Читать книгу Rustler's Moon - Jodi Thomas - Страница 11

CHAPTER FOUR

Angela

ANGELA PULLED ON an old jogging suit and decided to walk around the edge of the lake. She’d spent all week cleaning and moving into her little cabin and had grown to love the lake and the small town a mile away. Tomorrow morning she’d start a new job, a new life. Her years of taking care of her mother, of worrying about her father, were in her past, washed away by a river of tears. Now she had to face her future.

Glancing at the cat trying to spread his fat body across the windowsill, Angela whispered, “This is our new home, Doc. You’re going to love it here.”

Doc Holliday just stared at her, but Angela couldn’t stop smiling.

No one in town cared about her family, and, for the first time since her birth, no family was watching over her. Her mother had smothered her for eighteen years, then she’d passed her off to two old aunts so Angela could attend a small college outside Washington, DC. Her parents said they’d save money if she lived with the aunts, but she’d missed most of campus life. As soon as she graduated, there was never any question that she’d find a job back in Florida and move in with her parents for a while. A part-time job in a small marina museum was all she found and her duties included ordering and cleaning the gift shop as well as giving the grade-school tours.

Then her mom’s cancer returned and any possibility of having her own place was forgotten. Her father needed help.

Though her uncle Anthony had offered her a job, Angela had studied to be a museum curator, and even at half the pay, she was glad to be working in a museum. At least she had the title of assistant curator.

Every day she’d come home and tell her parents all about her work at the tiny marina museum as if what she did was fun and important.

Her father rarely talked about his job. She knew he hated it, but somehow he was tied to what he did.

When her mother died, she stayed at home helping him in grief, thinking that they’d move along pretty much as they had before.

One note from her father, written on the day he died, changed all that.

She guessed her aunt and uncle would be glad not to have her around. Surely whatever, or whoever, had frightened her father would not follow her here. She knew no secrets. She owned nothing of value.

As she clicked on her flashlight and began to navigate the uneven shoreline of the lake, Angela felt light-headed with possibilities. Her plan just might work in this quiet little community where cows outnumbered people. She’d fill her new home with her mother’s quilts, and the furniture she’d picked up at secondhand stores. She’d fish on the lake with her father’s gear. She’d have their memories with her—the photo of her and her dad, his ledger with the leather worn thin and her replica Greek coin necklace. All that would have to be enough.

She decided her father had been right to tell her to leave. She felt newborn here, as if anything were possible, as if life could be somehow fuller, richer here.

She breathed in the night air, the smell of evergreens and lake water. She was stepping into a new world. Walking on a different planet. All her life she’d been a meek homebody and now she was an explorer.

The few dozen houses that stood along the shore didn’t seem to have drapes, or even blinds. She felt a little like a voyeur staring into the homes as she walked. Couples reading, playing cards, watching TV. “Yes,” she whispered. “There will be a peace here for me.”

A fisherman docking his boat stopped to watch her, but didn’t wave. A couple cuddled in a blanket at the far end of one of the private docks didn’t notice her pass. As the evening aged, she blended in with the shadows.

For the first time in her life, she almost believed she was invisible.

When she passed Dan Brigman’s house, she was surprised to see the sheriff with a woman in a flowing dress and heels standing in the room that faced the lake. Dan had mentioned a daughter when he’d shown her the cabin, but not a wife. She’d gotten the impression he wasn’t married, yet the woman looked far too old to be his daughter.

The woman was waving her arms as if arguing with the sheriff, then raised her hands in the air and let them drop to her sides as though giving up.

Angela stood frozen as the woman stormed from the room. The sound of the front door slamming and a car starting reached her ears, then the engine roared up the road behind the sheriff’s lake house.

She was still staring when Dan Brigman walked out on his deck and looked up at the stars.

She thought maybe, just maybe, if she remained perfectly still he wouldn’t see her. But of course, if he looked in her direction, she’d be silhouetted against the moonlit lake. Wild-haired, five-three Peeping Toms were hard to miss.

Angela lowered her head, clicked off the flashlight and walked slowly past his place, hoping the shadow of his dock might hide her from view.

She almost made it to the bend before he called out, “Angela, is that you?”

She turned and watched him jogging toward her in jeans and a sweatshirt. “I thought I’d walk around part of the lake,” she managed to say.

He fell into step with her. “Mind if I tag along? I could use a walk.” The sheriff looked thinner without his vest and forty-pound duty belt around his waist. He also looked somehow sadder than he’d been last week, even in the shadows.

“Not at all.” She clicked back on her flashlight even though the lights from the houses cast a warm glow over a broken path that wandered along between docks and lawn furniture. “You can tell me about the lake.”

“Well, legend says this stop was an old Comanche winter camp. After the Second World War some of the men returning home decided to build here. I always thought they were looking for peace. I know how they feel—no matter how hectic the job of county sheriff gets, when I come home and stare out at the lake, the world seems right.”

As he spoke, his words slowed a bit and his shoulders seemed to relax. When she asked about his daughter, he laughed and told her that she had a date for homecoming. “I’m finding out just how important that is,” he admitted.

“You and your wife must be happy she’s adjusting well to college.” Angela didn’t add that she had no idea how important homecoming dates might be. That wasn’t something she’d participated in at college. She’d had few dates, with friends mostly.

“We are proud of Lauren.” He cleared his throat. “But my wife and I divorced years ago.” He shrugged. “I might as well tell you. You’ll hear all about everyone who lives around town as soon as you start work tomorrow. Margaret left me a few months after I took this job. She wanted to finish school, then do an internship at a big company in Dallas. After that she got a job there and couldn’t leave the big city and all it had to offer. It took me three years to figure out she wasn’t coming back home. It seemed leaving me wasn’t a problem.”

He fell silent. They just walked. She listened to the water lapping against the shoreline and fish slapping the calm lake as they jumped to catch their supper.

She thought of asking who the woman was that she’d seen in the sheriff’s house, but maybe he had a right to his secrets, too. Finally, she broke the silence. “I’d better turn in. Tomorrow will be a big day for me.”

At the spot where she turned off toward her cabin, they stopped and he turned to face her. “Angela, don’t worry about tomorrow. You’ll be fine. We’re all glad you’re here. When I hand over the museum keys, a few representatives from some of the original families will be there.”

He could probably hear her breathing stop, so he rushed to continue. “You’ve already talked to Staten Kirkland. He’s the one who hired you on the phone. You’ll meet the O’Gradys and Collinses as well as the Wagners. All from old families who settled here a hundred years ago. They’re just showing up to wish you the best.”

“Is there anyone I should be worried about?”

Dan laughed. “They are all good people. You might watch out for Wagner, though. Vern’s been known to ask any single girl around to marry him.”

“How many wives has he had?”

“None. Talk is, after he forgot to show up at the church a few times, every woman in town stopped believing anything Vern said.” Dan shook his head. “I don’t know if that story is true. Wagner told it to me himself.”

“I’ll watch out for him.”

Dan laughed. “I promise, he’s someone not easy to miss.”

Angela said good-night and walked down the path to her cabin trying to remember all the names she’d heard. Kirkland, Collins, O’Grady and Wagner. Once she got settled in her new job, she’d look up all their family histories. Though she’d like to forget hers, most people wanted to talk about their roots.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING she was so early to the parking lot of the museum she waited half an hour before the sheriff showed up. While he was unlocking the huge double doors of the museum, cars and pickup trucks began pulling into the lot.

The sheriff stood beside her as the families piled out and greeted each other. Dan leaned close to her and quietly gave her the lowdown. “The couple in the Cadillac are the Collinses, they own the Bar W Ranch. Both their sons are away at school. That van with all the kids are one branch of the O’Gradys. Lots of them around town.” He nodded to an attractive couple with a young son. “The tall couple with the toddler are the Kirklands. Staten owns the Double K. Biggest spread within a hundred miles. Word is his wife, Quinn, is pregnant again. The two men climbing out of that old rusty red pickup are Wagners. They own the Devil’s Fork Ranch.”

Angela fought the urge to bolt. So many people, all coming to see her. Kirkland was tall, big like his voice had been on the phone. The man called Collins looked bored and his wife seemed overdressed.

She suddenly had a dozen questions to ask the sheriff, but it was too late.

People were too near the museum for him to fill her in on any more details, but she felt as if she had at least put a few names with faces.

When the sheriff finally opened the doors, she was surprised to see a banner welcoming her. A long lace-covered table was set up with red velvet cupcakes, lemon squares and juice in tall champagne glasses. All made it seem more a party than her first day at work. Three round little grandmother-types stood behind the refreshments table beaming with pride.

Fifty people crowded into the big two-story open foyer. Angela and the sheriff stood next to the mayor, Davis Collins, and his perfect, much younger wife named Cherry.

Angela fought down a giggle every time the mayor called his wife “Cherry Baby.” Everyone in the room, except Davis Collins, could see his wife glare at him. She obviously hated the name and he obviously didn’t care.

Everyone except two-year-old James Kirkland stood silently as the mayor said what a grand day it was to have a new curator over the museum they all loved.

With keys in her hand, Angela moved among the people trying to remember names. Everyone wanted to show her their favorite exhibit. After two hours, Angela felt as if she’d had a private tour of every foot of the museum from archives with journals of the first settlers, to the gun collections, to a mock-up of the first wagons. All her years of studying Texas history came alive as she touched artifacts that had survived since the time of the first Austin colony, including weapons that were around during the fight at the Alamo, and Native American clothing now treasured as works of art.

She loved it all. This was where she belonged. She’d grown up with her father and uncle always talking antiques. Every family member’s house had tables no one touched and chairs no one sat in. Yet, all these treasures of this Western past came alive as the descendants told stories of how life had been here on this very land a hundred and fifty years ago.

When the last guest finally left, and the three volunteers vanished into a small kitchen in the back to clean up the refreshments, Angela almost danced up the stairs. She wanted to pull the pins from her tight bun and run like a carefree child through her new life.

But of course she wouldn’t. She giggled. She’d do what was expected, at least until everyone was gone. Being here was both terrifying and Christmas morning at the same time.

After stopping at her office to pick up a pencil and pad, she began at the top of the stairs jotting things down that needed to be done and ideas for new displays. It would take weeks to examine all the artifacts, but what fun she would have.

She was so lost in her ideas, she didn’t notice a man moving up behind her until she felt his breath on the back of her neck.

“I have a question.”

She jumped, almost tumbling into the diorama of the canyon. Her notepad and pencil flew into the air. The pad slapped against the floor, but the pencil jabbed her attacker’s forehead drawing a drop of blood.

His right hand shot out, catching her shoulder as his tall frame leaned forward. His grip was strong, digging into her arm as he fought to pull her toward him and away from the display glass.

Opening her mouth to scream, she whirled. Her elbow plowed into his ribs as she found her footing. He folded over and his jaw slammed against her forehead, sending his hat flying into the display.

Both let out a cry. Hers sounded more like a squeal, and his seemed more like swearing, but when they met one another’s eyes, both were in pain.

She recovered first. “Mr. Wagner!” At over six-four, he was hard to forget. Especially when he’d added boots and a hat to his height. He had towered above her when he shook her hand at the reception, and he towered over her now.

“Mrs. Jones.” He gasped as he straightened, rubbing his ribs.

She had no idea what kind of man he was, but she wasn’t taking any chances. “My colleagues are in the back. If you are thinking of assaulting me, all I have to do is scream, and they’ll come running.”

Wagner made an effort to smile. “I doubt your three volunteers have run in thirty years. A cattle prod wouldn’t budge them into more than a stroll. As for assaulting you, I’m the one with a hole in my chest from your elbow and several teeth loose from the blow to my jaw.” He brushed two fingers across his forehead. “It appears I’m also bleeding. All I planned to do was ask you a question, lady.”

She saw his point. Surprisingly enough, she seemed to have won the short battle. “Well, Mr. Wagner, if you’re thinking of asking me to marry you, you can forget it. I’m wise to your tricks. I was warned by the sheriff.”

The tall cowboy gave up looking injured and stared at her as if she’d gone crazy. Anger flared. “Look, much as I’m turned on by your plain, gray suit and those practical shoes, I’m not in the habit of proposing to complete strangers on first contact.”

“I’ve heard different, Vern Wagner.”

Now he looked shocked. Then, to her surprise, he smiled and winked at her. “You do fit the list, Mrs. Jones, except I’m thinking you’re too smart. Dumb was a definite on the criteria. That suit looks like it’s homemade, and I’m betting you cook. Now that I think about it, we might as well get married, assuming your bank account is hefty and your husband is missing.”

She could only stare at the insane man. Maybe there was too much inbreeding in this county. He looked all right, close to perfect, actually. Tall, handsome with his sandy-blond hair and blue eyes. From boots to Stetson he was dressed as if he’d walked off the cover of a romance novel. Too bad he was brain-dead.

“Maybe we should get on with the mating. After all, your being pregnant at the wedding would be a plus.” He leaned down to her level as he moved closer.

Angela froze in total shock as his lips touched hers. The few times in her life she’d been kissed, really kissed, were nothing like this. His lips were soft against hers, but he seemed to know what he was doing.

Her entire body warmed. This man was a lightning strike on a clear day.

He hesitated as though just as surprised as she was, then leaned closer letting his body brush against her. One hand moved along her waist. She wasn’t sure if he was steadying her, or himself, as the kiss deepened.

She accepted his gift, hungry for a passion she’d never tasted. She had no idea how to kiss him back like this, but for one wild moment in her life, she wanted to learn.

Just as she wondered if crazy was contagious, someone hollered, “Wilkes!” so loud it echoed through the walls.

Wagner straightened and pulled his hat down over his still-bleeding forehead. He was pulling away, straightening to the stranger he’d been moments before, but for one second, she felt his fingers press into her side as if letting go didn’t come easy.

She stumbled as she stepped around him and felt his hand rest against her back once more, steadying her after his gentle assault.

An old man limped into the room. “How long do you expect me to wait for you, boy? I got things to do back at the ranch.”

She glanced at the man beside her. He definitely wasn’t a boy and hadn’t been for years, but he didn’t seem offended by the old man’s tone.

“Angie Jones,” Wagner said as if, now that they’d kissed, they were old friends, “I’d like you to meet my uncle, Vern Wagner.”

The older man took off his hat and smoothed his palm over the few hairs left on his head. “Nice to meet you, miss.”

The man beside her leaned close to her ear. “I’m Wilkes Wagner, Angie. My uncle has been proposing to women for years and none have taken him up on it yet. I’m not sure, but I think he made up the part about leaving a few brides at the altar that everyone believes.”

He shook his head. “I’m sorry for frightening you. I thought you were in on a joke my uncle was playing on me.”

She thought over the odd encounter. She might not know how to fight off a man who wanted to kiss her, but she knew how to be professional. “And what was your question, Mr. Wagner?”

Wilkes glanced at his uncle. “I’ll have to come back another time. I’d like you to help me with some research on an old house.”

“I will be happy to,” she managed. “Only, please call before you come. I’m going to be very busy learning the museum.”

“I’ll try.” He smiled, and she knew he was laughing at her. “Good day, Angie.”

She straightened, trying to hold her ground. “My name’s not Angie, Mr. Wagner.” Only her father called her Angie.

To her surprise Wilkes Wagner grinned. “It’s not Jones, either, Miss Harold, and there’s no ring on your finger. If you didn’t keep the man, don’t keep his name.”