Читать книгу The Newcomer - Margot Dalton - Страница 10

MAGGIE DISENGAGED her hand from the big man’s grasp and stepped back to examine him.

Definitely a fine specimen, she decided. Tall and broad-shouldered, with an appealing rough-hewn look and a dancing light of humor in his green eyes. His hair was very black and crisp, with a lock that fell over one eyebrow in engaging fashion.

And she loved the gentle way he’d placed the sleeping child onto that couch, then covered her so tenderly.

The soft rich brogue of his speech was also attractive, although the incongruity of his accent, here in the heart of Texas, puzzled her a little.

Maggie tried to remember what she’d recorded in her notes about Douglas Evans. To the best of her recollection he was actually the mayor, though that title probably held little significance in a place like Crystal Creek.

And he also…

“Welcome to our town, Maggie Embree,” he said softly, looking into her eyes.

Ridiculous as it was, she felt her knees turning weak. A little thrill shivered all through her body, warm and moist.

The same thing had happened when he’d taken her hand.

Maggie gave him a smile that she hoped was cool and remote, then turned away to pick up a couple of pieces of luggage. Terry shouldered some duffel bags and the tall innkeeper took the rest, except for one he offered to the solemn golden-haired child at his side who seemed anxious to help.

Obviously sensing something going on, the tabby cat leaped down from the back of the couch. She yawned and stretched, rump in the air, forelegs extended, then joined the group.

They trudged up the wide staircase, and followed the big Scotsman and his cat down the hall. “You’re very lucky,” the proprietor said over his shoulder. “We’ve just finished some renovating, and this is our slowest time so you’re the only guests at the moment. You’ll find it very quiet. Although,” he added, “the pub still does a lively business.” He paused by a polished wooden door with a high transom, took out an old-fashioned skeleton key to unlock the door and led them into a charming room furnished with floral couches, matching drapes and a television set concealed in a mahogany armoire.

“There are bedrooms on either side, each with its own bath,” the man said to Terry, gesturing toward a pair of doors. “But if you and your wife should prefer to—”

“My wife!” Terry laughed, a warm, infectious sound in the quiet room. Even the little girl smiled. “Maggie and I are brother and sister, Mr. Evans.”

“Are you now?” The tall man glanced at Maggie, and she caught a surprising flare of light in his green eyes that made her tingle again.

All these wayward reactions were beginning to upset her.

Maggie turned away nervously and tried one of the doors, which opened into a bedroom with a wooden four-poster bed and a deep padded seat at a window enshrouded in clouds of airy white muslin. Hooked rugs covered the shining hardwood floor.

For a moment she forgot everything else in her delight at the beautiful room. It was like something out of the storybooks her mother had read to her and Terry when they were children.

The cat entered with her. Clearly familiar with the room, it sniffed daintily at a floorboard near the window, tail stiffly extended. Maggie, who loved cats, smiled and bent to scratch behind the furry ears. The cat purred loudly and rubbed against Maggie’s leather boot.

“You’re brother and sister,” Doug Evans was saying behind her in the sitting room. His deep voice sounded warm and thoughtful.

“It’s really funny, that you thought we were married,” Terry told the man.

“Why?” Doug asked.

“Well, I don’t know what kind of man would ever win my sister’s hand,” Terry said, “but he’d have to be a lot different guy than I am. A billionaire industrialist or a Texas land baron, maybe.”

“Indeed?” the host said. His voice was still solemn, but Maggie could now detect a note of teasing. “So your sister prefers wealthy men?”

Alarmed by this turn of conversation, she returned to the sitting room and gave her brother a stern glance. But Terry was clearly enjoying himself and, as usual, paid her no attention.

“No, I don’t think Maggie’s particularly attracted to money,” he told the Scotsman, “but she’s fond of strength.” He gestured at the coat of arms above the small fireplace, topped by a bit of tartan and a pair of ornamental crossed swords. “You know, maybe she’d even go for some kind of warrior chieftain,” he suggested with a grin.

“Do ye really think so, then?” the man asked, his burr deepening. He cast Maggie another glance, his green eyes dancing.

“That’s quite enough,” Maggie said firmly. “Terry, I’m sure Mr. Evans has no interest in speculation about my love life, or lack thereof.”

Nervous and confused under those sparkling eyes, she rummaged through her shoulder bag and withdrew five dollars, offering the bill to the dark-haired man by the door.

“Thank you for helping with the bags,” she said politely.

He glanced at the money, then looked down at her again, his jaw tightening a little.

Maggie realized, too late, that she’d made a mistake, but she was too rattled to back down.

“Please,” she said, holding the bill while the little girl and the cat pressed up against the man’s legs. All three stood watching Maggie solemnly. “You carried all those bags upstairs for us.”

“You and your brother are very welcome here, Maggie,” the man said quietly, making her feel even more ridiculous, almost like a child being scolded.

“But it’s not our policy to accept payment for assisting our guests.”

He turned with quiet dignity and left the room with Moira and Dundee at his heels.

Maggie went to the doorway and watched as he strode along the hallway. His shoulders looked wide and strong, and his hips were lean and hard under the faded denim jeans.

“Well, that’s great.” She came back into the room and closed the door. “A Scottish cowboy with lofty moral principles. Just what we need to complicate things even more than they already are.”

Her brother watched her with interest. “The guy really gets to you. Doesn’t he, Maggie?”

She shrugged and took off her jacket, then massaged her shoulders wearily. “I’m a little worried about that lord-of-the-manor attitude. This man’s going to be trouble for us, Terry. I can just feel it.”

“Trouble for you, maybe.” Terry removed his shoes and reclined on one of the couches, stretching contentedly. “I have nothing to do with this whole crackbrained scheme, remember? I’m just along to drive the car and provide technical support.”

“And to escape the paint fumes and sawdust in your apartment.” Maggie sprawled opposite him in a big overstuffed chair and tugged off her leather boots. “Are you sorry you came?”

“Somebody has to look after you, kid. Especially when Natasha’s being so irrational.”

“Look after me!” She smiled at him. “When you’re this deep into a book, you hardly even know where you’re living, even when your place is being renovated. I’ll bet a houseful of carpenters would hardly have bothered you.”

“I have two hundred pages left to write, Maggie,” he said, suddenly serious. “I need peace and quiet to finish the book. And this town certainly looks peaceful enough.”

“But you really don’t approve of what Natasha’s doing here, do you?” Maggie continued to watch her brother thoughtfully.

“Approve? You’ve got to be kidding. I think it’s the craziest thing I ever heard of. And so do you,” he added shrewdly.

“It’s what Natasha wants.” Maggie sighed and stretched her feet, wiggling her toes in relief.

“Well,” Terry said with a grin, “that would explain the craziness.”

“Look, what can I do, tell her she’s being completely irrational?”

“I think that’s a major part of Natasha’s problem.” Terry’s pleasant face turned thoughtful. “Nobody’s ever refused her anything in her whole life. Imagine what it must be like to have a hundred million dollars and everybody in the world falling all over themselves to fulfill your smallest whim. Anybody’s view of life would get a little distorted.”

Maggie watched him for a moment, then shook her head and dug into a leather briefcase. She took out a bulky file folder and sat back to leaf through it.

“Here it is,” she said at last.

“What?” He rolled his head on the chintz cushion to glance at her.

“Douglas Evans,” she said, reading aloud from a sheet of paper. “Hotel proprietor, mayor, real estate salesman and stockbroker. Thirty-five years old, bachelor, lives in a suite of rooms on the main floor of the hotel. Arrived in Texas more than six years ago from his native Scotland and immediately applied for a green card, became a naturalized citizen two years later. Rumored to be independently wealthy, and a passionate booster of Crystal Creek. More in love with the town, it appears, than many of the natives.”

“He sounds like a very nice guy,” Terry commented. “I like him.”

Maggie stared at the paper, feeling a rising concern when she thought about the stern look on Doug Evans’s handsome face after she’d offered him that money.

The man had seemed almost disappointed in her. But of course, that was ridiculous. He didn’t even know her.

“I knew he was going to be trouble,” she said again. “He’s the mayor, Terry, I wonder how much influence he has around here. Maybe I should…”

“It makes me nervous when you get that look in your eye,” her brother commented, smiling at her. “Keep reading the file, Maggie. What does it say about those two kids, and the sister?”

Maggie consulted the paper again. “Sarah Rose Murdoch, arrived from Scotland almost a year ago on a visitor’s visa, which apparently is near expiry. Rose helps in the hotel and rents a little cottage down near the river. She’s divorced and has two children. Moira, aged nine, and Robin, who’s four.”

“So those two kids belong to Rose,” he mused, staring at the stamped tiles on the ceiling. “Cute little things, aren’t they?”

“Very cute.” Maggie smiled fondly, thinking about Robin’s plump sleeping face and Moira’s solemn gaze. Then she began consulting other pages in her files.

“And their mother is cute, too,” Terry was saying. He shifted his long legs to a more comfortable position on the couch. “Did you notice how Rose got all flustered and pink when she was worried about finding rooms for us? Not many women actually blush anymore, did you know that, Mags?”

“It’s a lost art,” Maggie agreed, jotting down some reminders to herself on a sheet of paper. “Terry, how soon do you think he’ll be able to get us set up in here? Because I really don’t see how we can manage if—”

She was interrupted by a knock on the door. Maggie tensed and closed the file abruptly.

“Come in,” Terry called. He swung his feet to the floor and sat erect.

The door was opened by the smaller of the two girls, the one who’d been sleeping earlier on the couch in the lobby. She was wide awake now, her golden curls standing out all around her head, blue eyes sparkling with excitement.

“Mummy’s bringing you tea,” she announced, waving her hand at the hallway. “And oatmeal scones. They’re yummy. Moira and I always…”

“Now, don’t bother the lady and gentleman with your chatter, Robin.” The child’s mother entered the room and deposited a large silver tray on the table, laden with oatcakes, pots of butter and jam, a brown teapot and a pair of cups.

Moira followed, carefully bearing a small platter with cream, sugar and napkins. The cat came with her, striding along in lordly fashion.

“Rose, this is a lovely surprise.” Maggie beamed at the smaller woman, who still looked painfully shy. “How thoughtful of you.”

Rose Murdoch stood awkwardly by the door in her blue jeans and sweater, hugging her arms, with the two children close to her.

“We always have tea at this time of day,” she said in her appealing soft brogue. “And if you’ve driven a long way, I’m sure you could use a wee bite.”

Robin edged back across the room in her little green running shoes. She stood cautiously next to Terry, who was looking with appreciation at the contents of the bigger tray.

“Taste them,” the little girl whispered, pointing a finger at the steaming oatmeal scones. “Uncle Dougie says our mummy makes the best scones in all the world.”

“Well,” Terry said solemnly to the child, “your uncle Doug strikes me as a very smart man, so I’ll bet he’s right.”

He gave Rose a sunny smile and a wink, and the woman looked away quickly, appearing flustered.

“Rose, I love this cat,” Maggie said, mostly to set the shy woman at ease. “What’s her name?”

“She’s my brother’s cat,” Rose said, with a smile that made her face light up. “Her name is Dundee.”

“Uncle Doug always has a cat called Dundee,” Moira said. “But this is the best one ever.”

“Yes, she’s a beautiful cat.” Maggie smiled again at Rose, who ducked her blond head, murmured something to the two girls and hastened from the room, closing the door quickly behind her.

After they were gone, Terry bit into one of the scones and sighed in bliss, then reached for the teapot.

“Robin’s right, this is just delicious.” He gave Maggie a bright glance. “I’m glad to see you’re capable of learning, kiddo.”

“What do you mean?”

Terry spread strawberry jam on a bit of scone. “I was afraid you might offer the poor woman a tip.”

Maggie looked over at him, stung by the implied criticism. “Come on, Terry,” she said. “If this was a big-city hotel and I hadn’t offered a tip, the man would have been mortally offended.”

Terry poured a cup of tea and offered it to her. “But we’re not in the big city, Maggie. This is small-town America. That’s what you and Natasha don’t seem to realize.”

“The setting may be different,” Maggie said. “But don’t you think human nature is the same all over the world? Natasha’s so certain that when these people learn what we’re offering…”

She paused and took a sip of tea.

Her brother gave her a measuring glance over the rim of his cup. “Go on, say it. How will these people react when they find out a rich, famous movie star wants to buy their town, and turf them all out of here?”

“Natasha has no intention of turfing anybody out,” Maggie said wearily. “You know I’d never be part of something like that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t. You’re a nice, good-hearted girl, Maggie, underneath all that sophisticated big-city veneer.”

Maggie frowned, staring out the window.

“Natasha just wants to buy all the houses and businesses,” he said, “and then rent them back to the folks. What a great deal.”

“Oh, God, they’re going to hate it, aren’t they?” Maggie said in despair. “Even though most of these businesses are in financial trouble, and the houses are burdened with high property taxes. You know, Natasha truly believes her project will provide an infusion of cash that’s badly needed in Crystal Creek.”

“And in return, she’ll own the whole town. It’ll be Natasha’s private playground, to do with exactly as she pleases. She’ll get to be the undisputed queen of Crystal Creek.”

“I doubt if that’s what she wants, Terry.”

“How do you know what she wants?” he asked bluntly.

Maggie thought about Natasha Dunne, her baffling and enigmatic employer.

“I’m not sure anybody knows what Natasha really wants, or how she thinks about things,” she confessed. “But the way she explained it to me, this is entirely a sentimental project. Crystal Creek has always meant a lot to her.”

Terry helped himself to another scone and munched it with pleasure.

“Yeah, I know all about the sentiment,” he said. “How touching it is. Natasha films a movie here thirty years ago while her brand-new husband is fighting valiantly in Vietnam…”

“He was killed over there, Terry.” Maggie gave her brother a reproving glance.

Terry ignored her. “And only the warmth and support of the Crystal Creek townspeople helps our poor little Natasha to pull through and go on living. The whole story’s become a national legend.”

“So why do you sound sarcastic whenever you talk about it?”

He shrugged. “I just wonder about things sometimes. Sentiment doesn’t seem to me like sufficient motivation to buy a whole town. For God’s sake, who buys a town, Maggie?”

“Natasha does,” she said dryly.

“Hell, no. She sends her loyal administrative assistant to scout the area and buy the town, while she lounges on a cruise ship in the Mediterranean.”

“She’s recovering from surgery, Terry. You know that. Natasha’s in a great deal of pain.”

He chuckled. “You make it sound like a heart transplant. The woman had a face-lift, for God’s sake.”

“It’s still very painful,” Maggie said. “And she needs to recover in privacy.”

Terry looked at her curiously. “Why are you always so loyal to the woman, Mags? Even when she’s being completely bizarre and irrational. I know how much this stuff drives you crazy, but you hardly ever let me say a word against her.”

“I’m closer to her than you are,” Maggie said. “And you know what? I really like her. Underneath all the glitz and nonsense, there’s a core of goodness in Natasha. I think she’s a vulnerable person.”

Terry grinned and buttered a bit of scone. “I can’t say I’ve noticed the vulnerability all that much.”

“She helped us all those years before Mom died,” Maggie said.

“I guess so. But we were no more to her than names on a page, Maggie. Our family was Natasha’s designated charity—her tax deduction.”

“Aren’t you even a little bit grateful to her?” Maggie asked, sipping her tea.

“Sure I’m grateful. But I still don’t believe charity gives Natasha the right to own you, and make you do anything she wants you to.”

“Terry, eight years ago I chose to work for Natasha, and it’s been a damn good job. Certainly not some kind of indentured servitude, the way you’re implying.”

Her brother watched her thoughtfully. “So how much are you allowed to spend, buying this nice little place? What do towns sell for nowadays?”

“Natasha’s prepared to invest up to thirty million dollars. She’d like to acquire all of the business area, and a good portion of the private residences.”

“And what’s she going to do with them?”

Maggie shrugged wearily. “I told you, nobody really knows. Maybe she’ll change the name of the town to Dunne Creek, or have her picture on the postmark.”

“Maybe she’ll build a theme park, and call it Natasha Land.”

Maggie laughed at this. “You’re right, Terry. Who knows what she might do? Maybe after the cruise,” she added hopefully, “Natasha will change her mind altogether.”

“Well, if she doesn’t,” he said with an answering grin, his good humor apparently restored, “I sure don’t envy you the task of trying to buy this hotel from Doug Evans.”

Maggie’s laughter faded. She set down her teacup, staring at the window.

“I know there’ll be lots of opposition,” she said. “If Natasha insists on going ahead with this, the only hope would be to find one or two people who are willing to sell, and approach them first with offers to purchase. Once we’ve already acquired even a small block of local property, others might be tempted by the cash.”

“But?” he prompted.

“But I’m really hoping she’ll just forget the whole project,” Maggie confessed.

Terry got up and wandered across the room to look down at the quiet street. Maggie watched his casual, lounging figure, wondering what he was thinking.

“How old do you suppose Rose Murdoch is?” he asked without turning around.

Maggie looked at her notes again. “It doesn’t say, but I’d guess she’s about my age.”

“And you’ll be thirty-one in March, right?”

“How nice of you to remember,” Maggie said dryly. “I’m really touched.”

Terry ignored her, still gazing at the street. “Rose is probably closer to my age,” he said at last. “Late twenties, don’t you think?”

“If that’s true, she must have been married very young,” Maggie said, “because the older girl is nine years old.”

“Do your notes say why she got divorced?”

Maggie looked with sudden interest at her brother’s blond head, glistening in the late-afternoon light from the window.

“Terry, what’s this all about? Why the big concern about Rose Murdoch?”

“I just like the look of her,” he said, coming back to sprawl on the couch again.

“Yes, I noticed that.” Maggie gave him a teasing smile.

“She seems like a nice person,” he said with studied casualness. “Is it so strange that I’d notice a good-looking woman?”

“When you’re in the middle of working on that book, you never seem to notice anybody.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m not working at the moment. I haven’t written a word in the past week, since we decided to come out here on this crazy project.”

“You should have rented that apartment down on the beach while they were working on your place.”

“I didn’t want you out here all alone, dealing with Natasha when she’s on one of her tangents. And I don’t care where I live as long as I can work. But I won’t be working anytime soon,” he added restlessly, “unless your big Scotsman gets some computer equipment installed up here.”

“He’s not my Scotsman!” Maggie said hotly.

Her brother arched an eyebrow, his face sparkling with amusement. “Why, Maggie,” he said, raising a cup in her direction. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“What?” she said.

“You’re actually blushing. You’ve turned as pink as Rose Murdoch.”

Maggie frowned and swatted her younger brother with the file folder while he ducked aside, laughing. Then she began hauling her luggage into the bedroom with its snowy-white curtains and four-poster bed.