Читать книгу Betting on the Cowboy - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 11

CHAPTER THREE

BREE DIDN’T CALL ahead to let Rowena know she was coming.

It wasn’t that she thought surprising her sister would be fun. Rowena was as likely to be irked by an unannounced visit as she was to be delighted. Bree didn’t call because, right up until the last minute, she couldn’t bring herself to commit to really, truly going to Bell River Ranch at all.

Every mile along the way, she kept assuring herself she could always change her mind. Drive away. Get back on an airplane and fly home to Boston.

But somehow merely saying that phrase, “home to Boston,” made her realize how little she belonged there, even after sixteen years. And so she didn’t turn around. She kept driving, from the Gunnison airport toward Silverdell, every minute bringing her closer to the one place in the world she had ever thought of as home.

And the one place in the world she’d ever thought of as hell.

She skirted Silverdell’s downtown area, not ready to be seen by anyone she used to know. Instead, she took the loop-around on what the locals called Mansion Street—though maps and strangers called it Callahan Circle. Bell River was the first ranch you encountered as you exited the city limits, so after she passed the elegant old Harper estate she knew she had only about two more miles to go.

Her heart beat faster, and she tightened her fingers on the wheel. Dread...or excitement? She no longer knew.

Man-made structures thinned out the minute she crossed the city line, giving way to open spaces, acre after acre of rolling country greening with spring. The occasional cow or horse gazed placidly at her as she coasted by, and a pair of brown falcons watched her sternly from a fence post, but for those two miles she didn’t see another human being.

And then, too soon, the acres that spread out beside the road were Bell River acres. She knew every undulation, every tree, as well as she knew the lines and pads of her own palm. The rippling pastures were achingly the same as they’d been twenty years ago when she’d ridden her bike home from elementary school along this same road.

The same—except better. Much, much better.

She hadn’t visited since the wedding four months ago. It had been winter, then—and Rowena had still been in the early, messy stages of renovations, the part of the process where you saw only the broken eggs, not the promise of the omelet.

Now it was April, the time when Colorado clouds began to lift, as if the tent of blue sky actually were being winched up higher and higher each day. The air felt fresh, green with sunshine and sweet breezes.

And the creation of the dude ranch was much further along. The first thing Bree noticed as she turned into the long front driveway was how well the grounds had been groomed. The palsied bristlecone pines on either side of the rickety front fence had been pruned up, as if by dancing masters obsessed with posture. The fence itself had had been replaced with a pair of scrolled wrought-iron gates that stood crisply open, smiling a glossy black welcome.

Muddy patches that once had pitted the fields on either side of the driveway had been converted to smooth carpets of emerald grass.

A few more yards and she got her first good look at the house, set like a jewel in its setting of sparkling white paddocks. It had been freshly painted pale green, with a brand-new hunter-green roof and a wide white porch trimmed in lush hanging baskets of ferns, ivy and lipstick-red geraniums.

Her foot almost stalled on the gas, and the rental car slowed to a crawl. “Wow,” she said to the empty car. Rowena had worked a miracle, considering how tight their budget was and how short the timetable.

It was gorgeous. No longer a downtrodden, half-neglected white elephant, but a home. Wholesome, peaceful and inviting. All the things the ranch had never been, even before their mother’s death.

Bree determined to make a point of telling her sister so. Maybe that would help break the ice...get them off on the right foot. She would show Rowena right away that she wasn’t here as judge, or spy, or critic. She was here as a friend.

As a sister.

Sister. As if the word were emotionally electrified, a frisson of fear sizzled through her. It had been a long time since she’d been comfortable with that word, at least in relation to Rowena.

She mustn’t let herself get carried away. While the ranch might look inviting, the “invitation” wasn’t designed for her. The beautiful scene was, quite literally, a stage set for an ad in a glossy brochure. The goal was to coax paying guests into booking their vacations here.

Her only incontestable credential was her status as co-owner of the soon-to-open enterprise. Her name, Brianna Allison Wright, was listed on those thick loan documents—loans that haunted her every time she thought about how big the numbers were.

She had every right to show up, with or without advance notice, if only to check on the renovations and see how her money was being spent.

Besides, about twenty windows overlooked this front driveway, so she probably had already been spotted. She hit the gas again, pulled around to the back of the house where a nicely landscaped parking lot had been created and slipped the car into a space.

Then, squaring her shoulders, she got out.

She left her suitcase in the trunk, though. She still felt more comfortable having an escape, just in case. She could pretend she had just stopped by to say hi. She could say she had a reservation in Aspen, or Crested Butte, or anywhere, to...to do...

Something else. Anything else. In case Ro made it clear Bree wasn’t welcome to stay here.

She climbed quickly onto the back porch and made her way to the door, which used to open onto a laundry room, but now, she knew, would lead into the expanded kitchen. She smelled coffee, so she knew Rowena was up, even though it was only a little after eight.

All three sisters had always been early risers. Work on a ranch started before the sun came up, and their father wouldn’t have tolerated sleeping in.

Eventually, being early birds had been more than a pattern—it had been in their blood. In all the years Bree had lived on the East Coast, she’d never truly adjusted to night-owl hours. Charlie had often laughed at her, saying they should have called the company “Cinderella’s” instead of “Breelie’s.” What a joke, a high-society event coordinator who started yawning at midnight!

“Watch out! Hey, lady! Watch out!”

Startled out of her thoughts, Bree frowned. The child’s shrill voice seemed to be trying to pierce through a cacophony of noise—a hectic tizzy of clucking, barking, screeching, fluttering and stomping. Bree grabbed the doorknob instinctively, as if she might have to flee inside the house, and wheeled around to see what on earth...

Good grief! The area behind her whirled with an onslaught of motion. Inexplicably, about a dozen chickens squawked toward her, frantic and brainless, running into each other comically, stumbling over the stairs as they stormed them, feathers flying. Behind the chickens, a glossy brown puppy galloped in ecstatic pursuit. Its long tongue waved like a wet, pink ribbon from its idiotic grin, its soft ears lifted like furry propellers and its gigantic feet churned up contrails of dust in its path.

Behind the puppy, a boy thundered across the grass, trying to catch up, one hand waving to get her attention, the other recklessly swinging a big straw basket.

It was Alec, Rowena’s high-strung stepson. Bree didn’t have to look twice. She recognized immediately the mop of thick blond hair and the half devil, half angel charm of the skinny, suntanned face.

“Lady, watch out for the chickens!”

Without thinking, Bree twisted the knob and the door swung open in her hand. She wasn’t entirely sure why she did that. She didn’t exactly need to plunge to safety behind the refrigerator, or beg her big sister for help. She couldn’t possibly think a flock of dithering chickens, a slobbering puppy and a nine-year-old imp posed a significant physical threat.

But, jangled, she did it anyhow—and the result of her actions could have been predicted. The chickens streamed through the escape route the open door offered, and the puppy followed joyously, dirt and all.

“Oh, no,” she said, thinking they were the most useless words in the English language, and annoyed with herself for being paralyzed by the ridiculous farce.

The imp pounded up the stairs, pausing just long enough to give her a disgusted look. “Great,” he said, staring gloomily through the open door. “Brilliant.” Then he took a deep breath and continued the chase inside.

After that, what could Bree do but follow? Maybe she could stop being so fuzzy-minded and help....

But it was too late. In his attempt to catch the puppy, Alec had overturned his basket, and the shining new tiles of the kitchen floor suddenly seemed covered in shining yellow glop, disgustingly dotted with islands of white shards.

Oh, no. He had obviously been gathering the chicken eggs. Judging from the wet mess, his basket must have been full of them. As Bree watched in horror, he slipped in the goo and thudded hard on the floor, face down. The puppy ran two demented circles around him, just enough to get its paws thoroughly coated in raw egg, then streaked off to share the excitement with the rest of the house.

Alec lifted his face, his chin seeming to drip lumpy yellow gore. He narrowed his prematurely handsome blue eyes, and opened his mouth as if to say something heartfelt. But then his jaw went slack. “Bree?”

She smiled weakly. “Hi.”

“Alec, what the...?” An irritable male voice boomed from around the corner. The sound was followed immediately by its owner, a shirtless, golden-haired god wearing only a pair of half-buttoned, low-riding blue jeans and a few white tufts of shaving cream missed by a recent razor.

Or, as other people knew him, Dallas Garwood. The sheriff of Silverdell County. Rowena’s hunky new husband.

“Why the devil are the chickens in the house?” Dallas’s attention was at first focused exclusively on his son, who still sprawled on the floor, wearing a goatee of egg yolk. “Oh, hell, Alec. Is that the eggs?”

“It’s not my fault, Dad,” Alec protested vehemently. He tried to scramble to his feet, but the slippery floor defeated him, and he couldn’t get any higher than a kneeling position. “I totally had it under control, no problem. Then she went and opened the door.”

She would have paid a king’s ransom, at that moment, to fall through a trapdoor in the floor.

But in spite of the extensive renovations, apparently no one had thought to add an escape hatch. She could only wait in mute misery as Dallas frowned, turned and finally saw her. She still stood by the front door, her hand on the knob as if magnetized to it.

His blue eyes, so like his son’s, widened. “Bree?”

“I’m sorry,” she said, though she wasn’t sure which part she was apologizing for. For opening the door and letting the livestock into the house, for catching him half dressed or for having the dumb idea to come to Bell River in the first place.

“You...you did this?”

“Well. I did open the door,” she admitted. Then she shook her head helplessly. “To be honest, I have no idea what just happened. It’s all a bit of a blur.”

“I can believe that.” To her surprise, he grinned, and then he began to laugh. “Welcome to Bell River, Bree. Around here, the forecast is always sunny with a ninety percent chance of Alec.”

Without the least sign of self-consciousness, he crossed the rivulets of egg, avoiding them as much as he could, and wrapped her in a warm hug.

“How fantastic that you came. Ro will be thrilled.” He turned to his son. “You start cleaning this mess up, Alec. I’ll go see if I can corral the circus.”

“What circus?” Rowena suddenly appeared on the other side of the large, walk-in freezer. She was smiling, but she looked exhausted, as if the preparation for the soft opening had worn her out. She was also dirty...a real mess, and at first Bree thought she’d somehow become tangled in the chicken-puppy-egg fiasco.

When Ro drew closer, though, Bree could see that she must have been gardening. Her hands were covered in earth, her cheeks smudged and dirty and the knees of her clover-green jeans were black. About half her long dark hair was clipped back with a green barrette, but the rest was in disarray, wisps clinging to the perspiration on her temples, her collarbone and her damp T-shirt.

“Alec!” Smile fading, Rowena scanned the chaos. Then she turned to Dallas, which led her green-eyed gaze to Bree. Her dramatic eyebrows drew together. “Bree? What are you doing here?”

The minute she said it, she seemed to realize it had come out wrong, because she bit her lower lip and shot a self-conscious glance at her husband.

“I mean...” She tried in vain to swipe some of the dirty, damp hair from her face. “I’m glad you’re here, whatever the reason. I am just sorry you’ve caught us...in such a state.”

Bree shook her head. “No, it’s my fault. I should have called ahead, or made a reservation or something. I should have given you some warning.”

“Warning?” Dallas laughed, and his easy charm smoothed over what was rapidly becoming a very bumpy conversational road. “To stay in your own home? Wouldn’t that be kind of silly? Besides, advance notice probably wouldn’t have helped. We always seem to be in crisis mode these days. Although—” he transferred his wry smile to his son “—I have to admit the eggs are a special touch. How about you get going cleaning these up, kiddo?”

“Yes, sir,” the boy muttered, his tone just the safe side of polite, but his face sour as he surveyed the chore. He rolled his eyes, then bent forward and plucked a large, curved piece of eggshell from the stew and chucked it into the sink just over his head.

In the distance, the puppy began to bark frantically, followed by the crazed clucking of chickens. Dallas groaned. “I think that’s my cue.”

He put his arm around Bree’s shoulder and hugged her lightly. “See you tonight,” he said, as if he took it for granted that she would be staying. “Your suitcases are in the car, I guess. Don’t bring them in. Barton will be here in an hour or so, and he’ll be glad to do it.”

Bree nodded. When she’d been in town for the wedding, she’d met their general manager, a courtly older man named Barton James who used to own a successful dude ranch in Crested Butte. It was probably true that he’d be glad to help. He had come out of retirement because he couldn’t stand being idle.

Dallas smiled, as if to reassure Bree one more time that she was welcome. Then he stepped to Rowena and kissed her hard on the lips, apparently not in the least deterred by her dirt-smudged face and sweaty hair.

Bree looked away from the intimacy of that simple touch, and her gaze met Alec’s. He rolled his eyes again, eloquently, with all the disgust a nine-year-old could express for the mushiness of adults.

“Might as well get used to it,” he said morosely, extricating another bit of eggshell. “They’re like this all the time.”

Then the doorbell rang.

Rowena pulled free of Dallas’s embrace, though she kept one hand against his naked chest, as if she couldn’t bear to lose the connection entirely. Her head turned sharply toward the front of the house.

“Oh, my God. Has my interview showed up early?” She glanced at the clock on the stove just behind Alec and moaned. “Oh, no. It can’t be. It’s not really eight-thirty?”

“It’s really eight-thirty,” Dallas said. “I’m sorry. I should have warned you it was getting late. You always lose track of time out there.”

Rowena had begun brushing her palms together, as if she might be able to whisk away the crusting of soil, but her hands remained shadowed with dirt. She touched her chin, checking for dirt there, but she seemed to realize she was only making matters worse.

“I need a shower. I can’t interview anyone like this, but especially not—”

“I’ll let him in,” Dallas offered quickly.

But Rowena shook her head. “You’re half-naked, and you know you two have never really gotten along. Besides, you’re on chicken duty.”

“I’ll do it,” Alec piped up eagerly, trying to clamber to his feet, but once again finding it difficult. Apparently even playing butler seemed exciting compared to mopping egg gunk off the floor.

“You most certainly will not.” Dallas held up his hands emphatically to freeze his son in place. “You’re the most disreputable member of the family right now. And that’s saying something.”

“I can let him in,” Bree heard herself saying. She felt a little like Alec, jumping at the chance to leave the room rather than continue an awkward encounter. But her event-planner side had kicked in, and her intervention was the only answer that made sense.

The doubt in Rowena’s eyes wasn’t exactly flattering. “Bree, I couldn’t ask you to—”

“You’re not asking. I’m volunteering. I promise I won’t blow your chance to hire this guy, whoever he is. This is the kind of work I do all the time. I’ll handle the meet and greet, then dance him around a little, maybe tour the property while you guys pull it together in here.”

The doorbell rang again.

“That would be terrific. Thanks, Bree.” Dallas nodded toward Rowena, who still frowned, obviously uncertain. “You shower, Ro. I’ll get the chickens. Alec will fix the kitchen.” He impaled the boy with a sharp glance. “Or else.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Like any good salesman, Bree took the yes as final. She dropped her purse on the counter and picked her way carefully toward the great room on the other side of the kitchen. “Oh...I guess I should know which job this guy’s applying for.”

Rowena hesitated. “Assistant social director. Part time. Thirty hours. Minimum wage.”

Pretty menial job, Bree thought, to be causing such a stir. So what if he didn’t like Ro’s grubby fingernails or a little chicken poop in the hall? If he got scared off, so what? Surely qualified candidates for that job were easy to find.

“All right,” she said neutrally, determined not to show her confusion. She wasn’t here to criticize, remember? She had to stop forgetting that, stop lapsing into her old ways. This was Ro’s dream, Ro’s decision, Ro’s hire. “And his name?”

Rowena blinked, her dark lashes shadowing her green eyes. She opened her mouth, closed it, then blinked again. The doorbell sounded its two-note call a third time, which apparently agitated the chickens, who were closer now, close enough that Bree could hear the flutter of wings above their clucking.

“I probably should know his name, Ro.”

“Of course.” With one deep breath, Rowena seemed to snap out of her weird spell as quickly as she’d fallen into it. “Actually, you know him, or at least you used to. Remember...remember old man Harper’s grandson, Gray?”

Bree frowned. Everyone remembered Gray Harper. The bad and beautiful new kid in town. Part jokester, part heartbreaker—all trouble. The heir to the Harper Quarry millions who had become a local legend when he kissed the money goodbye rather than, as he put it, kiss his grandfather’s “arrogant ass.”

“Gray Harper? Applying to be your part-time assistant social director? You’re kidding, right?”

Rowena shook her head. “Nope. Sorry. Still want to dance him around?”

“I...well, sure,” Bree said with a careful smile. No judging, remember? No criticizing. And definitely no being afraid of a formerly snotty teenager who probably wouldn’t even remember what he did to her. “Of course.”

She left the room, determined to reach the foyer before he pressed the bell again. She smoothed her skirt and checked her hair in the hall mirror. Everything tidy. She’d do fine.

But honestly...what was Rowena thinking?

Gray Harper?