Читать книгу Always A Mcbride - Linda Turner, Linda Turner, Marilyn Pappano - Страница 9

Startled, Phoebe gasped. Darkness engulfed her like a shroud, blinding her, and for a moment, she could see nothing but the sharp flash of the lightning outside and the silhouette of the stranger at the door.

In the darkness, he was huge! Phoebe felt her heart jump into her throat and reminded herself that she wasn’t one of those women who was easily scared. After all, there was no reason to be nervous. She was in Liberty Hill, Colorado, for heaven’s sake! There were no ax murderers here, no rapists, no serious criminals at all. She couldn’t imagine a safer place in America.

So she wasn’t afraid…exactly. It was just that her imagination had always worked overtime on stormy nights, and tonight was no exception. With her heart pounding crazily and the stranger filling the doorway with his dark silhouette, she could almost believe that he was some dark, avenging angel who’d been sent by her father to demand an explanation of why she was at Myrtle’s when she should have been home, taking care of his business. That was just the kind of thing Jack Chandler would have done. He’d never had much patience for following dreams, especially if it meant walking away from an established business. Money was the bottom line, and if her father somehow knew that she was at his mother-in-law’s, trying her hand at running what he would have considered an artsy-fartsy bed and breakfast that had no chance of ever making a dime, he’d be spinning in his grave.

For a moment, guilt pulled at her, but then her common sense quickly asserted itself. “Idiot!” she silently chided herself. There was no reason to feel guilty. She was an adult and could spend her vacation—and her life—any way she chose.

As for the fierce stranger at the door, she’d taken one look at him before the lights had gone off and seen by the cynical curve of his mouth that he was no angel. He was just a man who was in trouble and needed help while she was standing there like a ninny, letting her imagination run away with her!

“Actually, my grandmother is the one who owns the place,” she said huskily. “But I’m taking care of things while she’s on vacation. If you’ll wait a moment, I’ll get a candle. The old wiring in this house doesn’t handles storms very well.”

Leaving him at the door, she turned away and quickly, blindly, made her way through the dark house, avoiding chairs and tables whose location she knew as well as the lines on the back of her hand. She hadn’t lied about the wiring—it was nearly as old as her grandmother—and even though it could be an inconvenience at times, she’d loved it as a child when a storm blew the old circuit breakers. Unruffled, Myrtle would pull out the oil lamps and candles, set water on to boil on the gas stove, and they’d have a tea party in the dark. Mrytle would tell her stories of all their dead ancestors and how they’d come to Colorado in covered wagons. Her stories had always been fun and magical and full of adventure, and to this day, Phoebe still loved storms.

Smiling at the memories that pulled at her as she reached the pantry, she quickly located the stash of emergency matches and candles Myrtle kept there and hurriedly lit a candle. Outside, the storm still raged, but she didn’t have time to enjoy it, not when the stranger still waited for her at the front door. Placing a small glass chimney around the candle, she hurried back to the front door.

For a moment, she thought her unexpected guest had left. The door was standing wide open, and in the flickering light of the candle, there was no sign of him. Frowning, she moved to the open doorway and lifted her candle high…just as he stepped in front of her. Startled, she almost dropped the candle. He moved like a cat in the darkness! “Oh!” she gasped softly. “I thought you’d gone.”

“I was just checking the sky,” he retorted. “Do you ever get tornadoes when it storms like this?”

She shrugged. “Sometimes, but I was watching the weather channel earlier. The front passed through about an hour ago, so all we have to deal with now is rain…and wind, of course. It’ll probably howl all night long.”

As far as she was concerned, there was no better sleeping weather, but her guest looked far from pleased with the forecast. His frown deepening, he scowled, then obviously decided there was no use whining about the weather. “As I was saying before the lights went out, I need a room. Preferably something private, where I won’t be disturbed.”

His tone was cool, almost snooty, and that alone told Phoebe that he was a man who was used to getting what he wanted. As a paying guest, he had a right to expect peace and quiet, and she would be as accommodating as she could, but she didn’t like his tone at all. What was his problem, anyway? she wondered, narrowing her blue eyes at him in irritation. Hadn’t his mama taught him he’d go a lot further in life if he used please and thank you?

Lifting the candle, she held it up so that it illuminated his face and made no secret of the fact that she was openly studying him. He was, she silently acknowledged, a good-looking man. Lean and rangy, with an angular face and a hard jaw, there was something about him that was vaguely familiar, though Phoebe was sure she’d never met him before. She would never have forgotten those eyes. Piercing, brown and sharp with intelligence, they met her gaze head-on and seemed to see into her very soul.

For no explicable reason, she felt her heart kick, and she didn’t like the feeling at all. Frowning, she asked, “How long were you planning on staying? Just tonight or until your car’s fixed?”

“Actually, longer than that,” he replied stiffly. “Probably a month, maybe longer. At this point, I can’t really tell you more than that.”

Phoebe loved Liberty Hill, but she wasn’t blind to the fact that there was little about it that would attract a tourist for longer than a day or two. Especially one who appeared to be as sophisticated as this man. His clothes might be damp and torn from his accident, but even so, it was obvious that they were well-cut and expensive. What was his story? What was he doing here?

Curious, she arched a brow at him. “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you going to do here for an entire month? You can walk from one end of town to the other in about ten minutes.”

For a moment, he hesitated as if he didn’t want to tell her, before he finally said, almost defiantly. “I’m a writer. I’m working on a book.”

Phoebe couldn’t have been more surprised if he’d told her he was the head chef for the Titanic. She liked to think she was a fairly good judge of people, but she’d never have guessed that the man had a creative bone in his body. He just didn’t look like a writer. Not that a writer had any particular look, she admitted. But she’d always thought of writers and artists as exotic introverts who could do things with words or paint or clay that she and most people could never even dream of. In no way, shape or form did that describe her unexpected guest. If she’d had to guess what he did for a living, she would have taken him for some kind of power broker. He had class-A personality written all over him.

Still, he could have been friendly. He wasn’t. In fact, he seemed almost angry. Granted, he had a right to be out of sorts after he’d wrecked his car in the storm, but she had a feeling his anger went deeper than that. And that disturbed her. She liked people…liked talking to them, cooking for them, getting to know them. Getting to know this man wouldn’t be easy. Everything about him said back off.

For no other reason than that, she should have sent him back out into the rain in search of a room somewhere else. People who booked a vacation at a bed and breakfast weren’t just looking for a place to spend the night. They were looking for an escape, a place where they could go to get away from the stress of their everyday lives. She didn’t know if the other guests Myrtle had lined up for the next few weeks would be able to do that with this man in the house.

But how could she send him away? It was a miserable night and he’d already had more than his share of trouble. And it wasn’t as if he could find someplace else in town to stay. The nearest hotel was thirty miles away! How was he supposed to get there? Walk? He’d wrecked his car!

Her ex-boyfriend would have told her she was a soft touch and whatever the stranger’s story was, it wasn’t her problem. But that was one of the reasons Marshall was an ex. She couldn’t be that unfeeling, especially when someone was in trouble. Giving into her inherent need to help, she opened the door wider and invited him inside. “Please, come in. I’m Phoebe Chandler,” she added with an easy smile as he stepped over the threshold. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Taylor Bishop,” he growled.

Holding out her hand, she flashed her dimples at him. “It’s nice to meet you, Taylor. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here.”

He closed his fingers around hers, but only gave her hand a perfunctory shake before releasing it. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

He couldn’t have insulted her more if he’d tried. After everything her grandmother had done to turn the place into a bed and breakfast—and all the work she, herself, intended to do to make the Mountain View Inn the best in the state—she wanted his stay to be a heck of a lot more than just fine!

Annoyed, she smiled, but it wasn’t easy. “I hope it’s better than that. So if there’s anything you need—or don’t like—just let me know. If I can’t fix the problem, I’ll find someone who can.”

“I’m not particular about things. All I want is to be left alone to work in peace.”

Well, that was blunt enough, Phoebe thought, irritated. If he thought she was going to bother him, he could think again. He could have all the peace and quiet he wanted. “Then you should be pleased with your room,” she said. “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

Turning, she led him carefully up the stairs and found herself wishing the lights would hurry up and come back on. She’d never realized before just how intimate and inviting candlelight was. Or how quiet Myrtle’s Victorian house was, even in the midst of a storm. As they carefully made their way up the grand staircase, she could almost hear the pounding of her heart as his shadow followed hers. Did he realize they were the only two people in the house? Was he as aware of her presence as she was of his? What the heck was going on?

Telling herself not to get fanciful, she led him to a room at the back of the house. “It’s small, but I think it will suit you nicely. You won’t be able to hear the street noise from here and it has a nice view of the garden. You won’t be disturbed while you work.”

The room was, in fact, quite comfortable and was decorated with red plaids and heavy furniture designed to appeal to a man. Taylor Bishop took one look at it in the light of the candle she held and reached for his wallet. “This is fine. You do take credit cards, don’t you?”

His tone was cool…and all business. Irritated, Phoebe reminded herself that he was only a guest—unfortunately, her first—and she didn’t have to like him. He wasn’t going to stay forever. If he didn’t care about his creature comforts, that was his problem. It was her job to see that his stay—and every other guest’s—was as comfortable as possible, and that’s what she intended to do.

Her tone as businesslike as his, she added, “The bathroom is across the hall—there are extra towels in the linen closet if you need them. Breakfast is served between seven and ten in the dining room. If there’s anything in particular you would like added to the menu, just tell me and I can have it for you the following morning.”

Not giving him a chance to say anything, she rattled off a list of the inn’s other amenities. “If there’s anything else you need, just let me know and I’ll try to get it for you. Enjoy your stay.”

Giving him a curt nod, she didn’t wait to see if he had any questions, but simply turned and headed for her room further down the hall. She knew it was rude, but she couldn’t help it. She didn’t understand why someone like Taylor Bishop stayed at a bed and breakfast. He obviously wasn’t the type to enjoy it. Logically, she knew he hadn’t had any other choice—there were no other public lodgings in town—but he still irritated her. Taylor couldn’t have cared less that the sheets and towels were line-dried so they would have that fresh scent that was impossible to get in a drier, or that she herself had experimented with dozens of new breakfast recipes, searching for just the right dishes that would make breakfast each morning memorable. He just wanted to be left alone to work.

Fine, she fumed as she stepped inside her own room and shut the door with a little more force than was necessary. Let him hole up in his room. The less she had to deal with him, the better!

Finally alone, Tyler found a phone book in the bottom drawer of the desk in the corner and wasn’t surprised to discover that although the directory covered several counties, it wasn’t even an inch thick. After waiting his entire life to track down his father, it took him less than fifteen seconds to find the McBrides in the phone book. There were two: Joe and Zeke.

Frowning, he refused to be discouraged. His father could have an unlisted number, or there was always the possibility that he had moved. After all, it had been forty-one years since his mother met Gus at the Cheyenne rodeo that fateful summer. Gus had claimed he was a cowboy, but there was no way to know for sure that he was telling the truth. He’d been a cowboy sweet-talking a pretty girl. That made anything and everything he’d said suspect.

Still, there were McBrides in Liberty Hill, Taylor thought in satisfaction. Whether they were related to Gus or not remained to be seen, but the odds were in Taylor’s favor that they were. After all, Liberty Hill was hardly bigger than a postage stamp. Everyone was bound to be related to everyone else. Now all he had to do was get either Joe or Zeke to tell him where Gus was. Then he was going to hunt his old man down and tell him exactly what he thought of him.

Over the years, he’d lost track of the number of times he’d contemplated that meeting, but as he undressed and climbed into the big, old-fashioned poster bed that dominated the room, he found he couldn’t concentrate on the old, familiar image as he usually did. The quiet stillness of the house surrounded him, and through the open window, a gentle breeze stirred the night air with a freshness that reminded him all too clearly that he wasn’t in San Diego anymore. Just that easily, he found himself appreciating the line-dried sheets—and thinking of Phoebe Chandler.

He could still smell the scent of her shampoo.

Irritated that he’d even noticed, he swore softly in the darkness. What the devil was wrong with him? He was on a mission and it had nothing to do with an innkeeper’s granddaughter. Granted, she had a natural beauty that had caught him off guard, but she wasn’t his type. He liked his women sophisticated and worldly, and from what he’d seen of Phoebe Chandler, she was neither of those things. Not that it mattered. He didn’t have time for women right now. The only thing he was interested in was finding his father…and making him pay.

Satisfied that he had his priorities straight, he deliberately put her from his thoughts and concentrated instead on what he was going to say to Joe and Zeke McBride when he approached them about Gus. He generally didn’t like to plan things too much—he worked better when he went with his instincts. Tracking down Gus McBride, however, was too important to leave to chance.

So, just as he did when he was working on an important trial, he tried to work out every possible contingency. Normally, he could have worked well into the night on a case without ever growing sleepy, but it had been a long, emotional day and evening. He yawned…and felt himself losing ground. With a sigh, he gave up the fight and let himself drift toward sleep.

His last thought should have been about his father. Instead, a whisper of the night breezes drifted in through the open window, teasing him with a sweet, faint scent that reminded him inexplicably of her. Like it or not, she was his last thought before he fell asleep.

When Phoebe came downstairs the next morning, dawn was still nearly an hour away. It was her favorite time of the day. There were no telemarketers calling on the phone, no TVs or radios blaring, no trucks shifting gears as they made their way down Main Street. Quiet echoed like a sigh, and for a while, at least, Phoebe could almost believe she was the only one in town awake. She loved it.

Unfortunately, this time she had to herself couldn’t last. Although her guest hadn’t told her what time he would like breakfast, she had a feeling he was an early riser. She’d be lucky if she had another two hours to herself. She planned to enjoy it before she had to deal with Mr. Personality.

A grin tugged at her lips at the unexpected nickname her psyche had come up with for Taylor Bishop. She didn’t mean to be mean. After all, she didn’t even know him. Like everyone, he was bound to have some good qualities. And she had to admit, he was an incredibly good-looking man. Looks, however, weren’t everything. She’d never met anyone who could push her buttons so easily. And he planned to stay the entire time her grandmother was gone!

If he’d been anything other than a writer, she might have been groaning at the thought. But she doubted that she would see much of him. If he wasn’t off somewhere doing research, he would, in all likelihood, be holed up in his room writing. If she was lucky, the only time she’d have to deal with him was at breakfast. And once the other guests arrived, she’d spend most of her mornings in the kitchen.

The cooking, more than anything else, was what she was really looking forward to. Breakfast was her favorite meal of the day, and as she stepped to the pantry to pull out her baking supplies, she could already taste the Virginia ham, apple strudel, and hot, homemade croissants that were planned for part of the morning menu. Mr. Personality hadn’t blinked twice when she’d showed him to his room. She’d like to see similar restraint when he sat down to breakfast. If he was expecting ordinary bacon and eggs, he was in for a surprise.

Grinning at the thought, she’d just stepped out of the pantry, her arms laden with ingredients, when she thought she heard a cry in the predawn quiet. Surprised, she stopped in her tracks, listening. Then she heard it again.

“Oh, my God!” she said softly, “that sounds like puppies!”

Hurriedly dumping her supplies on the kitchen table, she grabbed a flashlight from the drawer by the refrigerator, then quickly unlocked the back door and rushed outside just as what sounded like an entire litter of puppies started to whimper and howl from under the porch.

The hems of her nightgown and robe trailing behind her, she flew down the steps, only to laugh when she peered under the porch and found six lab-mix puppies staring up at her warily. “Oh, poor babies! Are you hungry? Where’s your mama?”

For an answer she got wagging tails, puppy grins and a couple of brave woofs. Just that easily, they stole her heart. Murmuring soothingly, she held out her hand to them. “It’s okay. I won’t hurt you. I’m just going to take you inside and find you something to eat. C’mon, that’s it. Oh, aren’t you sweet!”

Hungry and lonely, they cautiously came out from under the porch, and within seconds, little tails were wagging in greeting. Laughing, she scooped them all up and carried them inside.

His head buried under a pillow, Taylor came awake to the sound of yapping puppies and a woman’s delighted laughter floating on the morning air. Disoriented and still half asleep, he found himself fascinated by the sweetness of the sound. Had someone new moved in next door? he wondered sleepily. She had a laugh like an angel. Who was she? He hadn’t seen anyone new….

She laughed again, but this time, the fog of sleep clouding Taylor’s brain parted and images of last night came rushing back. The wreck, Liberty Hill, Phoebe Chandler. She was the one downstairs, the one laughing, the one who fascinated him.

He swore softly, unable to believe he was thinking of her again. He kept waking up during the night because of her—every time he’d closed his eyes, all he could see was Phoebe, standing in the light of the entry hall in her old-fashioned gown and robe, her hair flowing around her shoulders as she opened the door to him. And now here she was, back again, walking out of his dreams into his waking thoughts.

And it was damn irritating! he thought, scowling. He didn’t have time to lie around thinking about the old-fashioned lady downstairs. He had work to do. Throwing off the covers, he grabbed his clothes and stepped across the hall to the bathroom. Once he had a shower, he’d get on the phone, order a rental car from Colorado Springs, then get to work finding his father.

Ten minutes later, when he headed downstairs, he was all business. He’d ordered the rental car and decided to start his search for his father by paying a visit to the two McBrides listed in the phone book. No addresses were listed but he didn’t expect that to be a problem. He’d call both McBrides at nine, and if he couldn’t track them down, he’d walk over to the sheriff’s office and see if he knew the McBrides. Surely in a town the size of Liberty Hill, the sheriff had to know just about everyone.

His thoughts on what he would say to the McBrides when he finally found them, he had no intention of eating breakfast. The scent of baking apples and cinnamon was incredible, but he intended to skip the traditionally elaborate meal that came with the cost of his room. He just didn’t have time.

Considering that, he should have headed for the front door the second he reached the bottom of the stairs. But in the kitchen, Phoebe laughed softly and murmured something he couldn’t quite catch, and with no conscious decision on his part, he found himself following the sound of her voice.

She was dressed as she had been last night, in the soft, flowing gown and robe that had made his sleep so restless, and for a moment, he cynically wondered if the lady always cooked breakfast in her nightclothes or if she had just done so this morning for his benefit. Then he realized she didn’t even know he was watching, and he felt like an idiot.

All her attention was focused on the puppies, who were climbing all over each other, tumbling into her lap, their little tails wagging happily as they tried to get to her. Squirming and wiggling, they licked her on the face, making her giggle, and for the first time since his mother had died, Taylor found himself fighting a smile.

No woman had a right to look so pretty in the morning. She’d piled her hair up off her neck with a clip, but other than that, she’d done little to make herself beautiful. Her face was free of makeup, and she hadn’t even bothered with shoes. From where he stood, Taylor could see her bare toes peeking out from under her gown and robe. Her nails were painted with a delicate pink polish, matching the natural blush of her cheeks, and with no effort at all, he could see her sitting in the old-fashioned bathroom, her foot propped against the clawfoot tub as she painted her toenails by candlelight.

A cynical man, Taylor readily admitted that he liked women who were sophisticated and politically well connected. From what he’d seen of Phoebe Chandler, she was neither of those things. He shouldn’t have found her the least bit appealing. But he couldn’t take his eyes off her. As he watched, she picked up each puppy, kissed it on the nose, and placed it in the cardboard box she’d used to make them a bed. With a will of their own, his eyes lingered on the curve of her mouth. Would her lips taste as soft as they looked?

Caught off guard by the direction of his thoughts, he would have sworn that he didn’t make a sound, but suddenly, Phoebe glanced up and found him standing in the doorway. Not the least bit self-conscious, she smiled. “Good morning. I’m sorry I’m not dressed yet. I had a few unexpected guests under the back porch this morning. I hope they didn’t wake you.”

“I’m an early riser,” he said gruffly. Nodding at the puppies, he said, “Where’s the mama?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug as she gave the last puppy a kiss and placed it in the box before rising to her feet. “I’m afraid she’s abandoned them. There was no sign of her, so I called Merry McBride. She’ll be by later to pick them up.”

Surprised, Taylor couldn’t believe his luck. When he’d taken the room last night and learned this woman was handling the bed and breakfast for her grandmother, he’d never dreamed she would know a McBride. “Who’s she? Does she own the local animal shelter or what?”

“Actually, she’s the vet,” she replied. “She’ll take care of the puppies and find them good homes.”

Taylor opened his mouth to grill her about what she knew about the McBrides, only to remember just in time that he was supposed to be a writer, not a lawyer. He could ask as many questions as he wanted—he just couldn’t cross-examine her as if she was on the witness stand.

So with a casualness he was far from feeling, he frowned and said, “McBride…that name sounds familiar. Is her husband a rancher in the area?”

Phoebe laughed. “McBride is her maiden name. Her husband’s Nick Kincaid, the sheriff. Her family ranches, though. In fact, there’s been a McBride ranching in Liberty Hill for over a hundred years. You definitely need to talk to them for your book.”

Stunned, Taylor couldn’t believe she’d given him so much information so quickly. Were the McBrides she spoke of his father’s family? His mother had said his father was a cowboy. How was he related to Merry, the vet? And how did Phoebe Chandler know so much about the family?

Curious, he pulled out a chair at the kitchen table and asked her just that. “How do you know the McBrides? Are you friends with them or what?”

She smiled. “I’ve known them all my life. My grandmother and Sara McBride are best friends.”

“And Sara McBride is…”

“Merry’s mother. She and Myrtle have known each other forever. They were in first grade together, went to college together, and were in each other’s weddings. I can’t think of any major event in my grandmother’s life that Sara wasn’t there for. They’re like sisters.”

“So what about Mr. McBride? What’s his name?”

“Gus.”

She said his father’s name so casually and didn’t have a clue what she’d given him, Taylor thought. He’d found the son of a bitch! And he hadn’t even been in Liberty Hill an hour. Never in a million years had he dreamed finding his father would be this easy. Now he just needed his address.

He couldn’t, however, come right out and demand it, not without raising Phoebe Chandler’s eyebrows. So he swore silently, clamped a lid on the anger that always boiled in him whenever he thought of Gus McBride, and reminded himself that he had a role to play. “If Sara’s your grandmother’s age, Gus must be getting up there in age, too. Is he still ranching? Or don’t ranchers retire? What’s his story?”

Surprised, she blinked. “Gus? Oh, I’m sorry. Didn’t I tell you? He died years ago.”