t usually fall asleep in the middle of the day,” he said. “Your doctor friend prescribed some pretty potent pain medication. But I’m glad you woke me.”

She treated him to a disbelieving glance. “Well, please come inside. I’ll warn you, though, I’m not the greatest cook—”

“You’re doing it again,” he said. “Apologizing.”

“Sorry,” she said, and then she laughed. It was a very pleasing sound. “Okay, okay,” she said. “Enough. It’s just not every day I maim someone.”

He proffered a bottle of white wine with his good hand. “Just to show there are no hard feelings,” he said.

She took it from him, surveying the label. “Very nice, indeed,” she murmured. “You have excellent taste, Andrew. Thank you.”

She stepped aside, and he entered the guest house. It looked a lot different than the last time he’d seen it. All the fussy details had been stripped away—carpet pulled up to reveal the pine floors, light curtains replacing the frilled drapes and valances, walls whitewashed over the yellow he’d never cared for.

“The place is better,” he said. “Your influence?”

“Hannah was open to suggestions,” she said diplomatically. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll just finish up dinner. Make yourself at home.” She vanished into the kitchen, leaving him at loose ends. He wandered around, thumbing through a book without even reading the title, glancing at a painting without actually seeing it. Then he heard a bang and a muffled exclamation from the kitchen. He crossed to the kitchen doorway.

“Need some help?” he asked blandly.

Cassie had pulled something from the oven. It had landed on top of the stove, and now she was giving it a dour stare.

“Burnt,” she pronounced. “This means just ice cream for dessert, instead of ice cream and…apple betty.”

“Wonder why they call it that,” he said. “Apple betty.”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Cassie muttered. “Who am I trying to fool, anyway? I hate to cook.”

“So why do it?” he asked. “You could have sent out for pizza, and I would’ve been just as grateful.”

“Right. Men say that, but they never really mean it. Deep down, they all want some beautiful, big-chested blonde who can whip up a batch of brownies to boot.”

It was an image that gave pause, to say the least.

Cassie sighed. “I didn’t mean all men. Just a lot of them—including my ex-husband. Not that he ever found the blonde of his dreams. He just always gave me the impression he was looking. And after hearing Gwen spill the beans, you know all about how my dad warned me against Jeff, and how I went ahead and married the guy anyway.” She gave another sigh, explosive this time. “What is it about you that makes a woman run off at the mouth?” Very purposefully, she got busy with some salad tongs and lettuce.

He liked watching her as she moved around the kitchen. She pulled a strainer from the cupboard and plopped it in the sink. He took it on himself to drain the pot of spaghetti over the strainer. It was a little awkward with his taped finger, but he managed. Cassie stood beside him watching.

“Don’t tell me you know how to cook,” she said.

“I do eggs,” he told her, “as long as they’re scrambled.”

A few minutes later everything was on the dining-room table. Cassie sat down, then jumped up. “I’ll be right back,” she said. She went up the stairs, and he heard the murmur of her voice.

A short while afterward a door shut rather forcefully and she came down again. She didn’t look happy. She looked peeved. “My son,” she said, “will not be joining us for dinner. You know one of the most aggravating things about parenthood? Sometimes you just give in, even when you know you should make a stand.”

Andrew tried to look sympathetic, but his experience with parenthood was pretty much nil. He and Cassie started in on the spaghetti. His bandaged hand did pose something of a problem. He tried twirling spaghetti noodles around his fork with his left hand.

“I should have thought about that,” Cassie said ruefully. “But, don’t worry—no more apologies.”

A little practice, and maybe he could get used to this left-handed routine. At least he got a taste of the spaghetti. “It’s good,” he said.

She gave an unexpected smile. “Surprisingly…it is, isn’t it?”

He wished Cassie Warren would smile more often, but she seemed to be a person burdened with unspoken concerns. Now and then she glanced in the direction of the stairs.

“You’re worried about the kid, aren’t you?” Andrew said.

“Zak hasn’t always been like this,” she said quickly. “As I already told you, it’s just been since the divorce. I thought he was getting better. But then, after losing Hannah—he really loved her, you know.”

“I can believe that,” Andrew said in a quiet tone.

Cassie folded and refolded her napkin. “You’d think I could figure out what to do with my own son,” she said. “My job is supposed to give me some expertise, after all.”

Right…the job that kept her busy even on Saturdays. “What do you do for a living?” he asked curiously.

“I work for Child Services,” she said. “That’s why I moved here last year—to take the job. I’m a field agent of sorts…a troubleshooter, too, you could say. Basically, I work with families who’ve been referred to court for one reason or another. I gather evidence to help decide what’s best for the children involved. It’s wonderful work—and terrible at the same time. I see things that break my heart. Impossible situations…and I have to make impossible decisions.” She stopped, and gazed at him with perplexity. “You ask a simple question, and I give you a dissertation. Trust me, I’m not usually like this. Here…have some more wine.” She refilled his glass.

“Sounds like your work means a lot to you,” he said. “Why apologize for that?”

She grimaced. “So I’m doing it again…apologizing.”

“It’s my guess,” he said, “that the ex-husband really shook your confidence.”

She seemed to stiffen at that. “Jeff Warren is not worth anyone losing their confidence. He’s a…he’s a damn SOB.” With that she stood regally, and took the dirty plates into the kitchen. She reappeared a few moments later with two dishes of vanilla ice cream, and slapped one down in front of Andrew.

“Getting mad feels good,” he observed.

“Yes, it does,” she said ruefully. She glanced toward the stairs one more time. “But the reason my ex really makes me mad is the way he treats Zak. Promising to visit, and then not showing. Not calling when he says he will. No wonder Zak tries to shut down his emotions. He’s scared of getting hurt all over again.”

It sounded to Andrew as if Cassie Warren had a very complex life. Too bad he wasn’t going to find out any more about the complications. He was going to get his business done in Montana—wrap up Hannah’s affairs—and return to Texas as soon as possible. That meant he would probably never see Cassie again.

But, for now, he was sitting here across from this beautiful woman, eating ice cream. Andrew had learned how to enjoy the moment. He knew it was indeed possible to block out the past and the future, and simply savor the present.

Cassie seemed to be relaxing a little, too. She leaned back in her chair, turning her glass around. “Forget about me,” she said. “Let’s talk about your romantic troubles, Andrew. From what your grandmother said, you’ve had plenty of them…plenty of women, at least, who’ve wanted you to tie the knot. Apparently, though, you’re not the knot-tying sort.”

“That’s what she always said.”

Cassie gave him a shrewd look. “Tell me, have you tried dating any divorcées? A lot of the time they don’t want to tie the knot. They’ve already done it once, and found that quite enough.”

“Meaning,” said Andrew, “that you don’t intend to get married again.”

“That’s exactly what I mean.” Cassie stopped playing with her glass. “I’m going to check on Zak. Be right back.” She stood and headed for the stairs. Andrew watched her go. She moved with a natural, unaffected grace. He wondered if she realized how attractive she truly was.

When she came back down a few moments later, she looked troubled. “He fell asleep,” she said softly. “Right next to a book about knights in armor. I can’t figure out if he wants to be a knight, or be rescued by one.”

She didn’t sit down again, even though she hadn’t finished her ice cream—or her wine. Andrew decided the message was clear: the evening had ended. He stood.

“Thanks for the invitation,” he said.

“Thanks for coming,” she said after an awkward pause. “It seems strange you staying at a hotel instead of at your grandmother’s house.”

“Guess I like the idea of neutral territory,” he said.

Cassie studied him. “You don’t give anything away, do you?” she murmured. “I practically told you my life story tonight, but you’re as much a stranger to me as when you walked in the door.”

A stranger…somehow he didn’t like the sound of that. Unable to explain the impulse guiding him, he stepped nearer to Cassie. With his good hand, he gently ran a finger over her cheek. Her skin was soft.

She drew in her breath. “Andrew…”

He heard the warning in her voice. Feeling that stir of regret, he stepped away again. “Don’t worry, I’m not getting the wrong idea. That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it?”

“Something like that.” Suddenly brisk and businesslike, she led him to the door. “Good night, Andrew.”

“Good night.” His rental car was parked out on the driveway, waiting to take him back to his empty hotel room. The prospect didn’t seem inviting. Maybe that was why he acted on impulse again. He turned to Cassie and took her into his arms. And then he kissed her.

Her lips were soft, too. She tasted sweetly of vanilla. And, after an initial, very brief attempt to pull away, she kissed him back. Her hands moved up to his shoulders. He was looking forward to whatever might happen next.

He didn’t count on what did happen, however. There was a slight scuffling sound. With a gasp, Cassie broke away from him. They turned at the same time. And there, facing both of them, was Cassie’s seven-year-old son, Zak…gazing at them with a solemn, unreadable expression.

So much for a romantic mood.