Читать книгу Betting on the Cowboy - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

WHILE ROWENA WENT over the payroll paperwork with Gray, Bree decided to head up to her room and regroup. In the early planning stages, they’d all agreed that one of the upstairs rooms should be set aside for family, always to be left unrented, in case Penny or Bree wanted to visit.

The sister suite, Penny had called it. Because of its size, the space they’d chosen was Rowena’s old room. All the upstairs bedrooms had been subdivided to create more guest space. In this one spot, though, they hadn’t formed two separate rooms, but one suite with a connected sitting area and a bedroom.

Bree entered slowly. In the old days Rowena had been possessive about her private sanctuary. Her younger sisters had been forbidden to enter without permission, which she rarely granted. Even now, the remnants of inhibition were so strong that Bree felt odd waltzing in as if she belonged there.

Once in, Bree almost imagined she could detect a hint of Balenciaga Paris in the air. Rowena had received a bottle of the expensive perfume from some secret admirer that Christmas—the last they’d ever celebrated in Silverdell.

Ro had pretended to scoff at girly things like perfume, insisting that she preferred natural scents...wildflowers, the wind coming off the river or rain. But Penny, who sometimes crawled into one of her sister’s beds after a nightmare, had innocently told Bree that she chose Rowena now, because Ro always smelled of the pretty perfume while she slept. Ro had denied it, but she had clearly felt embarrassed and exposed. She’d been huffy, even with Penny, for days.

Bree knew the smell was only her imagination, of course. Old ghosts were stirring.

She went to the window of the sitting room. It overlooked the back parking lot, but it also had a peaceful view of the misty salmon-and-sapphire-tinted mountain line in the distance, and the view called to her. The physical beauty was shockingly different from anything in Boston, and at the same time it was deeply, hauntingly familiar.

She was still standing there when Gray and Rowena came strolling outside, their paperwork obviously completed. She moved an inch to the right so that the curtain veiled her, embarrassed to be caught watching.

But she needn’t have worried. Neither Rowena nor Gray looked up toward the second-floor windows. They seemed completely engrossed in their conversation. Bree couldn’t make out words, but occasionally Rowena pointed to various buildings, as if describing the activities planned on the property. Gray occasionally pointed, too, clearly adding suggestions of his own.

Lots of nodding and smiling, interspersed with laughter. They seemed to communicate awfully well for people who hadn’t seen each other in more than a decade.

But then, Gray had chatted comfortably with Bree, too, in spite of their touchy history. Obviously the man possessed formidable people skills. He always had, even in high school, which was probably what had allowed him to be so rough and rebellious without ending up expelled or slapped in jail.

Leaning easily against the driver’s door of his white truck now, he suddenly tilted his head back and laughed at something Rowena said. Bree smiled wryly, aware of a quick, supremely female reaction deep in her own body.

Okay, so it wasn’t just his people skills that gave him power. He was also dangerously sexy. His body was a six-four, athletic arrangement of rippled muscles and animal grace. She wondered what he did for a living, when he wasn’t in Silverdell, trying to vacuum out his grandfather’s wallet. Did he do some kind of serious labor? Or did he simply live at the gym?

And his face...she studied it now, trying to pinpoint where exactly its appeal lay. His golden-brown whisker stubble, square jaw and sun-weathered smile lines were all male, hinting at long days on horseback or wielding a jackhammer. But his lush eyelashes, the waves of chestnut hair that tumbled over his broad forehead and those sensually bowed lips belonged in an art gallery, a pirate ship or an eighteenth-century duchess’s boudoir.

Above the rest, his intelligent, honey-brown eyes simply said he found the whole question absurd. He was who he was.

Finally, he pulled his keys out of his pocket and beeped open the truck’s auto lock. For the first time, Bree actually paid attention to his vehicle. It was nice, a shiny new model, but somehow she’d expected something glitzier. Like maybe a purring silver Jag with a vanity plate that read GRAYT.

He and Rowena hugged goodbye—Bree couldn’t help shaking her head at that. When had her prickly older sister developed a warm fuzzy side? Then he climbed into the truck’s cab, cranked the engine, executed a deft three-point turn and guided it out of the parking lot and around the house, heading back to the main street.

She wondered where he was staying...and where he would stay, once he reported for work. Phase One of the dude ranch had included creating staff quarters out of the old stable, but she had the impression that, with at least a dozen employees already hired, those bunks were full.

Minutes later, she heard a low rap at her door. She braced herself, assuming that Rowena had come to finish their argument. She moved from the window and shot a glance into the dresser mirror to be sure she didn’t look frazzled.

“Come in,” she called, trying to sound as benign as possible. She didn’t want to fight with Ro. She’d come to Bell River for one reason only...to see if she could start repairing their relationship. The last thing in the world she wanted was to add to the destruction.

But when Rowena entered, her body language was surprisingly relaxed. Bree had always imagined she could see invisible sparks shooting from her sister when she was angry, but she sensed nothing like that now. Nothing but the fatigue she’d noticed earlier.

Apparently Rowena came in peace. Bree hadn’t realized she’d been clenching her midsection until the muscles released.

“I showed myself around up here,” she said quickly, determined to start right. “Everything looks fabulous, Ro. You’ve done a masterful job with the guest rooms.”

Rowena’s smile broadened. “It did turn out well, didn’t it? I had a lot of help. Did you know that Cindy Sedgwick got two-thirds of the way through architecture school before she found herself pregnant with twins and had to come home to marry Joey Incanto?”

Bree only vaguely remembered who Cindy Sedgwick was, but she made an impressed face, anyhow. “Cindy designed the rooms for you?”

“Yes, and the new guest cottages, too.” Rowena glanced at her watch. “I don’t have another interview until eleven-thirty, so I could give you a tour, if you’d like. I figure you might as well see them now, before guests come in and the Trash Clock starts.”

Bree chuckled, but to be honest, the joke surprised her. That had been one of their father’s favorite lines. He’d always complained that he’d rather postpone buying new equipment as long as he could, because the minute he made the purchase the Trash Clock began ticking, and the new stuff started turning to garbage that would, in its turn, have to be replaced.

Was Rowena really ready to start quoting their father’s cranky humor so casually? But then Bree corrected herself. Ro wasn’t quoting their father—just Bree’s. Rowena had found out last year that mad murderer Johnny Wright’s DNA didn’t match hers in any way.

Zero percent probability that Johnny was Rowena’s real dad.

To which Bree and Penny had said...lucky Ro. Penny had no hope of a similar reprieve, because she was Johnny Wright’s spitting image. But Bree had sent a sample of her DNA off, too, crossing her fingers and saying a prayer.

Her results had been very different. Percent probability of a match? Ninety-nine percent.

Unfortunately, she was the old bastard’s daughter through and through, and she’d simply have to live with that. Must be where her grudging, judgmental streak came from, and her difficulty trusting anybody.

But, damn it, DNA wasn’t destiny. She was her own person, and if she wanted to be more tolerant and trusting, then she could make it happen. Starting right now.

“I’d love to see the cottages,” she said.

For the next hour, her positive attitude was easy to maintain. Four new guest cottages—one that slept six, one that slept four and two smaller units that slept two—had been built as part of Phase One. And each cottage was a perfect jewel.

She loved every detail. She loved their names...River Run, River Song, River Moon and River Rock. She adored their quaint exterior styles, each one unique—some quaint, like fairy-tale storybook cottages, some rustic, like log cabins, and some a hybrid of the two.

And she adored the floor plans, which all included great rooms with big windows overlooking the stunning views. Even the interior decorating was perfect, cozy without being cliché.

Kudos to Cindy Sedgwick. And, of course, to Rowena.

No wonder Ro looked tired. Having staged so many events, Bree understood that every room in every cottage represented about a hundred decisions to make, a hundred details to oversee. She was deeply impressed and didn’t pass up any opportunity to say so.

Even cynical Rowena, whose antennae had always been finely tuned to detect empty flattery, was glowing under the effusive compliments by the time they stopped at the last cottage.

“Enough.” She smiled, holding out her hand. “I believe you’re sincere right now, but one more and I’ll start to think you’re blowing smoke.”

Bree laughed. “Okay. Nothing but insults from this moment on.”

She could hardly keep that promise, though. River Moon, built right at the edge of one of the small creek offshoots of Bell River, was a storybook charmer. This cottage, with its round blue door, steeply pitched, sloping roof and climbing yellow roses, would probably be used as the honeymoon suite. Phase Two included marketing the ranch for destination weddings.

They wandered through the adorable rooms, all the way to the sunny bedroom at the back.

“Oh, this quilt is—” But somehow Bree bit her tongue, holding back the word fabulous.

Rowena smiled, shaking her head. “I mean it, Bree. Enough.”

But the quilt, which had been draped over a Bentwood rocker, was fabulous. Bree ran her hand over the intricate blue-and-yellow pattern of entwined hearts. Each cottage bedroom had its own signature antique quilt, the one theme that ran through all four cottages, but this was the most beautiful of them all.

If Bree had wanted to say something less fawning, she might have voiced the one doubt that had niggled at her throughout the tour. Were the interior decorations maybe almost too beautiful?

Too beautiful for their tight budget, anyhow.

But obviously she didn’t utter a peep about that. She might have reached her limit of compliments, but she hadn’t reached the point at which she could dare to express a criticism.

Besides, Ro wasn’t exactly a shopaholic. She wouldn’t have spent the money if she hadn’t thought it was important. Bree forced the worry from her mind, and instead strolled the perimeter of the airy room, drinking in the romance of every charming detail.

“This may be my favorite of all the cottages. That’s not a compliment,” she hastened to add. “Just a fact. Just a personal preference. The colors...the creek. I don’t know, something just appeals to me.”

“I thought it might,” Rowena said. She lowered herself onto the rocker and leaned her head back against the quilt with a sigh, as if she didn’t get to sit down very often these days. “I used the colors from your old room. Remember?”

Bree scanned the area with new eyes. She hadn’t noticed it before, but now... Her childhood bedroom had once been painted this exact shade of powder blue, and her canopy bed had been trimmed in bluebell-daffodil patterned linens that she had loved with an innocent, absolute passion. She’d felt like a fairy princess in that room.

“I’d forgotten,” she said softly. “I can’t believe it, but I’d actually forgotten.”

Once the floodgates were open, she felt the memory rush through her. She suddenly saw Rowena and their mother, arguing quietly at the Mill End store in downtown Gunnison. Ro had tucked a bolt of flower-sprigged fabric under her arm with the grim tenacity of a quarterback protecting a football.

Ro couldn’t have been more than nine years old at the time, because Bree had been eight when she got her dream room. But the determination on Rowena’s face was intense and unshakable, far beyond her years.

“You helped me pick out that print,” Bree said suddenly. “You talked Mom into buying it for me, even though it was much too expensive. And I know you couldn’t have liked it, really. It wasn’t your style at all.”

Rowena had shut her eyes, but she was smiling, as if her mind’s eye had summoned the pictures, too. “You should have seen the look on your face. Clearly, you were going to curl up and die if you didn’t get it. Whether or not I liked it was irrelevant.”

Bree remembered that. Somehow, her future had seemed to depend on the sweet, feminine flowers in that bolt of fabric. She had believed with all her heart that if her room looked like that she would always be happy. If her room looked any other way, if her bed was draped in any other material, she would be forever unrealized.