Читать книгу The Missing Heir - Jane Toombs, Jane Toombs - Страница 11

W alking down to the stables the next morning, Mari tried to feel optimistic about what Pauline had told her at breakfast. Mr. Haskell, it seemed, was “holding his own”—whatever that meant. At least he wasn’t worse.

On such a fine morning, brisk, but with the promise of later warmth, it was difficult to feel anything but upbeat. Or was it actually because she was going riding with Russ? A bit of both, Mari told herself. It had been silly not to tell him where she was staying. Maybe he didn’t even know Mr. Haskell. Still, after Mr. Haskell’s dramatic appearance on TV, probably everyone did. Would Russ connect her with the missing Haskell daughter if she told him she was at the cottage?

Mari grimaced, disliking having to be secretive with a man she felt was a friend. Maybe she shouldn’t worry about Russ knowing where she was staying. Besides, the island was so small he’d find out sooner or later, anyway. She might as well tell him herself if the chance came to bring it up casually.

Russ was waiting at the stables with two handsome chestnuts that looked like a matched pair. She tried to tell herself her heart wasn’t racing at the sight of him, and gave him an offhand greeting. “Good-looking pair,” she said, forcing her attention to the horses rather than on him.

“Same sire and dam,” he told her. “My friend Nellis told me they were slated for one of the fancier two-horse surreys, but then Jill balked at having anything with wheels behind her, and Jack refused to be hitched unless Jill was beside him. Since they come from a long line of buggy horses, Nellis was surprised but happy when they turned out to be good riding horses. Genes don’t always run true.”

Mari blinked, unsure if the last few words might not somehow be directed at her. Almost immediately she decided she was way off the mark. He couldn’t possibly know who she was or who she might be. He’s talking about horses and nothing else, you worrier, you, she told herself.

To calm herself, she rubbed Jill’s nose. “You’re a smart mare,” she said. “I wouldn’t like one of those wheeled things rumbling at my heels, either.”

“Just like women to stick together,” Russ observed as he gave her a hand up onto Jill’s back.

“I suppose men don’t?” she countered.

“Independent to the core, all of us.”

She rolled her eyes.

He mounted Jack, saying, “We’ll ride around the island’s perimeter this morning to give you an idea of its size. I’ll save the historical spots and unusual rock formations for later trips. That is, if you’ll be staying around for a few weeks.”

“Uh, maybe.” She hadn’t a clue how long she’d be here. It depended on Mr. Haskell’s health and how soon he might be able to return to the island. After that, who knew?

“Maybe you’ll be here for a couple weeks, or maybe you’ll put up with my company after today?” he asked.

Though very aware of how much she enjoyed being with him, she wasn’t about to tell him that. Slanting him a look, she said, “Both. How far is it around the island?”

“Eight and a half miles.” Letting Jack set an easy pace, Russ led the way from the stables to the lake road that followed the island’s perimeter.

Mari was charmed anew by the lack of motorized vehicles. “It’s like living before they invented the automobile,” she said as she pulled up even with him. “I can’t get over how different it is here.”

He gestured to the left, toward the arched span of the Mackinac Bridge, visible in the distance, connecting Michigan’s Lower and Upper Peninsulas. “That’s as close as cars get to the island. Except for a couple of emergency vehicles, there are none here.”

Mari, watching a sailboat scud along Lake Huron and wishing again she was just a tourist, sighed.

Russ glanced at her. “Something wrong?”

She shook her head, not daring to dare tell him how troubled she felt over why she’d come here. Her birth mother had listed her name as Ida Grant on Mari’s birth certificate. On TV, Mr. Haskell had given his daughter’s name as Isabel and said she might be using Morrison as her last name. Why had Uncle Stan been so sure Ida Grant was Isabel Haskell Morrison? As far as Mari knew, he had no real proof.

As the horses clopped along, Russ pointed out a limestone formation called Devil’s Kitchen. “Not one of the more spectacular. We’ll give it a miss.” Farther on he gestured to a bluff on the right. “Lover’s Leap.”

“We have a few of those in the Sierras,” she said. “I’ve always thought it strange anyone would want to die for love.”

“You ever been in love?”

Had she? With Danny Boy? She’d been infatuated enough at the time, but after the breakup she’d certainly never considered leaping off a cliff because he was gone. Willa insisted her pride had suffered more than her heart. Whatever it was, Mari wouldn’t make the same mistake again. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “How about you?”

He shrugged.

“So you don’t know, either,” she said. “I wonder how anyone can ever be sure about being in love?”

“Could be there’s no such thing.” Pointing again to the right, he said, “There’s where the ill-fated Stonecliff ski hill fiasco was. Lost their shirts. The Island’s not a popular winter resort.”

In other words, enough talk about love. Which was fine with her. Chemistry, now, that was different. How could she not believe in chemistry when just being with Russ gave her a high? But chemistry was definitely not love.

“Up a ways is where the British landed in the War of 1812 and took the island from the U.S. We’ll stop for coffee at the snack shop there.”

“You mean they captured that big fort on the hill overlooking the town?”

He glanced at her. “No matter how well fortified you think you are, remember there’s always the sneak attack that comes from the direction you least expect.”

Remember? Was he simply talking about the British landing or something else? His half smile made her think he might be warning her.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she told him.

At the coffee shop, Russ studied her when she wasn’t watching, acutely aware of her next to him sipping her latte. Sooner or later he was going to have to come to terms with his attraction to her.

“So in 1812 the British flag flew over the island,” she said.

“Actually, the battle was in 1814, near the end of the war. After the peace treaty was signed they had to give the fort back to the U.S.”

She stirred her latte. Without looking at him, she said, “In other words, even a sneak attack may be only temporarily successful.”

“Sometimes temporary is enough.” She shot him a quick glance and he grinned at her. “All’s fair, you know.”

In love and war. The words he didn’t say echoed in his mind. This sure wasn’t love. Since spying was a part of war, you might call it that, though. Why not make a play for her instead of trying to deny what he wanted?

What was he, a male Mata Hari? Did he mean to get her in bed and then expect her to confess she was an impostor? Russ took a swallow of coffee as black as his thoughts.

“I don’t think so,” she said

He didn’t have a clue what she meant, and his expression evidently told her so, because she added, “Maybe all’s fair in war, but when it comes to love, it shouldn’t be. Unfairness has no place there.”

“Not everyone agrees with you,” he said, thinking of Denise. Still, his ex-wife might never have loved him. He wasn’t entirely certain she was capable of love. And how the hell had they got back onto the subject of love, anyway?

It was past time to get on with the spy game. “If you’re free for dinner tonight, why not have it with me?”

“Um, well, I’d like to, but—”

“You wouldn’t condemn me to a meal alone, would you?”

Mari raised an eyebrow. “Poor you, all by your lonesome.”

“You got it. Just me and my Blues.”

“You could have worse company than horses.”

“And better, too. Just tell me where to pick you up.” He waited for her to hesitate, to try to wriggle out of telling him, as she had yesterday.

She surprised him. “I’m staying at the Haskell cottage. Do you know where the house is?”

He nodded. “How is Joe? I heard he was in the hospital.”

“He’s holding his own.”

Russ decided not to push further at the moment. The last thing he needed was for her to get suspicious. His dad was going to try to get Joe to order a blood and DNA test on Mari before he came back to the island, but so far the doctors hadn’t let Joe take any calls, even from his attorney, who was also his best friend. Once the tests were done, Russ’s dad had little doubt they’d prove negative, which would mean Mari could be sent packing and not be around to upset Joe once he returned.

Which was fine. Except that Russ wanted her around awhile longer for his own purposes.

“Seven?” he asked.

She nodded, wondering what she was getting herself into. Riding with him was one thing, dinner another. On the other hand, why shouldn’t she accept his invitation? What was wrong with being with a man she liked? She definitely didn’t want to spend her time moping around the Haskell house, wondering if she belonged there. As for Mr. Haskell, whether he was her grandfather or not, there was nothing she could do for him other than hope and pray he recovered.

As they remounted and continued on around the island, she thought about Russ calling Mr. Haskell by his first name. That was more than she felt free to do. If she were certain he was her grandfather, she might be able to manage Grandpa Joe, but that had yet to be proved.

“Do you know Mr. Haskell well?” she asked.

“My father and he are friends. I’ve known Joe all my life.”

Mari tried to think of a way to ask what he was like, but decided it was best not to. The magazine article she’d read on the plane had been a tad intimidating: “Gruff and forceful, Haskell knows his word is law.”

Belatedly, she realized that if Russ knew him that well, he must know all about the search for Isabel. Did he suspect why Mari was staying at Haskell’s place? If so, he didn’t mention it for the remainder of the ride.

When they reached the stables, he said, “I’ll take care of the horses.”

She shook her head. “I rode Jill. She’s my responsibility.” Dismounting, she led the mare inside.

“What do you think of Mackinac so far?” Russ asked as they busied themselves unsaddling the horses.

“I do love Nevada,” she said, “but this island is addictive. Sometimes I feel I’m lost in a time warp.”

“Reality fades, yes. Can be dangerous.”

She looked up to find herself trapped in his green gaze, making her want to reach out and touch him. Her breath caught as he took a step toward her. For a long, anticipatory moment she thought he meant to kiss her, but then Jack snorted and stamped a hoof and the spell was broken.

Dangerous? she asked herself. You bet your sweet patooties.

After they parted company, Mari decided to look into a few more of the shops before she returned to the house. Though she hadn’t brought much money with her, maybe she could find a dress somewhat more casual than the only one she’d packed. Luckily, her sandals would go with anything. The last shop she went into before climbing the hill to the cottage had a sale rack. Though none of the dresses on it suited her, she found an inexpensive white skirt with a red belt that would look great with the multicolored sandals and one of the shirts she’d brought.

Arriving back at the house, Mari learned there’d been no word about Mr. Haskell’s condition. She decided to take that as meaning he wasn’t getting worse—a positive sign. Neither had there been any calls for her. Not that she’d expected Uncle Stan to call, but it would have been be reassuring to hear his voice. She thought about using her calling card and shook her head. There was nothing to report other than her day with Russ and the fact she was having dinner with him tonight. Her uncle wouldn’t consider that news.

Since no one had told her she shouldn’t wander around the house, she decided to take a tour, starting with the ground floor. She intended to visit the kitchen first, but was distracted when she passed what she took to be Mr. Haskell’s study, where floor-to-ceiling bookcases lined two of the walls. In looking over the titles, she found one shelf devoted to old photograph albums, some bound in plush, others in leather. Some held yellowing photos of old Mackinac, which she examined with interest.

Over the fireplace was a portrait of a young woman who, because of the style of clothes she wore, Mari thought might be Mr. Haskell’s wife, Yvonne, Isabel’s mother. She’d learned from the magazine article that Yvonne had died when Isabel was ten. Peering at her own face in the long narrow mirror on the wall by the study door, she could see no resemblance to Yvonne. Mari didn’t find any pictures of Isabel anywhere.

Turning to leave the study, she noticed Diana, the cook, standing in the hall beyond. “I was waiting to ask if you’d be in for dinner,” the woman said.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I was on my way to the kitchen to tell you I’d be eating out.” Deciding the cook might be a source of information, Mari said, “I wondered if there might be a portrait of Isabel Haskell somewhere, like the one of her mother in here.”

Diana glanced over her shoulder. Looking for the housekeeper? Mari asked herself, aware that Pauline could be intimidating. “I’m not supposed to know anything,” the cook said in a low tone. “But I heard tell Mr. Haskell had her picture stored in the attic after she ran off to marry that rock drummer. They say Mort Morrison was pretty well-known, but you can’t prove it by me. Anyway, Mr. Haskell’s supposed to have burned all the photos of her. They had one in the papers from where she went to school.”

Mari had seen several newspaper photos of Isabel at age eighteen, with Morrison, but in each, her face was half-hidden by her hand, as though she didn’t want to be recognized. In the school photo, taken with five other girls, Isabel looked to be about twelve. Her face wasn’t clear enough in any of the pictures for Mari to decide one way or the other if they looked anything alike.

“After Mrs. Haskell died, they say little Isabel moped about for a long time,” Diana continued. “Her father was away a lot, a busy man, and she badly missed her mother. They were real close, everyone said.”

“How sad,” Mari murmured. Poor Isabel. While Mari’s own mother—could it have been Isabel?—had died when she was born, at least she’d had loving parents in Aunt Blanche and Uncle Stan.

“Yeah, it was that. Mr. Haskell had to raise her all by himself, and they didn’t get on, by all accounts. They say he was kind of strict with her. Well, I got to get back and check on my pies.”

After Diana was gone, Mari started for the stairs to the second floor, planning to see if she could find a way to climb to the attic. Did she belong in this family? Maybe if she could see that portrait of Isabel she might find some feature that had been passed down to her. Besides the hair. Mr. Haskell had said on TV that Isabel’s hair was “an unusual shade of gold.”

Mari fingered her own short curls. Aunt Blanche had always said she’d been named well, since her hair was close to the color of a marigold. Named well? Mari had never picked up on it before, but could Blanche have meant that her birth mother had named her? The thought gave her goose bumps.

Searching for the attic meant she had to open all the closed doors on the second floor. Since she’d already learned that Pauline’s suite of rooms was on the ground floor and that Diana lived on the island, so didn’t spend nights at the house, Mari didn’t worry that she might be intruding.

Behind one door she saw what had to be Mr. Haskell’s suite, surprisingly austere. Most of the other doors led to guest bedrooms except for one that proved to be the entrance to an upstairs sitting room. She ventured inside, toward French doors to a balcony looking out over the lake. Far below, one of the hydrofoils that ferried folks to the island swished past in a spume of spray that glistened in the late afternoon sun.

Behind the next to last door in the hallway, a winding staircase led upward. Mari peered up it and realized she’d found the way to the cupola, not the attic. She closed the door and tried the last one. Locked. It had to be to the attic. She sighed. Stymied, unless she got up the nerve to ask Pauline for a key.

Not today, Mari decided. It was after five and she still had to shower before dressing for dinner.

Later, after trying three different shirts with the skirt, Mari sat at the wicker vanity table, trying to decide if her red earrings were close enough in color to the red belt to be passable. She scowled at herself, annoyed because she’d taken so much time getting ready. What did it matter, when she wasn’t certain she’d be staying on the island or how Russ felt? It was a sure bet he wasn’t spending an hour and a half getting ready just to impress her.

He didn’t need to. Though she’d only seen him in jeans so far, she knew he’d look just as good in anything he had on. Or didn’t have on? She shook her head, warning herself not to get into that. Wasn’t she in a precarious enough situation already?