Читать книгу One Ticket To Texas - Jan Hudson, Jan Hudson - Страница 9

Two

Sweat popped out on her upper lip. Irish ignored it and spooned another bite of chili into her mouth. After all, it was a free meal, and with less than twenty dollars left in her wallet, she couldn’t afford to be choosy.

“Too hot for you?” Kyle asked.

“It’s fine. Just fine.” She gulped half a glass of iced tea.

With her tongue and her esophagus cringing at what was coming, she forced another bite into her blistered mouth.

Tears came to her eyes. She gulped the other half glass of tea and shook out an ice cube to suck on.

She glanced up at Kyle. He was frowning. “You don’t have to be polite,” he said. “It is too hot for you. Sorry about that. Grandpa Pete likes his chili fiery enough to singe the pin feathers off a chicken, and I’ve gotten used to it. Let me fix you something else. How about a bologna sandwich? I make a mean bologna sandwich.”

Relieved that she wouldn’t have to finish the rest of the chili and too hungry to turn him down, she smiled. “I’m crazy about bologna sandwiches.”

“Mustard or mayonnaise?”

“Mustard.”

“Be right back.”

Irish watched him pick up a loaf of bread from the rack and a jar of mustard off a shelf, then walk back to the meat case. He took a big sausage from the case, and she heard the whine of an electric slicing machine. In a few minutes, he returned with a neat sandwich on a piece of butcher paper. An individual bag of chips sat atop the sandwich.

“Thanks,” she said. “That looks great.”

“Not exactly Carnegie Deli, but it will do in a pinch. Alma Jane usually does the sandwich and soup making and helps tend to the store, but she came down with a bad case of poison ivy. I’m hoping that she’ll be back tomorrow. I’m not much of a cook.” “Me, either,” Irish said. “I don’t even know how to work the pilot light on my stove. Olivia usually does all the cooking.”

“Who’s Olivia?”

“One of my housemates in Washington.”

“One?” He filled her glass with tea from a pitcher.

“Yes,” she said. Between bites she gave him a thumbnail sketch of Olivia and Kim.

“How long have you been a reporter?” Kyle asked.

“A reporter? I’m not a reporter. Where did you get that idea?”

“You said you were doing an article on Jackson and his buddies, and I assumed that you were doing it for a newspaper.”

“Heavens, no. I’m doing the article for Esprit.”

“Esprit, the magazine? You work for them? I would have figured that someone with your looks would be modeling for them instead of writing.”

“Thank you very much. I used to be a model.” She smiled graciously. “But I don’t work for the magazine full-time. This is a freelance piece.”

He pointed to her uneaten bowl of chili. “Mind?”

“Not at all.” His digestive tract must be lined with lead. She couldn’t believe that anyone could eat an entire bowl of that blazing concoction, much less two.

“I love this stuff. It’s been ages since I’ve had a decent bowl of chili. Grandpa Pete makes it in a wash pot over an open fire, then freezes it in bricks. Why aren’t you a model any longer?”

His sudden switch of topics took her aback for a moment. She nibbled a potato chip before she gave him one of her stock answers. “I’m getting too old.”

“Bull. You’re gorgeous and still in your prime.”

“I’m almost thirty.”

He laughed. “Just a kid.”

“To you maybe, but models are getting younger and younger these days. Too, I—I was getting tired of the work, of New York.”

“Now that I can understand. The crime rate in that place is out of sight. Why, around here, the worst crime committed lately was when Newt Irwin got drunk and—Irish?”

She startled. “Pardon?”

“You flinched and looked very nervous. Did I say something? Stray into sensitive territory?”

“No. Not at all,” she replied, which was a polite lie. He’d touched a nerve. “What were you saying about Luke?”

“Not Luke, Newt. He got drunk and stole one of Henry McKenzie’s goats.”

“Whatever for?”

“To barbecue. But the next morning Newt’s mama found the goat staked out in the front yard eating her pansies, and she called the sheriff. Henry got his goat back, but Newt had to spend three days in jail.”

“But Henry got his goat back. I’m surprised he pressed charges.”

“Henry didn’t. Newt’s mama did. The sheriff is married to her cousin, and Mrs. Irwin was proud of those pansies.”

Irish laughed. “Sounds like you have some real characters around here.”

A pistol shot sounded from upstairs, and Irish almost jumped out of her skin.

“That we do,” Kyle said. “And one of them lives upstairs. That’s Grandpa Pete again. Eighty-four years old and still rambunctious. Be right back. Look around the store and find yourself a dessert.”

Deciding to do just that, she was looking through the assortment of Twinkies, Ding-Dongs, and Little Debbie cakes when an RV stopped out front. An older couple in loud jogging gear came inside. He was balding and his jacket was stretched tightly over his rotund belly; she was rail-thin with badly colored black hair and wearing a plethora of diamond rings.

“Oh, look, Edgar. Isn’t this a charming little place?” To Irish she said, “We’re passing through on our way from the Gulf coast and decided to take the scenic route. I’m so glad we did. It’s just beautiful around here, isn’t it, Edgar? We wanted to pick up a few snacks, and—Edgar! Look at this. Carved Indians. Life-size. Wouldn’t one of these be just precious by our pool? And look at the price. Why, it’s a steal.”

“Mmmm,” Edgar said, not glancing up from the row of snack crackers he was inspecting.

With Kyle nowhere in sight, Irish pasted on a bright smile and went into her retail mode. “Aren’t they wonderful? The sculptor is very gifted. Have you seen the animals outside? The eagles are fantastic, and there’s one bear that you should see. A delightful conversation piece that was just finished. We call him Vince. Come, let me show you.”

When Kyle finally got Pete settled down and made it back downstairs, Irish was at the door waving goodbye to an RV. “Sorry I took so long, but my grandfather needed some TLC. Who was in the RV?”

“Corrie and Edgar.”

“Wanting directions to Dallas?”

“Nope. They came in for snacks. I sold them a carton of soft drinks, two boxes of crackers, three jars of peanuts, two jelly rolls, two little pecan pies, two life-size Indians, an eagle and Vince. I made change for their traveler’s checks from the register. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mind? You sold more in thirty minutes than I’ve sold in a week. They bought Vince?”

“Yep.”

“But his ear is missing.”

“That makes him even more charming. An original.”

Kyle chuckled and shook his head. “I hope that you gave them a discount.”

“Certainly not. I didn’t know exactly how much the bears were since none of them had a price tag, but I charged fifty dollars more than the Indian was marked.”

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope. Don’t worry. They can afford it, and Corrie is thrilled with her new pool and garden sculptures. And quite frankly, I think they’ll look cute in her backyard. She’ll have an excuse to have a party when she and Edgar get home, and the pieces are delightful conversation pieces. I told her exactly how they were made.”

Kyle fought back a laugh. “Do you know exactly how they’re made?”

Irish waved off his question. “They’re carved with a chain saw. I showed them your work area and improvised some on the parts I didn’t know. I told you that Corrie was thrilled.”

“What about Edgar?”

“Edgar didn’t say much, but he was fascinated with the rattler in the terrarium. He offered to buy the snake, but I figured it wasn’t for sale. Anyway, I didn’t know how much to charge or if it had been defanged.”

Kyle burst into laughter. “I’m glad you didn’t sell Sam. Pete would have a fit. The snake and the arrowheads are the bulk of his museum. And no, Sam hasn’t been defanged.”

Irish shuddered. “I’m glad that I didn’t try to fish him out. They came before I got dessert. Want to split a package of chocolate cupcakes?”

“Sure.” As Kyle watched Irish talk, he grew even more enchanted with her. Not only was she one hell of a gorgeous woman, but also she was a delight to be around. Animated, fun and totally unaffected, she was the antithesis of the Hollywood types that he had escaped. Given her years as a much photographed model, he was surprised by her down-to-earth behavior and forthright attitude. “You get the cupcakes, and I’ll fix the coffee. How do you like yours?”

“Black for me.”

In a few minutes he joined her at the table. A chocolate cupcake sat on a napkin at his place; its mate sat in front of her. “I hope you don’t mind instant,” he said. “The stuff in the pot was sludge.”

“Instant is fine.”

They ate in relative silence. When she’d finished the last bite, she licked the chocolate off her fingers and sighed. “I love junk food, especially chocolate. I had to deny myself for years. I’ve gained fifteen pounds since I left New York.”

“They’re well disguised. You seem very slender to me.”

“Thanks.” She grinned. “Want another cupcake?”

“Let’s go for it.”

She wasted no time in getting another and ripping open the package. She handed one to him and demolished the other one in a flash. After licking her fingers again, she held her mug with both hands and sipped her coffee. Her eyes glazed as she stared at a spot over his left shoulder, and a wrinkle appeared between her lovely eyebrows.

“A problem?” he asked.

“A big one. I can’t go back to Washington until I...interview Jackson Crow. If he won’t return until Monday, I don’t have a place to stay. I was planning on being a guest at Crow’s Nest.” Her frown deepened. “Are those, uh, tepees outside inhabitable?”

He chuckled. “Well, the sheets and towels are clean and they don’t leak, but I doubt if they’re what you’re used to. They’re pretty basic. You would probably be more comfortable if you drove to Jacksonville or Tyler and stayed in a nicer place.”

“I can’t do that.” Her eyes still troubled, she ran the tip of her tongue back and forth over a small area of the mug’s rim. Kyle couldn’t take his eyes off that bit of pink, and as he watched, mesmerized, his imagination went wild. “You see, I’m, uh, a little short on cash. I was hoping that your tepees would be cheap.”

“The tepees? Cheap? Oh, they’re cheap. Very cheap.” Kyle almost stood up and whooped. He wasn’t anxious for her to leave just yet. “As a matter of fact, your commission on the sale to Corrie and Edgar would more than cover room and board here until Jackson gets back.”

Her eyes widened. “My commission?”

“Sure. And if you need a little extra cash, I could use some help around here until Alma Jane gets back tomorrow or the next day.”

“Help? Doing what?”

“Tending the store While I wield the chain saw. Or better yet, how would you like reading to an irascible old man? Pete’s big on reading, but his eyes play out after a while. The job wouldn’t pay much, but—”

“I’ll take it. But just until Jackson returns, you understand.”

“Fine. We have a deal.” He couldn’t help the grin that spread across his face. Wonder if he could persuade Jackson to stay in Dallas a few extra days?

The wrinkle between her brows disappeared, and she beamed. “Great. If you’ll give me a key, I’ll get settled in.”

Irish drove the Benz to the door of tepee number two and unloaded her luggage. She unlocked the door and cautiously peeked inside.

Kyle was right. It was very basic. Most of the furniture was made from bundles of twigs and sticks. There was a faded, but clean-looking, Indian blanket on the bed. The dresser was in its prime about the time of World War II, and two large paint-by-number oils were framed in rough wood and hanging on the walls. One was an Indian chief in full feather; the other, a spotted horse in a red desert. A wooden rocking chair, its seat made of taut cowhide with the hair still on, sat in a corner.

Irish sighed and hauled her things inside. “Home, sweet home.”

She checked the sheets and the bed. And the locks.

The sheets were crisp and fresh-smelling, the mattress amazingly lump-free and comfortable. The bathroom fixtures were old but immaculate. And most important, the locks were sturdy. The place wasn’t the Plaza, but the price was right, and it would do.

After she hung up her clothes and put her other things away, Irish changed out of her new outfit into jeans, a white T-shirt and a chambray shirt. A pair of sport shoes felt like heaven compared to the new high-heeled boots, which didn’t look too bad considering the punishment they’d had. A quick repair to hair and makeup and she was ready to meet Cherokee Pete.

Sounds of the chain saw came from the shed, and Irish figured that Kyle was back at work on another bear or a bow-legged cowpoke. She went inside the store and hesitated only a moment before she tiptoed upstairs. She didn’t want to disturb the old gentleman if he was still sleeping.

Following the noise of a TV, she went toward an open door off the landing, noting as she passed that the large painting on the wall there was an excellent copy of a Remington. And much more attractive than the Indian and spotted pony on her walls.

The room she peeked in was a large library. Straight ahead was a huge stone fireplace with another of the Remington copies hung on it and several Southwestern pots and such on the mantel. Two large leather couches flanked the fireplace and a coffee table, made from a slice- of a huge tree, sat between the oxblood couches. Additional pots and a statue of a breechclouted brave, much more finely wrought than the wooden ones downstairs, stood atop the table. Other wing chairs and leather club chairs with ottomans were grouped around the room. The place looked more like a gentlemen’s club than the upstairs of the junky trading post below.

Floor to ceiling shelves in polished wood took up most of the available wall space, and they were filled with books. Her gaze followed the bulging shelves until they came to an alcove at one end of the room, to a hospital bed beside a window, to a pair of dark eyes watching her.

She smiled. “Hello. I’m Irish Ellison. May I come in?”

“Looks like you’re in already. Come closer and let me get a good gander at you. These old eyes ain’t what they used to be. Irish, you say? Never heard nobody named that except it was a nickname.”

“It’s my real name. My mother was mostly Irish and a romantic,” she said as she crossed the room to the bed.

He reminded her of an older, more wiry version of Willie Nelson. His hair was thinning on top, but the sides hung in long gray braids. The skin over his high cheekbones was leathery and wrinkled, but his dark eyes flashed with vitality, and Irish doubted if they missed much.

He held up a remote control and pressed it. The TV sound died. “I’m Pete Beamon, but everybody calls me Cherokee Pete. Called me that as long as I can remember. Half Cherokee from my mother’s side. M‘wife was Irish. Honey-colored hair and blue eyes she had. Beautiful woman, like you. Been gone forty-three years next November. She was a schoolteacher. Taught me how to read after I was grown. We started collecting these books over fifty years ago. Come, sit down here.” He pointed to an easy chair beside his bed. “Tell me what a pretty gal like you is doin’ in these parts.”

“Don’t let me interrupt your—” Irish glanced to the wall where the television was and startled. Instead of a single TV, a bank of six screens were mounted there. Two were blank, but two showed the interior of the store downstairs, and two others scanned the outside grounds. “But that’s—”

“Surveillance. These old eyes don’t miss much. You take a hankerin’ to my grandson?”

Irish cleared her throat and tried not to squirm. “He’s—he’s very attractive, but I’m not interested.”

Cherokee Pete gave a little bark of laughter. “That’s not what I saw. I like the cut of you, Irish Ellison. Could tell that right off. Tell you what. You marry my grandson, and I’ll give you a million dollars.”