Читать книгу A Way With Women - Jule Mcbride - Страница 9

“MACON MCCANN’S STILL advertising for a bride? Some things simply shouldn’t be allowed,” Harper Moody said under her breath. Shrugging out of a navy postal uniform blazer, she rolled up the sleeves of a standard-issue white blouse, raked her shoulder-length ash hair into a ponytail and secured it with a string tie the U.S. government had meant for use around her neck. Ponytail in place, she sipped the scalding coffee she’d bought at Go-Mart and glanced over as her sole customer, Lois Potts from Potts Feed and Seed, paced between padded Jiffy bags and dusty express envelopes, trying to decide between the John Wayne commemorative stamps or the City Flag series.

Lois was the last person Harper wanted to deal with, of course, since she and Lois had a history. Fortunately, the other woman was occupied, so Harper stared down again, first at a box of pink stationary she’d gotten when she bought the coffee, then at Texas Men magazine. “I really can’t believe they let Macon advertise for a bride,” she mumbled. “The fine print assures they screen these guys.”

Her fog-blue eyes drifted down the full-body photo of the man who’d fathered her teenage son. One hundred percent pure rich rancher stud, announced the caption. “Macon would come up with a line like that,” she whispered, rolling her eyes and feeling distressed by her physical response to him.

Well, what female wouldn’t react?

Muscles tested the shoulder seams of a denim shirt Macon wore unsnapped, exposing tangled chest hairs the color of sunlit wheat. His broad chest slimmed to narrow hips and slightly bowed legs whose long strides were usually headed in the opposite direction from Harper. Boot-cut jeans flared over his polished boots, and Macon was clutching a Stetson against his chest, smiling ruefully as if to say every female answering the ad had already broken his heart.

“Angel’s hair on the very devil,” she pronounced with annoyance. The honey-colored waves framing Macon’s broad, inviting face called to her fingertips to test their silky texture.

Well, she assured herself, placing her steaming coffee cup on the postal scale, Macon just looked like any other dumb cowboy—except for his eyes. As sharp as spurs, they were aware and intense, their color the aged amber of the house ale he’d been enjoying every Saturday night at Big Grisly’s Grill since he’d come back to town.

The wayward drift of her eyes ventured below a turquoise-studded belt, landing on jeans as soft as kid gloves. Just like a good love story, the fit was loose enough to leave room for imagination, but revealing enough to assure a woman of a happy ending. Glancing away, Harper realized she could recall plenty about Macon that no camera could capture. “Yeah, me—and every other female in Pine Hills,” she huffed. Nevertheless, Macon’s hands—the same lean-fingered bronzed hands that clutched the Stetson over his heart—had left their imprints on Harper, and once a woman knew certain things about a man, there was no turning back. She knew plenty, too. Including that Macon had fathered a son he didn’t know about. My son, Cordy.

Harper steadied herself by taking another careful sip of scalding coffee. Years ago, she’d done the right thing in not telling Macon about Cordy, but now she’d come to fear something terrible might happen to her. Bruce’s death two years ago proved unexpected, horrible things did happen. What if, after she was gone, Cordy needed to know the truth for some reason? What if he became ill and needed a bone marrow transplant or a blood transfusion or he had a car wreck or…?

She pushed down the fear that had gnawed at her ever since Bruce died and thought, Damn you, Bruce, we were supposed to get old together! You weren’t supposed to die! No more than Macon McCann was supposed to settle down in Pine Hills with a woman he was meeting through the U.S. mail.

Macon had become a successful contractor in Houston. Why would he come home now? And why was he advertising for a wife in Texas Men magazine when he had ample opportunities to date?

Shifting her gaze, Harper distracted herself by glancing past the metal detector, copiers and post-office boxes through the front door. Heat baked the sidewalks, and although it was only mid-morning, folks were already lined up four-deep inside Happy Lick’s Ice Cream Parlor. Outside, white-hot sun was melting everything from the cream in waffle cones to the rubber on truck tires.

“Morning, Harper. How’s it going?”

It was Lois. Harper scooted an express envelope over Macon’s ad, as well as over the other items she’d spread on the counter, then she lifted her coffee cup from the postal scale so Lois could weigh a package. “Fine, Lois. No stamps today?”

“Couldn’t decide what kind.” Lois nodded at the help wanted sign. “I see you’re looking for new blood.”

As heiress to Potts Feed and Seed, Lois hardly needed a job, but Harper found herself worrying, fearing Lois, for some harebrained reason, would apply. “Hmm,” commented Harper. “It would have been cheaper to send my coffee than your package.”

Lois chuckled appreciatively. “Guess you heard Macon McCann’s back in town and dating everything that moves. Weren’t you friends in high school?”

Lois, of course, was one of the things that moved. “Just platonic,” Harper lied.

“Same here,” assured Lois.

Harper suppressed a snort of laughter. “I heard you two went bowling last week over in Opossum Creek.” Harper couldn’t help but counter, realizing news of Macon’s Texas Men ad hadn’t yet hit town and wondering if she should tell Lois, who’d be sure to spread the word. No man would want it known that he’d stooped to advertising for a wife, and if Macon was embarrassed enough, maybe Harper would get lucky and he’d leave Pine Hills for good.

“Macon and I did go to Opossum Creek,” Lois clarified before moving on to other gossip. “But we were with a group.”

Only Harper’s raised eyebrow contradicted her. After she checked out, Lois ambled to the stamps for another look and Harper stared out the window, her gaze following South Dallas, the main drag of town. Flat as a ruler for miles, the road snaked like a ribbon when it reached Pine Cone Mountain. Farther up, blacktop turned into red dirt and dead-ended at a parking spot called Star Point. Maybe if the only movie screen in Pine Hills showed first-run rather than retro movies, or if the nearest bowling alley wasn’t forty miles away in Opossum Creek, or if Happy Lick’s Ice Cream Parlor didn’t close promptly at eight p.m., Harper wouldn’t have spent quite so many nights sneaking up there with Macon.

But Star Point had been irresistible, heaven on earth, with shady live oaks, mesquites and sycamores that cooled you even in the worst dog days of August. Miles from town, stars glittered like diamonds on black velvet in a jewelry store, looking so close that Harper always felt sure she could touch them. Atop that distant hill, so close to the stars—and just two months before Harper married Bruce—she and Macon made their baby.

Now she stared critically at Macon’s photo and reread the advertisement. “Thirty-four-year-old Texas cowboy wants to marry. Man comes complete with successful cattle ranch in Texas Hill Country and promises his bride her very own horse to ride.”

Feeling testy, Harper crossed her arms. “He makes Pine Hills sound like ‘Little House on the Prairie,”’ she muttered, pitying any poor, misinformed woman who might fall for the John Boy Walton routine. “At least until she meets him,” Harper whispered. “A horse,” she added, shaking her head. “Half the people in Texas don’t even know how to ride, so if some woman’s fool enough to marry you, Macon, why not just break down and give her a four-wheel drive?”

Lois was pushing through the door, on her way out. “Did you say something, Harper?”

Blushing, Harper shook her head. “Just talking to myself.”

“It’s only a problem when you start answering,” quipped Lois before the door closed.

The last thing Harper needed right now was words of wisdom from Lois Potts, but she politely nodded acknowledgment, then continued reading. “So, here’s the offer, ladies. Come to the Rock ’n’ Roll Ranch in Pine Hills, Texas, and be lulled by nature’s peace while you fall in love with both me and the old west. Enjoy the slow pace, deer and armadillos, hike the paths and fish and swim in the ponds. We’ve got a swimming pool, and I hope you love family atmosphere because you’ll be sharing a spacious rustic ranch house with your in-laws, Cam and Blanche McCann. So, write Macon McCann soon. This cowboy’s ready to be your loving husband now. But don’t forget, it’s first come, first served.”

It didn’t make sense. Macon had left Pine Hills sixteen years ago to pursue his dreams—and he’d never looked back. He’d never shown signs of marrying, either. And he wouldn’t marry a stranger, would he? Why, when he had so many dates?

Harper’s throat tightened as she edged aside the express envelope so she could look at the letters she’d stacked beside Texas Men. Sixteen responses to Macon’s advertisement had arrived this morning from all over the world. Most days, there were even more. It’s a simple process, she’d told herself this morning as she always did. Lift letter from mail pouch. Open post office box for Macon McCann. Place letter from wannabe bride into Macon McCann’s mailbox. Close mailbox.

Simple, yes. But Harper simply couldn’t force herself to give Macon the letters from all those women. Instead, she’d steamed them open and begun to read. Some letters made her laugh, some brought the sting of unshed tears to her eyes. Women had written from as far away as China, Russia and the Netherlands; all told stories of parents, lovers or husbands they wanted to leave, of war-torn countries from which they were desperate to escape or poverty-stricken conditions from which they sought refuge. They said they wanted a husband to help raise their children, or they wanted a taste of ranch life, but what they really wanted was somebody to love and somebody to love them back.

On a raw pull of feeling, Harper lifted a letter written painstakingly on wide-rule notebook paper. Youthfully rounded purple cursive letters looped in flourishes; large circles dotted the is.

Dear Mr. Macon McCann,

Your ranch sounds real pretty, and I want very much to be your bride. I promise I’m a nice person, from a good Christian home, but my family is mad at me right now because I got pregnant by accident. I thought of other options, but I’m going to keep this baby even though my boyfriend was lying when he said he loved me. I’m scared. I’m only seventeen, and we don’t have a lot of money since my daddy’s a shoeshine man at the airport. Please, Mr. McCann, if you don’t have anything against marrying an African American girl who’s just dropped out of school and is going to have a baby in two months, I hope you’ll write me soon. I hate my family right now and want to move away from Missouri. Even though I used to make straight As in school, I had to drop out because the girls I thought were my friends aren’t my friends anymore. They taped mean notes on my locker door. Isn’t it weird that the name of my home state “Missouri” sounds just like the word “misery?” Because that’s how I feel right now, just miserable, Mr. McCann. Please help me.

I know it’s too soon to say it, but I will, anyway,

Love, your future bride,

Chantal Morris

How selfish could Macon be? Harper wondered. Didn’t he realize he was leading on confused young girls who had nowhere to turn? Chantal Morris, like so many others who’d written since Macon placed the ad, was undoubtedly frightened out of her mind, and if she wasn’t careful, she might actually find herself at the mercy of Macon.

Which meant Harper’d better talk some sense into Chantal. After all—Harper lifted her eyes toward Star Point—she had been even younger than Chantal, only sixteen, when she and Macon conceived. Harper mulled over how many women he’d dated since his return from Houston—everybody from the new schoolteacher, Betsy, who was from Idaho, and Lois Potts, not to mention Nancy Ludell, a notorious gossip who lived at the end of Harper’s road and who was newly divorced and sticking to Macon like white on rice.

“Chantal Morris needs to graduate,” Harper whispered. “She’s not that much older than my son, and without her diploma, it’ll be even harder for her to take care of a baby.”

Tapping a pen against Chantal’s letter, Harper wondered how to help. Tampering with the U.S. mail was a federal offense, of course, but Harper was on the school board, and her donations did help outfit the Pine Hills Armadillos football team. Surely, she thought, the town fathers would help keep her out of prison if Macon ever got wind of what she was doing. Besides, fate would protect her, since her motives were pure. No, Chantal wasn’t the first misguided, underage girl who mistakenly thought she wanted to marry Macon. Harper had once made that mistake herself.

She reread Chantal’s letter slowly, frowning over every word, and then, assuring herself she was doing her civic duty, she lifted a sheet from the stationary box. The paper was pink and bubble-gum scented—that was unfortunate—but Chantal wouldn’t mind. Nor would the other women with whom Harper intended to correspond, sharing her experience, strength and hope concerning Macon. Shutting her eyes, Harper waited for inspiration and then began to write:

Dear Chantal,

From personal experience, I can imagine what a bad time you’re having in Missouri, so I hope you’ll take my advice: finish high school! You won’t regret keeping your baby, and your diploma will be of great help in the future. I gave birth to my baby just after I turned seventeen, and being a young mom was fun. Now, I wouldn’t have the energy! I’m thirty-three now, and this autumn my son is starting eleventh grade. For years, he’s been my greatest source of happiness. I know it will be the same for you. The right man will come along, so my advice is to stay strong. Don’t let those awful girls at school get you down. You’ve got to finish high school, have your baby and hold out for the man of your dreams!

Lifting the pen, Harper bit down on her lower lip as if that might stop the sudden lurch of her heart. Because she’d been double promoted, Harper had been younger than the other girls at school and, like Chantal, she hadn’t had many friends. She’d loved her husband—Harper really had—and yet…Cutting off the thought, she assured herself that what she’d felt for Macon had been girlish infatuation. She continued writing.

Chantal, fortunately for you, I’m reviewing the Texas Men respondents for Mr. McCann. You have a wonderful future ahead of you—I can feel it in my bones, sweetheart. But, believe me, that future is not in Pine Hills, Texas. Macon McCann is not the man for you, nor would he be a good father for your—or anyone else’s—baby….