Читать книгу A Taste of Texas - Liz Talley - Страница 10

BRENT EYED THE BOARDS above the wide porch of the Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast. “These are going to need replacing before we paint. I know they don’t appear to be rotten, but they are. Won’t take much time though.”

Frances Wallace peered up assessingly. “How much time? Rayne’s already riding me, wanting to hire people from the city to get this finished.”

Something inside him started at her name. Rayne Rose. He’d always loved her name, loved the way everyone said her first and last name together. The vision of an orangey-pink rose like the ones his mother grew appeared in his mind. Those dew-kissed flowers were almost the color of her hair. So pure and fresh, just like Rayne. He dashed the image aside to focus on the flaking paint above his head. “Two or three days at most. Then I’ll finish sanding and apply fresh paint. Two weeks on the total project.”

“Okay.” Frances nodded. “It’ll take that long for Meg to arrange hiring someone from Dallas anyway. I’d be obliged to you, Brent. I know you’re busy this time of year.”

“Not too busy for a neighbor, Mrs. Frances.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around the half-sanded porch. Frances had given him gingersnaps when he was a kid and let him catch ladybugs in her garden. How could he not help her when she needed someone to do exactly what he did—restore and renovate? At that moment, he wondered what the cause of all this upheaval was. What was Rayne doing back in Oak Stand? And why had she pulled her son away from school and baseball to refurbish her aunt’s bed-and-breakfast? He had questions, but no right to ask them. So he asked what he could. “So who’s this Meg?”

Frances was about to answer when a huge rattling truck roared into the tree-lined drive. The red truck belched as the engine died. Big Bubba Malone.

The mountainous Bubba climbed from his monstrosity of a truck and doffed his cap as a tiny woman appeared at his elbow.

Everything about the woman looked severe. Straight, blunt-cut dark hair, black shirt, long gray skirt, culminating with polished combat boots. A small diamond winked in a nose that balanced Elvis Costello glasses. Her chin jutted out as Bubba graciously took her elbow.

“Hands off, Jethro,” she said, pulling her arm away and stalking up the drive.

“That’s Meg. She’s Rayne’s assistant,” Frances commented from behind him.

Brent stepped back when Meg reached the steps. He didn’t want to stand in her way. She looked as mad as a cat dunked in a creek.

Frances stepped forward. “Meg, what in the world happened?”

Meg cocked her head and crossed her arms. “Oh, you mean besides having a flat outside this godforsaken town and then having to walk almost two miles before someone stopped? I don’t know…maybe it was that man slapping me on my ass and calling me little filly!”

Brent tried not to laugh. He really did, but the sound got past his lips before he could stop it.

She whirled, her dark eyes flashing behind her glasses. “What?”

He straightened. “Nothing.”

Bubba stuck his cap on his balding head and sallied toward the porch. “Mornin’, Mrs. Frances. Brent.”

“Don’t you even step one foot near me,” Meg said, flinging out a small, white hand and pointing at Bubba. “I don’t want any of your primordial ooze to get on me.”

Bubba Malone, the slightly dim, good ol’ boy of Howard County, looked down at his shirt. “I ain’t got nothing on me.”

Meg shivered. “Dear God, he’s got the brain of a flea.”

Brent could tolerate a lot. Hell, he ribbed Bubba himself upon occasion, but he wasn’t about to let a snooty slip of a feminist insult a good man. “But he has manners. After all, he picked you up.”

The termagant turned her dark eyes on him. She took him in from his work boots all the way up to his faded ball cap. He saw appreciation glint in her eyes just like almost every other woman. Then she arched an eyebrow. “So swatting a stranger on the backside is good manners around here? Really? Can’t wait to find out what the ill-mannered folk do.”

Bubba kicked a brick lining the walk. “Heck, it was a compliment. You got a sweet a—” he glanced at Frances “—uh, behind.”

Meg snapped her mouth closed as color flooded her cheeks. She stared at Bubba for a full minute before muttering, “I need to go make a call.”

She rushed through the front door, nearly bowling over Rayne in the process.

“Ow,” Rayne said, lifting a slender foot and rubbing her pinky toe. “You gotta ditch those combat boots, Megs. They’re killing me.”

Her assistant must not have answered, because Rayne shrugged and stepped onto the porch, barefoot and beautiful. Brent couldn’t stop himself from taking her in. Her unruly red hair lay tamed in a braid that fell over one shoulder. The dress she wore looked as though it had been purchased in Mexico. It had looping bright thread in whimsical patterns on the hem. A bright pink apron depicting a mixer reading Whip it Good on the front pocket nipped her trim waist and hugged her breasts. The only thing marring the perfection of Rayne was the frown she wore.

“What are you doing here?” she said, looking directly at Brent. Her eyes looked puffy, slightly red, as if she’d cried recently. Or had an allergy attack. But her gaze was flinty and accusing.

He shrugged. “I’m going to replace some boards and paint the porch.”

“No, you aren’t.” Rayne jerked her eyes to her aunt and gave her a look. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he thought it had something to do with the fact she hated him. She’d changed so much. Her words were direct and authoritarian. He could see her commanding a kitchen staff. Do this. Sauté that. Move.

“He’s the only person I can find, Rayne. And he’s my friend and neighbor. Besides, I take exception to your trying to micromanage every aspect of this venture. I’m perfectly capable of handling this.”

Bubba clomped up the stairs. “Hey, Rayne Rose.”

Rayne stopped frowning at Brent and her aunt and swiveled her head toward the large man lumbering toward her. “Oh, hey.”

Bubba wiped his hand on his shirt and offered it to Rayne. Rayne ignored his hand and rose up on her toes to give Bubba a hug. “Sorry about your momma, Bubba. She was a fine lady.”

Bubba nodded. He’d lost his mom a few years ago to cancer. “That she was. Everybody sure misses her.”

“Especially her Seven-Up cake. She taught me how to bake my first cake, you know,” Rayne said, her smile incredibly gentle. It was as if her irritation had melted away, leaving the old Rayne in its place. Brent loved her smile, the softness of it. He wanted to taste that smile against his lips.

Bubba stroked his scruffy red beard. “Yeah, she was good around the kitchen. Even taught me how to cook. Good to have you home, Rayne.”

Rayne’s frown returned. “Well, Oak Stand’s not exactly my home.”

Frances moved to Rayne’s side and curled her arm about her niece’s waist. “Of course, Oak Stand’s your home. The place you grew up is always your hometown. And she’ll be here for the next month or two. At least.”

“Maybe,” Rayne muttered, not quite meeting her aunt’s eyes.

For a moment they all stood silent, waiting for something to break the uncomfortable moment. Luckily, Bubba knew when to make an exit.

“Shoot, guess I better get. Jack’s got plenty for me to do out at the ranch. Y’all have a good mornin’.”

“You work on a ranch?” Rayne asked.

“He works for Nellie Hughes’s husband. You remember her. She’s a Tucker. Her husband, Jack, started a ranch with his daddy raising horses for the rodeo. He raises other horses, too,” Frances said, like a tour director for the Oak Stand Chamber of Commerce.

“Oh,” Rayne replied, watching Bubba head toward his truck. The overgrown man opened the door before turning around and snapping his fingers. It sounded like the crack of a bat and Frances literally jumped.

“That girl left her computer bag in my truck.”

Frances scurried toward Bubba. “I’ll get it.”

She left Brent on the porch alone with Rayne. It felt intentional.

There had once been a time when he and Rayne were like Forrest Gump and Jenny—like peas and carrots. But that time had long passed. Brent would have thought Rayne had gotten over the hurt, but one look at her yesterday as she blazed into his parents’ yard to rescue her son from his total depravity told him she still nursed the anger and betrayal. He wasn’t sure why it still felt so raw, but it did. For him, too. So standing beside her at that moment felt like standing barefoot in a field of stickers.

“If you don’t want me to do the work, just say. I’ll find someone else.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and tried to pretend she was only another customer.

Rayne looked hard at him, making him squirm. He’d broken her heart nearly fifteen years ago. He hadn’t realized what he’d done when he hadn’t shown up at the Oak Stand High auditorium that spring night. But when he’d untangled himself from the head cheerleader, put his pants back on and uncurled the wadded paper Rayne had hurled at him, he figured out pretty quickly that he’d broken her heart and ended their friendship.

Like a dumbass, he hadn’t realized her feelings for him were of the romantic variety. Not really. Sure, they’d kissed, fooled around a little when he was first trying on girls. But he and Rayne had been best buds, friends of the heart, maybe even soul mates. One look at her eyes that night, and he’d known.

He’d been a boneheaded kid, wrapped up in trying to be his dead brother, afraid to be who he really wanted to be. But he supposed the results had worked out for the best. Rayne had wiped him from her hands and spread her wings. She’d left Oak Stand and made a new life for herself, rising like a flower among the brambles to open her face to the sun. She stood as a reminder of strength and grace. He couldn’t have been prouder of her…even if she hated his guts.

Rayne crossed her arms over her breasts. She was no longer a gangly sixteen-year-old. He noticed. Oh, did he notice. “I’d like to pretend your being here for the next couple of days won’t bother me a bit. Thing is, it will. I’d like to say what happened years ago is so far back in the past that a mature woman wouldn’t give a nickel about a boy who didn’t keep a promise, but I guess I didn’t grow up enough. I’d rather you find someone else to do the job. Because I don’t want to be around you.”

Her words hurt. As sharp as a knife, they drew blood. He nodded. “I’ll see if I can find someone who can come out this afternoon. Maybe Ted Bloom’s finished over at the Pattersons’ place.”

Rayne held herself stiffly as she stood staring at the daylilies emerging from the weary earth on the side of the house. Her eyes looked wistful. He wished he could do something to make things better, but he’d screwed the pooch long ago, and had done such a fine job that nothing was left between them but bittersweet memories of what was once so good.

“I’m sorry, Rayne.” Nothing else to say, he moved to pass her and leave.

Her hand touched his arm and his step stuttered. “Why?”

The soft question hurt more than her anger.

He stopped and glanced at her elegant hand on his bare arm. Then he looked into her cinnamon eyes. Damn, but he couldn’t bear to stare into the depths because he saw a mirror image of what he’d seen that night. And like that night, it made his heart feel shattered.

He knew what she asked. For the first time, she asked why he had hurt her. Even he was afraid of the reason.

“Because I was a stupid boy who grew into a stupid man. You’re right. It’s best if I don’t do this job.”

Then he left, running with his tail tucked, like the damned coward he’d always been. It was easier to run than to explain he’d been trying harder to please his parents and everybody else in Oak Stand than to please himself…or Rayne. That he was a mere shadow of the brother he’d lost. Denny had been better. Had always been better, no matter what Brent had done to fill his shoes. He’d been a seventeen-year-old boy who hadn’t had the guts to claim Rayne Rose and the life he really wanted.

And the thirty-two-year old Brent Hamilton wasn’t any better. He still hid behind the charming persona he’d created long ago because it was easier to pretend than to get real with himself.

Because the barbers in Oak Stand still talked about how he held the state passing record. The mechanics down at the garage still talked about the touchdown he made as a redshirt freshman against Texas A&M in the last seconds of the game. The ladies down at the Curlique Salon talked about how his body made old ladies swoon and how his huge libido made women in three counties happy they’d gone home with him. His friends talked about how they wished they had a father with a construction company to hand to them.

A local legend and only he knew what a loser he really was.

Fifteen years ago, Rayne Rose had been the only person who’d “got” him. She’d been his secret, the only person who healed him and loved him for who he was. And fifteen years ago, hurting her had killed the best part of him. And ever since, he’d hated who’d he’d become. Even though on the outside, he hid it well.

So, yes, once again he ran.

RAYNE SWALLOWED WHAT FELT like ashes. She couldn’t believe she’d asked him anything about that long-ago night. Why in the hell had she done that? Years had piled upon years. It shouldn’t matter. It should be water under the bridge. Sluggish, foul water not worth contemplating. She’d crossed that bridge and taken a path far away. Brent shouldn’t matter anymore.

But he did.

She really wished he didn’t. It would be simpler if she’d felt nothing when she’d seen him again.

But to say seeing him again hadn’t unleashed the hurt, hadn’t set a pining in her heart for what they’d once had, would be a lie.

Aunt Frances passed Brent on the sidewalk and exchanged a few words. The sharp look her aunt shot her said it all. Aunt Frances was perturbed. Never a good thing.

For the second time that day, tears gathered in Rayne’s eyes. She was a stupid ball of emotion. Watching Henry walk into that second grade classroom had nearly done her in. He had been scared, though he’d squared his shoulders and pretended walking into a new school hadn’t bothered him. He’d asked her a dozen times on the way to school about when she’d pick him up, where he should stand and if he had enough money for lunch. His lack of faith in her and in the world he lived in broke her heart.

Maybe she shouldn’t have pulled him out of his old school. She simply hadn’t known what else to do. Her life had felt out of control and Henry had spent every night in her bed, thrashing and crying out. She stayed awake all night and slept all day, barely creeping out of bed to stop by the restaurant before picking him up from school.

She hadn’t known which end was up until Aunt Frances said, “Come home for a little bit, Rayne.”

And she had.

But maybe it had been a colossal mistake.

It sure seemed like one when she’d backed out of that classroom, leaving her little boy to the care of Sally Weeks, even if she were Howard County Teacher of the Year. Rayne had cried all the way to the inn as much for herself as for Henry. When had life gotten so intolerable? Had it been when Phillip died two years ago or when their dreams had started bearing fruit, spiraling out of her realm of control without someone to stand at her side? She didn’t know, but she’d hoped this project in Oak Stand could ground her again, give her focus and help her find the grit she’d lost.

“Why the devil did you tell him to find someone else?” Aunt Frances said as she mounted the steps. “I thought getting the inn in tip-top shape was vital. Brent does good work, the kind we need.”

Rayne shrugged. “I can’t handle being around him.”

“Oh, grow up. Whatever happened between you and Brent was years ago. You can’t tell me you hold a grudge over puppy love gone wrong.”

Rayne pressed her lips together. It hadn’t been puppy love. It had been the real deal. At least on her end. “It’s not about that, Aunt Fran. It’s about Henry. I want him surrounded by good influences. Brent is…unreliable. Well, not unreliable, more like irresponsible and—”

“Available. We need him.” Aunt Frances put her hands on her ample hips and gave Rayne that stare. The one her own mother never bothered to use for fear it might repress Rayne and her sister and keep them from finding enlightenment. “And don’t tell me Brent’s worse than the crew who worked here last week. I didn’t know curse words could be used in such unique combinations. They made sailors look like thumb suckers.”

Rayne almost smiled. She had to admit, the two Italian carpenters had seemed pleased with their newfound ability to pair Southernisms with the curse words they’d learned in Boston. They’d married New England girls and somehow ended up in East Texas. They possessed amazing carpentry skills and had constructed custom closets in each of the guest rooms. Rayne had nabbed them before they started contract jobs in Plano. It had been a coup since their work had been touted all over the South and featured in Southern Architecture Today. “True.”

“Yes, true. Now pull on your big girl panties, get your tail end over to Brent’s and make sure he starts tomorrow. Meg and I are meeting with Dawn Hart to look at fabric samples this afternoon, and I don’t have time to bake Brent an apple cake to apologize for my rude niece.”

Aunt Frances disappeared into the house as if her word was law. The woman had been alone for too many years to compromise. She’d meant what she said. Normally, Rayne would have dug in her heels, but this wasn’t normally. It was Oak Stand.

She swiped at the mascara that had smudged beneath her eyes. Aunt Frances was right. She needed to stop acting like she was in junior high. She was a grown woman, a grown woman who’d been married, had a child and ran a successful enterprise. She hadn’t gotten to where she was by being immature.

She sniffed, picked up the resolve she’d misplaced and marched down the steps, heading toward the Hamiltons’ century-old house.

She could still make out the path that had been beaten into the grass between the two houses long ago. The Tulip Hill Bed-and-Breakfast had been in operation for the past twelve years, ever since her Uncle Travis had dropped dead in the grocery store with a massive coronary. Until that time, it had been Aunt Fran and Uncle Trav’s house, a place full of honeysuckle and sweet gum prickle balls, a delightful place for a child to stomp and skip. Aunt Frances, heartbroken and in need of money, had turned the charming house into a place to share with others. Problem was her patrons were few and far between. Frances eked out a living, yet she seemed content doing so. Ambition had never attached itself to Frances as it had to Rayne.

A hedge of sweet olive bushes made a natural fence between the two front yards. Rayne followed the square brick pavers around to the rear of the house through the wooden gate to the charming slate-gray carriage house that sat at back of the property. The small house was unfailingly neat and simple, with only a single planter housing a sago palm squatting to the side of the French doors.

She stood on the small porch for a moment before taking a deep breath and knocking on the glass pane.

No one answered.

She knocked again.

No one.

The ginger cat leaped onto the porch nearly scaring her to death, but she saw no trace of Brent even though she’d watched him head in this direction.

She looked around. His truck was parked out front, so he had to be home.

She raised her hand and banged on the glass pane, bruising her knuckles. Still, no one came.

Where was he?

She tried the handle. It was unlocked. She pushed the door open slightly, just a crack and stuck her head inside. The room was dark but she could make out a simple couch and two armchairs. An enormous flat-screen TV hung on the adjacent wall. Very Spartan. Very male.

“Brent?” she called against the quiet of the room.

There was no answer.

She pushed the door opened wider and stepped inside.

“Yoo-hoo,” she called. “Brent?”

The house was dark and silent. She felt a little like the stupid babysitter in a slasher film. Any minute a hockey-masked boogeyman would jump out with a machete.

The door clicked shut behind her and she jumped. She took a quick step backward, knocking into an occasional table and tipping over an empty beer stein sitting on the table. She caught it with both hands before it crashed to the wood floor. She placed it next to the four remote controls on the table and stepped back, relieved she’d avoided calamity.

Something hard stopped her progress.

She whirled around to find Brent standing there naked as the day he’d been born.

“Ack!” she yelped, bumping into the table and sending the stein crashing to the floor where thankfully it didn’t shatter. “Good gravy, you’re naked.”

The room was dim, but she could make out how nicely the man fit his skin. How many times had she imagined him naked? Too many to name. For some reason, her fingers started toward the lamp switch, maybe so she could drink him in. She caught herself before she twisted the knob and plastered her hands to her eyes.

“Yeah, Captain Obvious, it’s my house. And usually you take your clothes off before you shower.”

She swallowed. Mostly because visions flitted through her head. Visions of her clothes joining his on the floor. Visions of sluicing water and warm, wet skin. All of which were totally…insane.

She didn’t say a word.

“So you have a reason for breaking and entering?”

“Of course not. I mean, I didn’t break in. You didn’t answer the door.” She chanced a peek through her fingers. He made no move to cover his nakedness. Of course. He wouldn’t. She re-covered her eyes. “Will you put on some clothes or cover yourself so I can talk to you?”

Silence met her plea.

“Please,’ she finally said, dropping her hands but squeezing her eyes closed. Or almost closed.

He moved away from her, snatching up a throw from the couch. She cracked one eye to get a brief glimpse of an ass that frankly should never be covered up. She closed her eyes again so he wouldn’t know she’d peeked.

“Okay,” he said.

She opened her eyes. He’d wrapped the afghan low on his hips. He switched on a lamp and grinned at her. It was a sexy, knowing grin.

“You peeked, didn’t you?” he said.

“I did not,” she said, crossing her arms over her chest. She hoped she didn’t get struck down for lying. “And I wasn’t breaking in. Just trying to…talk to you.”

He tugged the throw tighter around his hips. “So talk.”

Rayne looked around the room. It was clean for a bachelor pad with tasteful bookshelves loaded with books. Was that Thoreau and Kafka next to…Debbie Macomber? She pulled her gaze away and took in a rich chocolate-and-navy-striped hooked rug that centered the room along with the pictures of various birds hanging evenly over the microsuede couch.

“Ahem.” He cleared his throat.

“Oh, um, I came to apologize,” she said, keeping her gaze on the print of a snowy egret. She didn’t want to look at Brent again. He was more tempting than chocolate chip cookies, a virgin beach with no footprints and a kitchen utensil sale all rolled into one. Rayne was afraid she might do something insane, like kiss him. Or join him for a naked frolic around the living area.

What the hell was wrong with her? She was a deliberate woman. Responsible. Businesslike. Horny. Strike the last thought. She concentrated on the egret’s feathers.

“Apology accepted, though I don’t think you did anything wrong. You were honest. That’s not a crime.” His voice was emotionless. Nothing to read in the remark.

“Well, so I’m not necessarily sorry, but I did come to see if you would do the work. I shouldn’t have—” She tried to recollect her thoughts. “What I’m having trouble saying is that I shouldn’t have let our past interfere with the future. That’s silly. We need your help.” She moved her gaze to something besides the egret. This time the little blue button on the remote control.

“Rayne, look at me.”

“I can’t.”

He sighed. “Why?”

“Because this feels like a contrived romance novel plot. Sex-starved widow encounters hot old flame,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “So don’t make me look at you.”

He was silent.

She sneaked a peek. Face only. “What?”

“Are you really sex-starved?” His voice was more than curious. As if maybe he was considering dropping the woven throw. She didn’t want that. Or at least wasn’t supposed to want that.

She swallowed her panic and laughed. “You might as well ask me what I weigh. That’s something I’d never admit to.”

“Then head for the door, woman, because if you stay, we might rewrite history.”

Rayne rolled her eyes. Again. “Seriously? That’s the kind of line you use on women?”

Brent reached out, clicked off the lamp and moved her way. “Oh, yeah, haven’t you heard? I’m the master of pickup lines.”

“Oh, jeez,” Rayne said, moving toward the door in case he wasn’t teasing, even though part of her wanted to stay and find out. His laughter dogged her steps. The son of a gun was playing with her. She flung a last look over her shoulder. He stood framed against the darkness like a naughty ad for men’s cologne or close-shaving razors.

“So will you be there tomorrow?”

He smiled. “Yeah. You can count on me.”

Rayne arched an eyebrow. “Okay, I’ll hold you to that.”

Then she turned and made her way to the inn wondering if his promise meant as much now as it had back then. And wondering why she hadn’t left as soon as she’d seen he was spectacularly naked.

She didn’t know the answer to one question and was very afraid of the answer to the other.