Читать книгу Lone Star Dad - Linda Goodnight - Страница 9

Chapter One

He wouldn’t do this. Not again. He wouldn’t shame himself or his family this way.

Quinn Buchanon clenched his jaw hard enough to make his face ache and slapped his outstretched hands against the fireplace mantel. He was off balance, as always, the fingers of his right hand barely reaching, while the left was just dandy. The bitter root of the last eleven years curled inside his chest. His arm throbbed harder.

He glanced up at the plastic clock tacked above the crackling fireplace. Two o’clock. Too early.

Releasing a slow, frustrated breath, he pushed back and rubbed his right arm, the exact spot where the surgical titanium rod pushed against the bent muscle and scar tissue. On winter nights, the ache was worse. Add precipitation, like tonight’s cold misty rain, and he was in a world of hurt.

Quinn had thought he’d conquered the problem during his stint in Dallas, but the last surgery and coming home to Gabriel’s Crossing brought the pain and grief and most of all the pure exuberant thrill tumbling back in. The glory days. The accident. Yes, accident, as he’d come to realize last year. Jake Hamilton had not intended to hurt him. If anything, the fault was Quinn’s. His own fault. His own misery.

Whoever was to blame, the damage was done and he’d never be the same. Most days, he didn’t even feel like a man, certainly not the toast of Gabriel’s Crossing and half of Texas that he’d once been.

Memories were killer.

Head starting to pound in that incessant ache he knew too well, he took long strides down the length of the cabin, through the living space and out onto the saggy front porch. The air would clear his head. The cold would give him something else to think about.

He liked the quiet, lonely spot here in the woods by the Red River where none of his well-meaning siblings—six of them—could casually drop by. He loved his family but he needed space.

A sharp, wet wind blew up from the river. Quinn reached back inside, grabbed his coat from the hook hanging next to the door and shrugged it on. He shoved his hands into his pockets but left his head bare. He lifted his face to the blast of wet air, needing the slap of cold.

The weathered old hunting cabin he called home was nothing fancy, but the rustic unpainted logs and bare-bones essentials nestled among the oak and cedar of northeast Texas suited him. The porch wasn’t much, either, a wooden floor and a sagging overhang with a weathered rocking chair, a pile of firewood and a dead potted plant from his landscaper mother that he’d forgotten to bring in before the frost.

He sucked in the cedar scent, held the frigid air in his lungs until they ached and then let it out in one gusty breath.

The pawpaw tree two steps off the porch clung to a single leaf like a mother holds on to a child’s hand in a hurricane.

He watched that one valiant leaf battle for life. When at last the wind proved too much and the quivering leaf sailed into the mist, lost forever, Quinn felt a little sad.

Battling. Buffeted. Lost. He could relate. He was hanging on for dear life and didn’t intend to let go, no matter how hard the wind slammed him.

A fine mist peppered his skin, soft rain edging toward sleet.

By tomorrow a thin sheen of ice would cover the grass and trees and sparkle in the sunrise. He’d be up. He always was. Sleep was short.

He settled in the rocker, a remnant from long-forgotten former owners, and tried to focus on the weather, the outdoors, the surrounding woods and creeks he’d loved since boyhood. Sometimes they helped. Sometimes not. Regardless, he wouldn’t let himself go back inside the cabin for a while. Personal discipline was the one lesson he’d never quite learned off the football field, but he had to learn now.

He had work to complete for Buchanon Built Construction, his family’s construction company. Maybe he could get his mind on a new set of architectural plans and off the pain.

He rubbed at his shoulder again, over and over. Up and down. Round and round. The ache went clear through his chest into his heart. Deeper yet, into his soul.

God seemed far, far away.

On the lane leading from the dirt road, the only road that connected him with anywhere, a shadowy creature appeared out of the mist. Quinn squinted through the drizzle. Maybe a raccoon. They were plentiful here. As the animal waddled closer, Quinn recognized a cat—a very pregnant cat, her belly swinging like a metronome.

He didn’t much like cats.

Yet she was a distraction and he watched her trot in his direction until she reached the porch, stopped at the edge, raised her thin face and mewed. Her troubled eyes gleamed golden yellow in a black-and-white face.

Quinn looked away. “Sorry, lady. You’re on your own.”

She wobbled onto the porch and rubbed against his leg. He felt the bumpy movement of her unborn kittens and, startled, moved his leg.

“Go on, now. Get out.”

She mewed again, gazed around the mostly empty porch. Finding no comfy spot, she sprawled across his feet.

Quinn gently slid his boot from under her disconcerting belly and went inside the cabin.

He hadn’t intended to go inside. Temptation waited there, calling his name with promises of relief that ensnared. The cat had left him little choice.

As if she carried a megaphone, the pregnant feline meowed loud enough for him to hear through the solid wooden door. Quinn turned on the television and though he could no longer hear her, he knew she was there. He peaked out the window. She was in his chair, though how she’d gotten her swollen body up that high defied the laws of physics.

He couldn’t leave her out there in the cold. What if she had those kittens? What if he awoke tomorrow morning to a pile of frozen baby cats on his front porch?

With a defeated sigh, he rummaged around until he found a cardboard box, dumped out the contents, added a couple of old towels and went back outside.

“You’re not coming in the cabin. Understand? There’s the well house. It’s heated. Pipes freeze, you know.” He motioned toward the leaning, unpainted building beside the cabin that housed the well and was where he kept his tools and basic man junk. “You can bunk there until this weather passes. No babies, though. You hear me? Tomorrow at the latest, you’re out of here.”

Gently, his stomach a little woozy when the kittens did all kinds of gyrations against his hand, Quinn lifted her into the box. As if she’d been expecting exactly this, she settled into the towels. He toted her, box and all, to the shed and put her inside.

She blinked up at him with big golden eyes.

Quinn growled deep in his throat, muttered, “Sucker,” and went back into the cabin for a bowl of warm milk.

He left the old girl lapping with her dainty tongue and jogged toward the porch. The mist spattered his face like tiny, cold pebbles.

From out of nowhere, a gunshot cracked the gray stillness.

Quinn whirled toward the sound. Blood roared in his ears. His heart thudded madly. It took all his willpower not to fall to the ground and low-crawl back to the cabin. He didn’t, a small victory.

A gunshot in the woods echoed far and wide and was hard to pinpoint, but this one was close. Too close. Even though Buchanon land was posted, poachers invariably tried their luck this time of year.

He clamped his jaw tight and stomped toward his truck. This poacher’s luck had just run out.

* * *

Someone was coming.

Gena Satterfield hung a tea bag on the side of a Nurse Practitioner Needs Chocolate mug, turned off the steaming kettle and walked through the house, curious. No one drove up that ungraded, potholed driveway, at least not without prior warning. The house was remote, exactly what she’d needed to keep Derrick out of trouble when they’d moved here last year.

At the front room window she tugged back the curtain and saw a black pickup bounce up the road. Someone would be mighty unhappy at the damage this driveway could do to a fancy truck like that. Whoever he might be, he was going too fast.

Gena watched, waiting to identify the driver. She didn’t open her door to strangers.

The truck jolted to a halt. A man hopped out and slammed the door with a force that echoed through the woods.

Gena’s breath froze in her chest. Quinn Buchanon.

What was he doing in her front yard? The one person in Gabriel’s Crossing she preferred never to encounter one-on-one. Especially not in her own home.

Mouth suddenly dry as cottonseed hull, she stayed huddled behind the curtain. He could knock but she wouldn’t open. Not to him.

He marched around the front of his truck, clearly in a fit of temper, yanked open the passenger-side door and hauled someone out by the scruff of the neck—a lanky eleven-year-old boy with a bad attitude.

“Oh, no. No, no, no!” Gena jerked at the knob, flinging the door wide to race down the steps in her fuzzy slippers, heedless of the gray, damp cold.

“Derrick! What are you—” She skidded to a stop, attention frozen on the rifle in the boy’s hand. In a terrible voice, she asked, “Where did you get that gun?”

“I—”

Before he could respond, she whirled on the detestable man. This was exactly the kind of irresponsible thing someone like Quinn would do.

She jabbed a finger at him. “Did you give him that gun? Have you lost your mind?”

Quinn glared at her. “I was going to say the same to you.”

“Me? I don’t own a gun.” She turned on the boy. “Where did you get that?” she asked again.

Derrick, mouth insolent, posture slumped, only shrugged. She hated when he did that, which was all too often.

“Tell me where you got that gun or no computer for a month.”

He twitched. “Service out here sucks anyway.”

“The deal still holds. Talk.”

“I found it.”

“Found a rifle? Where?” Oh, Lord. Please don’t let this be stolen. She’d never dreamed raising a boy alone could be this hard.

“The storage room. I went hunting. It’s no big deal. That’s what country boys do, isn’t it?”

His cocky, derisive attitude set her teeth on edge. He hated it here, deep in the country, away from the city, away from his so-called friends, away from taking things that didn’t belong to him, but until today he’d been in less trouble in Gabriel’s Crossing than in Houston. Less. He wasn’t Boy Scout material yet. She kept praying for him to settle in and be the happy boy he’d once been.

Quinn, who she was trying hard to ignore, scowled at her. “Haven’t you ever heard of a gun safe?”

“I had no way of knowing Derrick would be poking around and find a weapon. I didn’t even know it was there myself!”

“Well, it is.” He yanked the rifle from Derrick and shoved the offensive weapon into her hands. “Deal with it. He was poaching on my property.”

“Poaching?” Would the fun never end? “He shot something?”

Quinn hiked a diabolical eyebrow. “Want me to file charges?”

She looked at him full on now, fighting down the panic of having him in her space. Either he didn’t remember her or he didn’t kiss and tell. One was a check in the positive column and the other wasn’t. She didn’t know which she preferred—hating that he didn’t remember at all or admiring him for his respectful silence in front of the boy.

How old was he now? Thirty-four? Thirty-six? He was still gorgeous—sandy brown hair tipped in gold, hazel eyes and strong, athletic body—though lines bisected his forehead as if his problems had taken a toll. She squelched the pinch of pity. He’d been a player on and off the football field. He didn’t deserve her sympathy.

“I assure you, this will not happen again.” She hoped she could keep that promise.

She grabbed Derrick by the upper arm and propelled him toward the porch.

Quinn didn’t take the hint. He followed. “I’m not done with him. Or with you.”

“If you’re pressing charges, do it, but leave us alone.” Just go away.

She opened the door, gave Derrick her meanest look, willing him inside before this situation got worse.

A powerful left hand clamped on the screen door. “He could have been hurt. Someone with no gun experience in the woods this time of year is asking for trouble.”

Derrick, who never knew when to shut up, cast a derisive glance at Quinn’s bent right arm. “Is that what happened to you?”

Both adults froze. Gena lifted her gaze to Quinn’s face, which was suddenly as dark and empty as midnight.

He swallowed. “As a matter of fact, yes. I was stupid.”

“Well, I’m not. So bug off.”

“Derrick!” Gena, aching a little for the man she’d vowed to despise, entered the house and gingerly settled the rifle in a corner. Quinn followed as if he’d been invited. Which he definitely had not been.

“I’m going to my room.”

“No, we’re going to talk about this. Sit.” She pointed to the couch.

Rolling his eyes, Derrick slumped onto the cushions and crossed his arms.

To Quinn, she said, “I apologize for any problem he caused. Thank you for bringing him home. I’ll handle it from here.”

Her heart was hammering like a woodpecker against her rib cage. She wanted Quinn to go. Even if he didn’t remember, she did.

His hair glistening from the mist, Quinn stood in her living room bunched inside his jacket looking as blustery as the weather.

“Has he had a hunter education course?”

Derrick’s education was neither Quinn’s business nor his problem. “Tell me where you live so I can be sure he doesn’t return.”

“A fishing cabin about a mile west.”

She nodded. “I know the place. I thought it was empty.”

“I thought the same about this house,” he said with a quick glance around her cozy living room. “Satterfield place, wasn’t it?”

“My grandparents’ house. Yes.” She waited to see if he made the connection. He didn’t. Nervous, uncertain, she patted her hands together and said with only the slightest venom, “Well, now that we know each of us is out here, we can be careful not to cross paths again.”

Very, very careful.

Quinn frowned and didn’t seem the least inclined to leave. “I don’t like poachers. If the boy is going to hunt, he needs a license and you need to teach him to obey trespassing laws.”

Gena’s face tightened. “He’s not your concern, Mr. Buchanon.”

“He was today.” He squinted at her. “Do I know you?”

Her pulse thumped. “No.”

“But you apparently know me.”

“Everyone knows the Buchanons.” She kept her voice casual. Unlike an invisible bookworm named Gena, the Buchanons were known to everyone in Gabriel’s Crossing. Notwithstanding the four gorgeous sons and three pretty daughters, they owned a construction company and had built half the houses in the town. Maybe more.

“Then I’m at a disadvantage. What’s your name?”

Gena hesitated. If they were neighbors, which they clearly were, she couldn’t act weird. “Gena Satterfield. This is Derrick.”

Derrick glared at both adults with the “I hope you die a painful death” stare.

The tumblers rolled around behind Quinn’s eyes. “Satterfield,” he mused. “Yeah.”

She held her breath.

Finally, he said, “Ken and Anna Satterfield lived here, right? Good folks.”

Relief seeped through her. He remembered her grandparents. That was all. Nothing suspicious in that. “Yes. They passed away, and the house was empty for a while until Derrick and I decided to move to the country.”

“You decided,” Derrick said, making his feelings on the subject crystal clear.

Quinn glanced at the sullen boy, holding his gaze steady until Derrick looked down. Gena’s blood chilled in her veins. Go away. Stop looking at him.

As if he’d heard her thoughts and decided to comply, Quinn turned toward the door. Before stepping outside, he said to Derrick, “Fences are there for a reason. Pay attention or pay the consequences.”

He slammed the door behind him.

The living room trembled with the sound for several seconds before Gena pointed a finger at Derrick. “You are not ever to go anywhere near that man or his property again. Got it?”

He made a noise in the back of his throat and rolled his eyes. And Gena could only pray he listened.