Читать книгу Stranded For The Holidays - Lisa Carter - Страница 14

Jonas was beginning to believe that maybe she had hit her head. She didn’t look like a criminal on the lam, but what did he know? As his mother was quick to remind him, he didn’t get out much.

Of course, the woman being a flatlander could possibly explain the absurdity of the situation. Flatlanders did illogical and ill-advised things.

Like driving an expensive sports car on a mountain in a blinding snowstorm. His eyes cut to the enormous bow on her head. In a fancy, pre-Christmas party getup, no less.

Unlike the usual mountain twang he was accustomed to, she spoke in one of those soft, honeyed Southern drawls.

The pretty flatlander smiled at him. Brightly. Those eyes of hers...

She held out her hand. “Where are my manners? We haven’t been introduced. My name is AnnaBeth Cummings.”

“I know.” He shoved the purse at her. “I needed a name to tell the paramedics.” He stuck his hands in his coat pockets. “Although, I doubt they’d have made it up the mountain in these conditions.”

The flatlander blinked at him. Once. Twice. “And your name would be?”

“Jonas Stone.”

Hunter swung around to face her. “My name’s Hunter.”

Jonas didn’t like how his son hadn’t let go of the woman. As if he was already getting too attached.

The Cummings woman touched a light hand to the top of his son’s small Stetson. “I like your hat.” She tilted her head. The floppy bow went cattywampus again. “So much better than mine.”

Hunter grinned. “I’m a cowboy.” He jutted his thumb. “Wike my dad.”

She smiled. “I can see that.”

The flatlander had a nice smile.

“We have a wanch. And hosses. Most people visit us in the summer.”

She glanced at Jonas.

“FieldStone Dude Ranch.”

“A real ranch with real cowboys.” She threw him another smile. “How fun.”

The sweetness of her smile sent him into a tailspin, and he felt the need to be disagreeable. “It’s a lot of hard work.”

Her smile faltered. “Thank you for coming to my rescue, Mr. Stone. I hate to trouble you further, but perhaps you could call a tow truck for me?” She squeezed Hunter’s hand before letting go. “I can wait in my car until it arrives.”

She had an expressive face. He wondered what it must be like to wear your feelings so transparently for everyone to see. Somebody ought to warn her.

The world loved nothing better than squashing little optimists like her. He ought to know. Once upon a time, he’d been one, too.

“No, Dad...” Hunter’s eyes beseeched him. “She’s supposed to come home wif us.”

Confusion flitted across the woman’s face. “Supposed?”

“If the paramedics can’t make it here tonight, a tow truck can’t, either.” Jonas folded his arms over his chest. “You can’t stay in your car. You’ll freeze to death.”

What was he going to do with her? There was nothing on this road, except the ranch. He doubted he could take her to town and return before the road became impassable. He didn’t like the idea of leaving his mother isolated at the ranch. And he had the horses to think of, too.

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” The honey in her voice became crisp, businesslike. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Shards of ice pelted the shoulders of his jacket. He sighed. Loudly.

“Look, lady. There’s nothing else for it.”

This was giving him a headache. He scowled. The entire day had turned into a giant headache.

“You’ll have to spend the night at the lodge, Miz Cummings.”

Her chin came up. “It’s ‘Miss.’ But please call me AnnaBeth.” She bit her lip. “I don’t want to impose. Or be a bother.”

Something slightly woebegone in her voice stirred his conscience. Not the most gracious of invitations. Grown or not, had his mother heard him, she would’ve tanned his hide.

But he was tired. And there was something about this woman that made him...

Hunter’s gaze ping-ponged from his father to the flatlander. “D-Dad?” His little guy’s voice quavered.

And what about the ungentlemanly—not to mention un-Christian—example he was setting for his son?

So when life started whirling out of control, he did what he usually did: he got exasperated. “Everyone, just get in the truck.”

Hunter solemnly pursed his mouth. “Don’t fo-get to say pwease, Dad.”

Jonas gritted his teeth. “Please get in the truck.”

She took a step toward her car. “My suitcase.”

He caught the sleeve of her coat. “I’ll get it. Trunk or passenger seat?”

“Trunk. And a smaller bag, too.” She snapped open her purse, and handed him the key. “Thank you, Mr. Stone.”

“Jonas,” he muttered.

She gave him a small smile, but big enough to launch a storm of another kind square in the middle of his chest.

He stomped through the growing drifts to her vehicle. He wasn’t usually given to such frivolous notions, but the flatlander seemed to bring out the nonsensical in him.

After relocking her car, he stowed the pink, hard-shell case and the smaller black camera bag below Hunter’s dangling boots. Once behind the steering wheel, he found himself shoulder-to-shoulder with a blushing AnnaBeth.

Straddling the transmission console, she sat squashed between Hunter’s booster seat and the wheel. “Sorry,” she whispered.

Thing was, part of him was real sorry. And the other part...wasn’t. The part that enjoyed the pleasing scent of roses wafting from her.

He glowered at the pleased part of himself.

She gazed through the windshield. “It’s really coming down. I’ve never seen so much snow in my life. Autumn at this elevation must be spectacular. It’s my favorite season.”

His favorite season, too. But it was becoming apparent she didn’t require his contribution to keep a conversation going. Which was more than fine with him. Instead, he cranked up the heat a notch.

She positioned her heels together on the hump underneath the vent. “Despite being cold and barren, I think winter is beautiful in it’s own way.”

Cold and barren—not unlike his life since Kasey left. He’d lost more than his marriage. He’d lost his hope. Like a horse in the trace, he’d kept his head down, his heart bridled, and plodded on. Existing day-to-day.

“Is the ranch far?”

He gripped the wheel. “Not far.” The truck plowed through the blowing drifts. There was a brief silence, and then—

“Think we’ll make it?”

He flicked a glance at her. She was as perky and bubbly as a brand-new pup. And about as much trouble.

Jonas set his jaw. “Yes.”

“Not much of a talker, are you?”

Hunching his shoulders, he gave her a sideways look. “Not something I imagine you’ve ever been accused of.”

She laughed.

AnnaBeth Cummings had a nice laugh. Light, happy and silvery. He almost smiled...before he caught himself.

Perhaps giving him up as a lost cause—she wouldn’t be the first—she turned to his son. They spent the next few minutes discussing weighty matters, such as a preference for peanut butter or chocolate. They decided on both.

Ahead, he spotted the familiar stone pillars marking the entrance to the ranch. Nearly home. He couldn’t wait to off-load the high-spirited flatlander onto his mother.

God willing—and the creek didn’t freeze—come tomorrow this unsettling woman would return to her own world. And he could return to his.

The idea failed to cheer him as much as he’d supposed it might. He had the disquieting feeling that somehow nothing might ever be the same again.

Once through the FieldStone gateposts, the land opened into a valley of wood-framed cabins. AnnaBeth leaned forward to get a better view. A blanket of snow lay over everything. Snow-daubed evergreens dotted the perimeter of the property.

“It’s like something out of a dream,” she said. “A dream of home, family and belonging.”

Jonas Stone’s eyes cut to her. Cheeks reddening, she set her face forward.

With great excitement, Hunter drew her attention to points of interest. The truck wound its way over the rolling terrain, past the split-rail fence that lined the snow-covered pastures.

She waved her hand. “I love the names of the cabins.” She savored the words. “The Laurel. The Azalea. The Hummingbird.”

Hunter hugged her arm. “I’m so happy you’re fine-a-wee here.”

“Finally here?” Touched by the sweet sincerity in the little boy’s face, she hugged him back. “So am I, sweetie pie.”

“Uh...” Jonas shifted. “Miss Cummings... My son...” An interesting look she wasn’t sure how to interpret fell across his features.

She smiled at him. “Yes, Mr. Stone?”

But his face resumed its usual aloof expression. “Nothing...”

She bit her lip. Reminding herself that not everyone enjoyed conversation, she concentrated on his son. “Why is the ranch called the FieldStone, Hunter?”

“My name is Stone.” Hunter broadened his chest. “And Gwam-ma’s name is Fielding.”

Jonas drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel. “I’m the fourth-generation Stone to work the ranch.”

Hunter held up his small hand. “I’ll be... One, two, three, four.” He ticked off each finger. “Five.”

She tapped her finger on the tip of his button nose. “Yes, you will be.”

Jonas cleared his throat. “When my father died—”

“Oh.” She straightened. “I’m so sorry.”

Jonas shrugged. “I was too young to remember him.”

“I was young when my mother died, too.”

His stoic expression flickered for a second before the impenetrable barrier fell into place once more. “My mother married the ranch foreman, Wilton Fielding.”

“Field... Stone.” She smiled. “Got it.”

“He was great,” Jonas grunted. “Best stepfather I could’ve wished for.”

She settled her back against the seat. Unlike when her father married pushy Victoria, who, in her opinion, left a lot to be desired in the mothering department.

“Dat’s the Whip-po-wheel.” Hunter motioned toward the duplex cabin. “And over dere’s de Dogwood.”

Jonas never took his eyes from the road. “Whip-poor-will.”

Hunter gestured to the red, gambrel-roofed barn. “We have dances dere.”

At the curve in the bend of trees, his father palmed the wheel. “In summer.”

The hunky cowboy might not be much of a talker, but he had nice hands. Lived-in hands. Strong, work-calloused hands. When he caught her looking, she felt a blush creep up her neck.

Get it through your head, AnnaBeth. He’s married.

Although—she cut her eyes to his hands again—he wasn’t wearing a ring. But what did she know? Maybe some married men didn’t.

“Sweet potatoes,” she muttered, earning her another unreadable glance from Jonas.

“Haywides and twail wides and hoss-shoes.” Hunter motioned toward two tall poles, standing like steel sentinels on the snow-packed concrete. “And va-wee-bawl.”

Twilight was descending fast. But on a knoll above the cluster of cabins and outbuildings, lights from a two-story wood-and-stone structure beckoned.

Hunter grinned. “We’re home.”

AnnaBeth gulped. Home. She’d done more than just run away from her own wedding.

She’d spent her entire life trying to please her father. He’d been so ecstatic about her engagement. It made her sick to think of how she’d disappointed him today.

And after embarrassing Victoria in front of Charlotte society, she doubted she had a home anymore. She’d learned early not to make waves. Now she’d pay a heavy price for asserting her independence.

Pulling the truck into the circular driveway in front of the house, Jonas parked at the end of the snow-covered sidewalk. When he got out, the wind whistled through the open door, and she shuddered.

“Wait here.” He grimaced. “I’ll come around.”

She tried not to take his unfriendliness to heart. “Do you need help unbuckling the lap belt, Hunter?”

“I can do it.” He pressed the lever, and the belt whizzed free, retracting. “I’m a big boy.”

She smiled. “Yes, you are.”

Keeping his thumb down, he held up his hand. “I’m four.”

“So, so big,” she agreed.

His father threw open the door and stepped aside as Hunter jumped to the ground. “Miss Cummings?”

Ignoring his outstretched hand, she slid across the seat and inched around the booster seat. At the edge of the cab, she hesitated. He took hold of her hand.

The moment his fingers touched her skin, sparks flew up her arm. His brown eyes widened. Mirroring, she figured, her own shock.

“Static electricity,” he muttered.

Of course. What else could it be? Discombobulated, she allowed him to assist her to the ground. Her heels sank into the snow.

Dropping his hand, she took a step forward. Snow sloshed inside her open-toed, ivory silk pumps. At the sudden cold, she gasped.

She slogged forward, but it was slow going. Gauging the distance from the truck to the house, she bit back a sigh. She was beginning to lose feeling in her feet. Her knees wobbled.

He flicked a look in her direction. “Miss Cummings?”

“M-m-maybe you sh-sh-should go first and warn your w-w-wife to expect c-c-company.”

Giving her a dour look, he folded his arms over his chest. “I don’t have a wife.”

Maybe that’s just what his face did whenever he looked at her. Then his words registered.

The hunky cowboy didn’t have a wife.

“Don’t want a wife,” he growled.

The small, irrepressible bubble of joy burst. Another dream dying an ignominious death. But that meant Jonas Stone was a widower? Or divorced?

Hunter tugged her hand. “My mudder died, too, Snow Pwincess.”

“I’m not a princess—Whoa!”

Jonas scooped her into his arms.

Sucking in a breath, she found herself pressed against the softness of his calfskin coat. “What’re you doing?”

“Getting you out of the cold before you get pneumonia.” He plowed forward.

Jostled, she threw her arms around his neck. He’d lifted her so effortlessly, thinking nothing of it. As if she was MaryDru or Victoria.

“I’ll get your bags later.”

She found herself at eye level with his square, stubble-covered jaw. A vein pulsed in his throat, visible in the exposed V of skin where he’d neglected to fasten the top button of his coat. But he fixed his gaze on navigating the slippery path.

Hunter didn’t wait for them. Racing along the sidewalk, he headed for the porch. The heavy oak door swung open. A cell phone in her hand, an attractive, auburn-haired woman in her late fifties ventured out.

“Look what Santa bwought me, Gwam-ma!” Hunter bobbed in his boots. “Me and Dad bwung her home.”

Jonas carried AnnaBeth up the stone steps.

“I was on the phone with Aunt IdaLee...” Eyes the same shade as the cowboy’s, his mother’s gaze darted from her grandson to AnnaBeth. “Who have you brought home, Jonas?”

AnnaBeth pushed the obnoxious bow higher on her forehead. “Mr. Stone rescued me on the mountain road after my car broke down.”

Tucking the phone into the pocket of her cardigan, Mrs. Fielding ushered them inside the house.

“She was walking on the woad, Gwam-ma. Dad awe-most killed her.”

Mrs. Fielding shut the door against the driving snow. “What?”

“A misunderstanding.” Keeping one arm draped around his neck for balance, she held out her hand. “I’m AnnaBeth Cummings. So sorry to drop in on you like this.”

“Please call me Deirdre.” Eyes narrowing, his mother clasped her fingers. “AnnaBeth Cummings... Why does your name sound so familiar?” An amused expression lightened her features. “Speaking of dropped, feel free to put her down anytime, Jonas.”

The color of his neck immediately went brick-red. He set AnnaBeth on her feet so fast, she had to catch hold of the wall.

“Sorry to be so heavy,” she whispered.

“You’re not heavy. I’m used to hauling sacks of feed.” He scrubbed his hand over his face. “Not that you’re like a sack of feed... Or any other kind of sack... I just meant...” He closed his eyes. “I’m going to stop talking now.”

His mother planted her hands on her hips. “Silence might be for the best, Jonas.”

“I’ll go get your luggage.” A flush darkening his sharp cheekbones, he slipped out the door and back into the storm.

“Please forgive my inarticulate son.” Deirdre led AnnaBeth into a large, open-space living room. “He’s rusty when it comes to a woman’s tender sensibilities.”

Rough-hewn wooden beams bolstered the soaring ceiling. A wall of windows provided what in fair weather she guessed were magnificent views of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Deirdre eased AnnaBeth into one of the leather armchairs flanking the massive stone fireplace. Orange-red flames danced from the fire in the hearth.

“Thank you, Deirdre.”

At the sudden whoosh of cold air, Jonas returned. Using his shoulder, he heaved the stout oak door shut, cutting off the roaring wind.

Hunter plastered himself to AnnaBeth’s elbow. “I told her awe about de wanch, Gwam-ma.”

Deirdre smiled, tiny lines fanning out from the corners of her eyes. “Welcome to the FieldStone Ranch, AnnaBeth.” She nudged the brim of Hunter’s Stetson upward. “Hats off in the house, remember, Hunter?”

AnnaBeth liked the motherly Deirdre Fielding. Probably not her fault that her son was a surly, ill-tempered cowboy.

Shuffling his boots, Jonas handed Hunter his hat, too. Hunter hung both hats on pegs on the far wall.

Deirdre’s gaze fell to AnnaBeth. “Oh, honey. You must be frozen. We need to get you out of those wet clothes. And those shoes... Your feet must feel like a block of ice.” She turned to her son. “How long was she walking in the snow? We should check for frostbite.”

“F-frostbite?” she whispered.

All of a sudden, everything became too much. The wedding. Scott. MaryDru. Getting lost. Almost getting hit by a truck.

Now this? Her eyelids stung with unshed tears. Hunter, Jonas and Mrs. Fielding swam in her vision.

By running away, had she made the worst mistake of her life?