Читать книгу Run to Me - Lauren Nichols - Страница 8

The lies were getting easier to tell.

Hiding a stab of guilt, Erin Fallon carried her nearly three-year-old daughter out of Amos Perkins’s sturdy clapboard home to his porch, then held the wooden screen door for Amos. Once, a lie would have died on her tongue; her father’s cheating had hurt her mother so badly, Erin grew up with a deep respect for the truth. But for the past year, honesty had had to take a back seat to survival.

Christie’s warm breath and sweet baby whisper bathed Erin’s ear. “I’n firsty, Mommy.”

“We’ll get some juice in a minute, sweetheart,” she returned quietly, then shifted her attention back to her new employer.

Amos winced with exertion as he stepped over the threshold and onto the porch, then drew a few labored breaths. He continued the conversation they’d begun inside the house. “Then yer okay with the pay?”

“It’s more than generous, Mr. Perkins. Thank you.” The money was a godsend. Buying the first van had seriously depleted her funds, then, when in fear, she’d traded the white Ford Windstar in on an older vehicle, there’d been no refund. Not that she cared. Now she had an anonymous-looking gray van that few people would notice.

“’Course, your room and meals are included,” Amos continued, his wispy gray hair lifting in the early-June breeze. His cane thumped hollowly on the plank floor as he moved past two Adirondack chairs and an old green-and-yellow glider to brace himself against a porch post. “How soon can you ladies start?”

Alarmed that he would lose his footing so close to the steps, Erin put Christie down and wandered to Amos’s side. “As soon as you like. Everything we need is in the van.”

His startled look drew a smile from Erin. “Christie and I travel light, Mr. Perkins.”

“Call me Amos. And I s’pose now’s as good a time as any to start.” He nodded down the sloping hill to his right, indicating an old but well-kept barn, a split-rail corral and two small outbuildings. Beyond them a pasture stretched to meet a wall of Ponderosa pines, and in the distance the majestic San Francisco peaks rose triumphantly against the summer-blue sky.

“Like I said,” he repeated, “it ain’t much of a ranch. We run a few steers and horses for our own use. Couple-a cats to keep the mice busy.”

Christie clung to her leg, and Erin reached down to stroke her fine black hair. “It’s beautiful here.”

“We like it.” Amos’s brow furrowed. “You should know, not much happens here in High Hawk. We’re a whole twenty miles from Flagstaff—don’t have none of them nightclubs like you folks have back East. That gonna be a problem for you?”

Erin nearly laughed at the irony. After the scare they’d had in Maine, they desperately wanted and needed the seclusion. “Not at all. Christie and I like it quiet.”

“Good. You’ll get a lot of that here.” He jabbed his cane to the left, indicating the fairly new, light-golden-brown log home she’d noticed when she’d arrived. It was less than a hundred yards away, surrounded by trees and greenery, and separated from Amos’s home by a small, sun-spangled pond. “Go ahead and move your stuff into my grandson’s place.” A faint grumble entered his tone. “Lord knows he ain’t usin’ it. Since my stroke, he’s been hauntin’ my house.”

Amos’s tone evened out. “You’ll have more room over there, anyways. When we advertised for a live-in housekeeper, we didn’t figure on a young’un. Truth is,” he went on, “this housekeeper nonsense is his idea. I did just fine before the stroke, and I do just fine now.”

Erin smiled, but she could see that wasn’t so. Though his folksy speech hadn’t been affected—or if it had, he’d recovered—Amos’s right leg was weak, and the responsibility of running his general store in addition to his home chores was undoubtedly more than he could handle.

She glanced again at the sprawling log home with its deep wraparound porch, suddenly uneasy. “Mr…. Amos. Are you sure your grandson’s all right with us staying in his home? That is, did you mention it when you phoned him earlier?”

“If the boy’s gonna insist I get another housekeeper, he’ll hafta put up with the rest of it.”

“Then…I’m the second? Third?” And what had happened to her predecessors?

“Second and last,” Amos grumbled again. “First one had her cap set for me. I wasn’t interested.”

The roar of a rapidly approaching vehicle drew their attention, and Amos squinted toward the dirt road beyond his driveway. A moment later an old, pale blue truck with an emblem on its side appeared, trailing a plume of dust as it sped toward the house.

“Speak of the devil,” Amos said through a low chuckle. “Figured he’d hightail it back here soon as I phoned and told him to take down the Help Wanted sign at the store.”

“Your grandson?” Erin asked, unnerved as the truck came to a skidding, gravel-spraying stop behind her van. This wasn’t the arrival of a passive, agreeable man, she thought, her heart sinking. This man was churned up about something—and it was probably her. Suddenly she wondered if she could count on this job after all.

“Mac,” Amos replied, pride in his hazel eyes. “My daughter Jessie’s boy, God rest her soul.”

The broad-shouldered man who swung out of the truck was tall, tanned and so beautifully put together that for an instant everything in Erin stilled. The black Stetson he wore low on his brow covered most of his dark-brown hair, and his chambray shirt, rolled back over muscular forearms, was open throated, showing a hint of chest hair. As he moved unerringly toward her, Erin’s gaze dipped to the faded jeans that hugged his thighs and calves…and she drew a soft breath.

At her short-lived job in Maine, the pretty teenage waitress she’d worked with had had a word for men like him—men who brought a flush to her cheeks and sent her scurrying to their tables to take their orders. She could almost hear Trisha’s flirty whisper now. Smokin’.

But as Amos’s grandson crossed the weed-choked grass, giving her a critical once-over, another word occurred to Erin. Trouble. It was obvious from his long strides and body language that he didn’t approve of his grandfather’s choice in housekeepers, and he meant to do something about it.

Backing away from the steps, Erin lifted Christie into her arms again, turning her front and center. It wasn’t terribly noble to use her daughter as a bargaining chip, but when they were fighting for their lives, she’d use whatever weapons she had. Christie’s blue eyes and shy smile had totally disarmed Amos. His grandson would be a harder sell.

“Hello,” he said politely as he ascended the porch steps. “I’m Mac Corbett.” The firm, callused hand he extended all but swallowed hers. “I understand Granddad’s considering you for the housekeeper position.”

“I ain’t considerin’ her,” Amos snapped, “she’s got the job. It’s a done deal.”

Frowning at his grandfather’s precarious position, Corbett pulled a chair close and quietly asked Amos to sit. When Amos lifted his chin and belligerently stood his ground, the younger man sighed and dragged the chair between his granddad and the steps.

He worked up another smile and looked at Erin again. Christie promptly jammed her face into Erin’s neck.

“You’re okay,” Erin murmured. “This is Mr. Corbett. He’s a new friend.”

Corbett extended his hand to her. “Can we shake?”

“No!” Christie shrieked.

“Honey, don’t be rude.”

“She’s okay.” Corbett’s smile increased a little. “She has a right to pick her own friends.” He drew a deep breath, then spoke again. “Would you excuse Granddad and me for a minute, Mrs.—”

“Terri Fletcher,” she replied, praying Christie wouldn’t correct this new lie. She’d spoken to her about their new names, but few toddlers were good at keeping secrets. “And it’s Ms.”

“Nice to meet you, Terri.” He pulled open the screen door. “Granddad?” he prodded, glancing at Amos, then back at Erin. “We’ll be right back. Feel free to walk around—check out the place.”

“Thanks, we’ll do that.” Except, Erin knew that what he meant was, take a hike so I can grill my grandfather without being overheard. And she had a very good idea what he would say. We don’t know her. How can we trust her? Maybe Corbett even had someone else in mind for the position. All she knew was, whatever his motive for this tête à tête, the big man was miffed at being left out of the hiring loop. Seeing the return of that grim expression as he ushered Amos inside, Erin decided with a heavy heart that her chances of staying here were slim to none.

When the inside door as well as the screen door banged shut, she sighed and walked Christie to the van to grab a box of apple juice from the cooler and the local paper from the front seat. Hopefully, another look at the want ads would turn up something more promising. If not…they’d be moving on again.

Clamping the paper beneath her arm, she popped the attached straw into the juice box and handed the drink to Christie. “Here you go, sweetie pie. Now, what do you say?”

“Danka!”

Chills erupted on Erin’s skin.

Slowly she crouched down to Christie’s level, laid the paper aside, and dredged up a smile, meeting her daughter’s sparkling blue eyes. “No, sweetheart, we say, ‘thank you,’ when someone gives us a treat. Remember? Can you say it for me now?”

“Fank you,” she repeated happily, innocently unaware of what she’d done to her mother.

“Good girl,” Erin murmured and hugged her close, juice box and all.

Her sober gaze found Amos Perkins’s home again, and she wondered what was being said in there. She didn’t blame Mac Corbett for being cautious.

If he knew their past, he’d send them packing in a heartbeat.

Inside Amos’s living room with its mismatched furniture and dated wallpaper, Mac faced his grandfather. He was still startled by the nerves twitching beneath his skin. Terri Fletcher was a dyed-in-the-wool knockout, and that was an understatement—even with her pretty black hair pulled back from her face in that tight ponytail. Even devoid of makeup. The shapeless, beige cotton shirt and slacks she wore only made him wonder what was beneath them—and why a woman that beautiful didn’t want anyone to notice her.

Fat chance of that happening.

“Before you say one word,” Amos began, stabbing a finger into Mac’s chest, “I like her and she’s stayin’. She’s a nice woman, and she looks like she could use the money.”

“I’m not disputing that, Granddad, I just would’ve liked to talk to her before we made a decision. What’s her story? Has she done this kind of work before? What did her references say? Or didn’t she offer any?”

Amos pulled a folded sheet of tablet paper from the breast pocket of his red-plaid flannel shirt. “Got ’em right here,” he said defensively. “She checked out perfect.”

“Did you even call them?” Mac reached for it. “How many references did she—”

Amos snatched the sheet away and stuffed it back in his pocket, his hazel eyes insulted and his lined face stubbornly set. “Since I got sick, you been callin’ the shots—makin’ my decisions for me—and it’s time it stopped. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with my mind or my intuition, and I say she’s fine.”

Silent seconds ticked by while Mac pondered his grandfather’s words. Then he nodded. Amos was right. He had been making all the decisions since the stroke. But everything he’d done, he’d done because he loved the old man. The last thing he’d wanted to do was hurt Amos’s pride, but apparently, that’s what he’d done.

“Okay. I’m sorry. It should be your decision. I just expected you to choose someone a little more…mature.”

“You don’t mean mature, you mean Mildred Manning.”

“She was a nurse for years. It would’ve made more sense.”

Amos stared as if Mac were completely out of his mind. “Don’t you know nothin’ about women?” He shook his head abruptly as though banishing a ridiculous notion, then answered his own question. “Never mind. ’Course you don’t. If you did, you’d have one of yer own. Sophie’d be mad as a wet hen if I hired Mildred to cook and clean for me. ’Specially when she offered to do it herself. And don’t tell me I ain’t right about that.”

Releasing a weary blast of air, Mac brought his hands to his hips. Amos’s wisecrack about his love life aside, the old guy had a point. Sophie Casselback was a good woman, but she would’ve made Amos’s life a living hell if he’d hired a woman their age. She and Amos had been “good friends” for two years—the primary reason, Mac suspected, that Amos had refused her help. No man—even a seventy-three-year-old man—wanted to look less than strong around the woman he was keeping company with. Or maybe he and Sophie were over now. Since his stroke and stint in rehab, Amos hadn’t returned many of her calls.

Amos continued to stare hard as Mac’s thoughts churned off in yet another direction. “Now what? There’s something else goin’ on under that hat. What is it?”

“The little girl,” Mac said. “Are you sure you’ll be okay with a child underfoot? You could trip, you might not get your right rest—”

“You just got done sayin’ it’s my decision to make. I made it.” Shuffling and cane tapping to the door, he threw it open, then shoved through the screen door, banging it against the white wood siding. Mac raised his eyes to heaven, but there was no help there. Obviously, the discussion was over.

Amos plopped himself down on the glider. “Now why don’t you help that gal take her stuff over to your place?”

“My place?”

“Little Christie needs some room, too. Can’t very well stuff ’em both in the guest room upstairs. Besides,” Amos groused pointedly as Mac’s exasperation grew, “you seem happy enough up there.”

“Granddad, I’m not set up for company.”

“They’ll only be here six ’r seven weeks.” Amos glared up at him. “Or do you have other ideas you ain’t told me about?”

“No, but my guest room’s full of boxes, and there’s no bed in there.” The other spare room had been turned into an office. That meant, if they moved in, Terri Fletcher and her daughter would be sleeping in his room.

In his bed.

Something tugged low in Mac’s gut at the thought of Christie’s slender mom beneath his sheets, startling him with its intensity and shocking the hell out of him by evoking a very physical, very unexpected response.

“All right,” he growled, needing to move, and accepting the arrangement because there’d be no changing Amos’s mind. “I’ll get it done.”

Erin followed Corbett’s brisk strides through his spacious, beautiful home, her stomach a ball of knots. She was astonished that the discussion had ended in her favor. Initially, he’d seemed to be the man in control, yet somehow Amos had won out. Relieved, Erin sent up a prayer of thanks that they had a roof over their heads again—and on the heels of that prayer, another went up that changing her name and relocating here would be enough to ensure their safety.

And incomprehensibly, amid so much turmoil, some part of her still found time to notice Mac Corbett as a man. Though she tried to ignore the pull, his rugged face and the smooth, loose way he walked made her feel things she hadn’t felt in a very long time. In fact, he was the most overtly male man she’d ever encountered, and incredibly, he didn’t seem aware of his appeal.

“Obviously, this is the bedroom,” he said, carrying their bags inside and tossing them on his king-size bed. A quilted navy, white and light-blue spread in a geometric print covered it. “You should be comfortable here.” He nodded at a closed door to the left of an oak chest of drawers. “Master bath’s in there.”

“It’s very nice,” she replied, placing the two duffels she’d carried beside her luggage. “Thank you. I…I’m sure we will be.” She’d always been good at small talk, but with this man—who didn’t seem inclined to make the effort—she was falling flat on her face.

Before they’d begun unloading the van, she’d given Christie her coloring book, crayons and a cookie, then settled her in the great room at Mac’s distressed-pine coffee table. Occasionally, as they’d carted things past the wide archway, Christie had looked up from her tuneless humming and scribbling to peek through her fringe of black bangs and smile a little—beginning to adjust again. And though that was something to be thankful for, it still made Erin ache to see her take each new town and change of address in stride.

Suppressing a sigh, she shifted her attention back to Mac and tried again for conversation. “Christie’s careful with her crayons, but I put a plastic play mat over your coffee table in case she gets reckless.”

“It wasn’t expensive,” he said flatly. “She can’t hurt it.”

“Still, I want you to know that we’ll leave your home in the same condition that we found it.”

His polite smile thanked her, then he nodded at the bare windows. “I never got around to putting up curtains. There didn’t seem to be a big need for them, living out this far. But I guess you’ll want some privacy. I’ll see what I can scare up for you.” He nodded at the bed. “The sheets are fresh, but you’re welcome to change them. Linen closet’s in the hall next to the family bath.”

“I’m sure the sheets on the bed will be fine.”

“All right, then I’ll make room for your things so you can start putting them away. I’ll finish unpacking your van in a minute.” Crossing to his closet, he pulled a duffel bag from a shelf, then started filling it from the oak chest of drawers.

“Mr. Corbett?”

“Mac,” he said, not looking up.

“Mac. First of all, you don’t have to unpack my van. I can do that.” Heaven knew she’d managed to do it enough times in the past year. “Secondly,” she said, unable to keep the uneasiness from her voice, “I know you weren’t expecting us to commandeer your home. So before we go much further—”

“You want to know if I have reservations.”

“Yes.”

His candid gaze met hers. “I do. Yes. But not about the two of you staying here.” He resumed packing. “It’s probably better that I sleep at Amos’s anyway. Most of my clothes are there. I moved in right after he was released from rehab—” his mouth twisted in annoyance “—came back here after the first housekeeper was hired, then hauled butt back to Amos’s when she left.”

Mac emptied the next drawer, stuffing T-shirts into his bag. “Besides, sometimes he needs help getting to the bathroom in the middle of the night.” He turned sharply to reassure her. “Once he’s up and moving in the morning, he’s fine, though, so your duties won’t be more than we advertised in the paper.”

“I don’t have a problem helping your grandfather to the bathroom.”

His expression softened slightly, then he looked away again and zipped his bag, his tone brisk again. “Thank you, but I was thinking of Amos. He has a lot of pride.”

“I noticed. And I’d never do anything to hurt it.”

“Good, because he’s all I have, and that makes him my number-one priority. I don’t like thinking he might be at risk—in any way.” He met her eyes again. “You do understand, don’t you?”

Erin nodded. He didn’t have to gush or expand on his statement. It was abundantly clear that he loved his granddad, and if Amos wasn’t treated with care and respect, that Housekeeper Wanted sign would go right back up again.

Mac slung the duffel’s long straps over his shoulder. “I didn’t see a crib or anything like it in your van. Christie sleeps with you?”

“Not always. Sometimes we find a furnished apartment with a twin bed. I have a portable safety railing that slides between the mattress and box spring. That works pretty well.”

“Sometimes you find a furnished apartment?” he repeated in a tone that was cuttingly judgmental. “Do you move around a lot?”

She knew she shouldn’t feel defensive—he had a perfect right to question her—but she did. She also knew that antagonizing him could prompt another discussion between Mac and his grandfather, and this time the younger man might win.

“Is that a problem for you? This job is temporary, isn’t it? Your grandfather said two months at the most, probably less.”

The thoughts moving through his dark eyes weren’t complimentary, and his face was carved granite. “Yes, it’s temporary. I still find myself wondering why you’re so mobile.” His gaze delved more deeply into hers. “Maybe if I ask a few questions—get a few answers—I won’t wonder so much.”

He barely paused a moment before he said coolly, “Ms. Fletcher, are you running away from something?”