Читать книгу The Rancher's Dream - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 13

CHAPTER FIVE

“I MUST SAY, Campbell, you are a lucky man.” Stefan Hopler shoved his hands into the pockets of his elegant linen khakis as they slowly strolled back to the ranch house from the stables, a full moon lighting their way almost as clearly as high noon.

Grant wondered what Hopler meant exactly—if he meant anything at all. Was it just flattery—to soften him up for bargaining over the horse?

Somehow he didn’t think so. The man’s tone sounded genuine.

And why shouldn’t it be? Hopler didn’t know anything about Grant’s history—he knew nothing about his dead wife, Brenda, or the little girl they’d once had...Jeannie.

Hopler didn’t even know that Grant hadn’t always been a rancher, that once, like Kevin, he’d been a young, ambitious lawyer—and that the career dream had died along with his family.

All Hopler knew was what he’d seen here today. The beautiful acreage of Campbell Ranch, greened by the rain and bejeweled with wildflowers. The renovated stables, the well-trained staff. The extraordinary filly who exuded star power as Barley put her through her paces.

All of that did, indeed, make Grant a lucky man. Even so, he had an irritable feeling Hopler wasn’t talking about any of those things. He’d bet good money Hopler was talking about the gorgeous woman who had just cooked them a gourmet dinner.

Hopler’s date, Elsa, hadn’t made the trip from California with him, after all. In fact, Hopler had broadly hinted that his couple days were over. And Elsa’s absence meant he felt free to compliment Crimson effusively on everything from the Stroganoff to her perfume.

The flirting had been so thick it irritated the heck out of Grant. He’d had to bite his tongue a couple of times to avoid reminding Hopler that he was there to buy a horse, not a girlfriend.

Not that the compliments weren’t deserved. Crimson hadn’t been kidding about giving the man a meal he wouldn’t forget. The food had been almost mystically delicious...and, beyond all that, she had presided over his table with so much wit and charm that by the time she offered them dessert, even Hopler, who was clearly a ladies’ man, had looked a little dazed.

“Thanks,” Grant said now, trying not to sound as tight-lipped as he felt. They’d left Crimson in the ranch house cleaning up after dinner while they walked out to give Hopler one last look at Dawn. He was pretty sure Hopler was ready to close the deal, and he was determined not to spoil it now. “The ranch is a lot of work, but I love it.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean the ranch,” Hopler said, smiling. “No, no, the property is beautiful and your horses are beautiful. But your real treasure is your woman. Is it serious between you?”

For a minute, Grant wanted to say yes. Hell, yes. So back off. He had an irrational urge to stake a Private Property sign on Crimson.

But he remembered her tears, streaming down her cheeks unchecked as she sat vigil beside Kevin’s hospital bed this morning. She was private property, all right. But not his. The Keep Out sign applied to Grant every bit as much as it applied to Hopler.

Besides, she wasn’t the easy-fling type—and Grant didn’t have anything else to offer a woman. His heart had been hollowed out like a melon three years ago, when Brenda and Jeannie died. He’d come to Silverdell almost immediately after, driven by some instinct to carve out a new life. A physical, exhausting, completely different life.

And he’d done all right with that part. The ranch was distracting, the horses rewarding. He was too busy to mourn all day, too tired to grieve all night.

But when it came to things like love and family and forever, he was stuck in a frozen half-life as much as any comatose man in a hospital bed.

“No, we’re not together,” he heard himself saying instead. “She’s a friend. She’s actually dating a buddy of mine. Molly’s father.”

Hopler had met Molly earlier, of course. Crimson had put the baby to bed just before dinner, and miraculously persuaded her to sleep through all three courses.

“Molly’s father.” The man took a minute to digest that. “You mean the one who is in the hospital now?”

Grant nodded. He didn’t like Hopler’s tone. It sounded as if he were weighing his odds, and liked the news that his chief competition was in a coma.

“What time did you say your flight back to LA leaves?” Grant’s bum foot caught on an oak tree root, and he grunted irritably as pain shot up his leg. Thank goodness he didn’t fall. “We probably should talk about Dawn, if you’re interested in buying her.”

Not subtle, he knew, but that was too darn bad. He was tired, and he was hurting, and he wasn’t feeling subtle. He was feeling pissed, actually.

His dislike of Hopler was irrational and unfair—he admitted that. The man seemed perfectly respectable, and naturally Grant had checked him out before inviting him to discuss the horse. His only sins were being too handsome, too rich and too acquisitive.

But damn it. Wasn’t it enough that he planned to take Grant’s best filly away from Campbell Ranch? He had to start auditioning Crimson for a role in his cushy Hollywood life, too?

“Oh, I’m definitely interested,” Hopler said, pausing as they reached the back porch.

Crimson was visible through the kitchen window. She stood at the sink, scrubbing a pot. She bent over her chore, her shoulders working rhythmically and a wisp of hair dangling into her face. Clearly annoyed by it, she pursed her lips and blew upward, trying to make the silky brown curl behave. The curl lifted, but it dropped into the same place no matter how many times she puffed.

Finally, she laughed. Shaking her head, she lifted her sudsy fingers from the dishwater, and tucked the lock behind her ear. When she lowered her hand again, a frothy dollop of suds remained, sparkling on her earlobe.

Grant could almost feel Hopler’s heartbeat quickening.

“Wow.” The man’s voice was reverent, as if he’d stumbled on a unicorn. “Imagine. A woman who looks like that, cooks like that and then laughs while she’s doing the dishes.”

At first, Grant didn’t respond. He found the description offensively reductive. Crimson was so much more than some Stepford paper doll. She was quirkier, more independent, more difficult and mysterious and real.

She was so much more interesting than some misogynistic millionaire’s Donna Reed fantasy.

Hopler sighed. “I honestly didn’t know women like that still existed.”

Grant felt his nerves prickling. “They don’t. She laughs only when she feels like laughing. When she feels bitchy, she cusses like a sailor and breaks the cups. Sometimes she just tells us to do our own damn dishes.”

“Even better,” Hopler said, unperturbed. He turned toward Grant, his expression quizzical. “But remind me again...which one of you is dating her?”

* * *

CRIMSON HAD KNOWN there would be a price to pay for Molly’s long nap during dinner. And sure enough, at about 3:00 a.m. the baby began to squirm and whimper.

Crimson rose quickly, hoping to calm Molly before she began to cry in earnest. She knew Grant needed a good night’s sleep.

She could use one, too—but that didn’t seem likely. Though she’d been lying in bed for several hours, she hadn’t been able to doze off.

The Hopler dinner had been both exciting and disturbing, and her mind was racing. Her thoughts circled restlessly until they tied themselves in knots.

So she was glad of a distraction—and the comforting warmth of the baby’s body against her shoulder. Strange how much companionship an infant could provide.

And funny how not being isolated anymore could make her realize just how horribly lonely she’d been this past year. She’d been born two minutes before Clover, and those were the only two minutes in her life she’d ever been truly alone—until the night Clover died.

She hugged Molly tightly as she moved toward the changing table, which gleamed in the moonlight.

“Hush, honey,” she whispered. “We’ll get a clean diaper and a nice warm bottle.”

Molly subsided, understanding the promise in Crimson’s tone, if not her words. When Crimson laid her back against the cushioned plastic of the changing table, she kicked her feet a couple of times. She found her fingers and began to suck noisily.

Crimson moved quickly. She was learning Molly’s rhythms, and she knew that, after about a minute or so, the baby would realize the fingers provided nothing to fill her tummy, and she’d start to fret angrily, as if someone had tricked her.

She had just finished heating the bottle when Grant appeared in the doorway.

“Hey,” he said, rubbing his fingers across the stubble on his chin. “You must be exhausted. How about if I help with that?”

Her hand went instinctively to her hair, which once again must be sticking out everywhere. All that tossing and turning...she probably looked as if she’d stuck her finger in a light socket.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Sorry we woke you. I was hoping you could get some sleep. I know you’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

He yawned, as if in confirmation, but he moved into the room, anyhow. He wore soft blue-gray sweatpants and a gray T-shirt. His hair was tousled, too.

“I mean it. Let me help. I’m tired of feeling useless. If I sit in the rocker, I can feed her with one arm.”

She hesitated, but he was already arranging himself in the mission-style wooden rocker over by the window. It was a large, manly piece of furniture, beautiful in its simplicity, and terrifically comfortable. When Kevin moved in, Grant had commissioned Jude Calhoun, a local woodworker, to make it to match the bedroom set already in the guest room.

When Crimson had first heard about the handmade rocker, she’d thought it sounded extravagant, especially since Kevin and Molly were obviously temporary guests, and Grant had no need for such a thing. But over the past week she’d learned what a work of genius it was. Quiet, roomy, with great back support and perfectly placed arms that helped support an infant for hours at a stretch.

Almost every night this week, both Crimson and Molly had fallen asleep in that chair.

“Surely she’s in no danger,” Grant said, glancing up at her with a smile that said he knew she doubted his ability to hang on to a squirming baby. “Not if I’m sitting down, and you’re standing guard.”

“Of course she’s not...” But even so she waited, watching him brace his elbow on the rocker’s arm. He let his casted forearm slant down toward his lap. That cast was as hard as a chalky rock, which she knew from bumping into it several times this week. No way Molly would fall asleep on a bed of unforgiving plaster.