Читать книгу Lonergan's Secrets - Maureen Child - Страница 9

Maggie sat in her living room and stared across the yard at the main ranch house. No more than twenty feet of ground separated the two buildings, but at the moment it felt like twenty miles.

In the two years she’d lived at the Lonergan ranch she’d never felt more of an outsider. Never felt as alone as she had that first day when her car had finally gasped its last and died right outside the main gate.

Tears were close. Maggie was out of money and now out of transportation. Though she had nowhere in particular to go, up until five minutes ago she’d have been able to get there.

Staring up and down the long, empty road, edged on both sides by open fields, she fought a rising tide of despair that threatened to choke her. The afternoon sun was hot and reflected back off the narrow highway until she felt as though she were standing in an oven. No trees shaded the road, and the last sign she’d passed had promised that the town of Coleville was still twenty-five miles away.

Just thinking about the long walk ahead of her made her tired. But sitting down and having a good long cry wouldn’t get her any closer to town. And feeling sorry for herself would only get her a stuffed-up nose and red eyes. Nope. Maggie Collins didn’t waste time on self-pity. Instead she kept trying. Kept searching. Knowing that someday, somewhere, she’d find the place where she belonged. Where she could plant herself and grow some roots. The kind of roots she’d always wanted as a child.

But to earn those roots she had to get off her duff. Resigned, she opened up the car door and grabbed her navy-blue backpack off the floor of the passenger seat.

“Looks like that car’s about had it.”

She hit her head on the roof of the old car as she backed out and straightened up all in one motion. The old man who’d spoken stood just a few feet from her, leaning against one of the whitewashed posts holding up a sign that proclaimed Lonergan. She hadn’t even heard him approach, which told her that either he was more spry than he looked or she was even more tired than she felt.

Probably the latter.

He wasn’t very tall. He wore a battered hat that shaded his lined, leathery face and his watchful dark eyes. His blue jeans were faded and worn, and his boots looked as if they were older than him.

“It just die on you?” he asked with a wave of one tanned hand at the car.

“Yeah,” she said after seeing the quiet glint of kindness in his dark brown eyes. “Not surprising, really. It’s been on borrowed time for the last few hundred miles.”

He looked her up and down—not in a threatening way, she thought later, but as a man might look at a lost child while he thought about how to help her.

Finally he said, “Can’t do anything about that car of yours, but if you’d care to come up to the house, maybe we can rustle up some lunch.”

She glanced back down the road at the emptiness stretching out in either direction, then back at the man waiting quietly for her to make up her mind. Maggie’d learned at an early age to trust her instincts, and every one she had was telling her to take a chance. What did she have to lose? Besides, if he turned out to be a weirdo, she was pretty sure she could outrun him.

“I can’t pay you for the food,” she said, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze with the only thing she had left—her pride. “But I’d be happy to do some chores for you in exchange.”

One corner of his mouth lifted and his face fell into familiar laugh lines that crinkled at the edges of his eyes. “I think we can work something out.”

Maggie sighed at the memory and leaned her head back against the overstuffed cushion of the big chair. Curling her legs up beneath her, she looked around the small cottage that had been her sanctuary for the last two years. A guesthouse, Jeremiah had offered it to her that first day. By the end of the lunch she’d prepared for them, he’d given her a job and this little house to call her own. And for two years they’d done well together.

She turned her head and for the first time saw a light other than the one in Jeremiah’s bedroom burning in the darkness. And she wondered what Sam Lonergan’s arrival was going to do to her world.

The scent of coffee woke him up.

Sam rolled over in the big bed and stared blankly at the ceiling. For a minute or two he couldn’t place where he was. Nothing new for him, though. A man who traveled as much as he did got used to waking up in strange places.

Then familiarity sneaked in and twisted at his heart, his guts. The room hadn’t changed much from when he was a kid. Whitewashed oak-plank walls, dotted with posters of sports heroes and one impossibly endowed swimsuit beauty, surrounded him. A desk on the far wall still held a plastic model of the inner workings of the human body, and the twin bookcases were stuffed with paperback mysteries and thrillers sharing space alongside medical dictionaries and old textbooks.

He threw one arm across his eyes and winced at the sharp jab of pain as memories prodded and poked inside him. A part of him was listening, half expecting to hear long-silent voices. His cousins, shouting to him from their rooms along the hall. It had always been like that during the summers they spent together.

The four Lonergan boys—as close as brothers. Born during a three-year clump, they’d grown up seeing each other every summer on the Lonergan ranch. Their fathers were brothers, and though none of them felt the pull for the ranch where they’d grown up, their sons had.

This was a world apart from everyday life. Where the land rolled open for miles, inviting boys to hop on their bikes to explore. There were small-town fairs, and fireworks and baseball games. There was working in the fields, helping with the horses Jeremiah had once kept and swimming in the lake.

At that thought, everything in Sam seized up. His heart went cold and air struggled to enter his lungs. It was harder than he thought it would be, being here. Seeing everything the same and yet so different.

“Shouldn’t have come,” he muttered, his voice sounding scratchy and raw to his own ears. But then, how could he not? The old man was in bad shape and he needed his grandsons. There was simply no way to deny him that.

Fifteen years he’d been gone and this room looked as though he’d left it fifteen minutes ago. It’s a hard thing for a grown man to come into the room he’d left as a boy. Especially when he’d left that room under a black cloud of guilt and pain.

But none of this was making it any easier on him.

“Not supposed to be easy,” he muttered, tossing the quilt covering him aside so he could stand up and face the first day of what promised to be the longest summer of his life.

From downstairs came the homey sounds of pans rattling and soft footsteps against the hardwood floor. The aroma of coffee seemed thicker now, heavier, though it was probably only that he was awake enough now to really hunger for it.

Had to be the water nymph in the kitchen.

Jeremiah’s housekeeper.

The woman he’d seen naked.

The woman he’d dreamed about all night.

Hell. He ought to thank her for that alone. With her in his mind, his brain had for once been too busy to torture him with images of another face. Another time.

Grabbing up his jeans, he yanked them on, then pulled on a white T-shirt and shoved his arms through the sleeves. Not bothering with shoes, he headed down the hall, pausing briefly at his grandfather’s closed bedroom door before continuing on toward the kitchen.

He needed coffee.

And maybe he needed something else, too. Another look at the mermaid?

His bare feet didn’t make a sound on the stairs, so he approached her quietly enough that she didn’t know he was watching her. Morning sunlight spilled through the shining windowpanes and lay like a golden blanket across the huge round pedestal table and the warm wood floor. Everything in the room practically glistened, and he had to admit that as a housekeeper, she seemed to be doing a hell of a job. The counters were tidy, the floor polished till it shone and even the ancient appliances looked almost new. The walls had been painted a bright, cheery yellow, and the stiffly starched white curtains at the windows nearly crackled in the breeze drifting under the partially opened sash.

But it was the woman who had Sam’s attention. Just as she had the night before. She moved around the old kitchen with a familiarity that at once pleased and irritated him.

Not exactly rational, but it was early. A part of Sam was glad his grandfather had had this woman here, looking out for him. And another completely illogical side of him resented that she was so much at home on the Lonergan ranch when he felt… on edge.

Her long dark hair was gathered into a neat braid that fell down the center of her back, ending at her shoulder blades. A bright red ribbon held the end of the braid together and made a colorful splash against the pale blue shirt she wore tucked into a pair of the most worn, faded jeans he’d ever seen. Threadbare in patches, the jeans hugged her behind and clung to her long legs like a desperate lover.

An old Stones tune poured quietly from the radio on the counter, and as Sam watched, the mermaid did a quick little dance and swiveled her hips in time to the music. His breath caught as his gaze locked on her behind and he found himself praying that one of those threadbare patches would give way, giving him another glimpse of her tanned skin.

Then she did a slow spin, caught a glimpse of him. And the smile on her face faded.

“Do you always sneak up on people or am I just special?”

Sam scrubbed one hand over his face, as if that would be enough to get his brain away from the tantalizing thoughts it had been entertaining.

“Didn’t want to interrupt the floor show,” he said tightly, hoping she wouldn’t hear the edge of hunger in his voice. He walked past her and headed straight for the coffeepot on the counter.

As the Stones song drifted into an R&B classic, he filled a heavy white mug with the coffee, took a sip, then turned around to face her. Leaning back against the counter, he crossed one bare foot over the other and asked, “You always dance in the kitchen?”

She huffed in a breath and tightened her grip on the spatula she held in her right hand. “When I’m alone.”

“Like the skinny-dipping, huh?”

Glaring at him, she said, “A gentleman wouldn’t remind me of that.”

“And a gentleman wouldn’t have looked,” he reminded her as the image of her wet, pale, honeyed skin rose up in his mind. “I did. Remember?”

“I’m not likely to forget.”

One eyebrow lifted as he swept his gaze up and down her quickly, thoroughly. “Me, neither.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then shut it again and took a deep breath. He could almost see her counting to ten to get a grip on the temper flashing in her eyes. Eyes, he noticed, that in the morning light weren’t as dark as he’d thought the night before. They were brown but not. More the color of good single-malt scotch.

He took another gulp of coffee and told himself to get a grip.

“You’re deliberately trying to pick a fight,” she said. “Why?”

He frowned into his coffee. “Because I’m not a nice man.”

“That’s not what your grandfather says.”

He looked at her. “Jeremiah’s prejudiced. And a hell of a storyteller. Don’t believe half of what he tells you.”

“He told me you’re a doctor. Is that right?”

“Yeah.” Frowning still, he took another sip of really superior coffee. “I am.”

“Did you—” she paused and waited for him to look at her “—examine him last night?”

He laughed, and that short burst of sound surprised him as much as it did her. “Me? Not a chance. Jeremiah still thinks of me as the thirteen-year-old kid who slapped a homemade plaster cast on his golden retriever.”

“You didn’t.”

He smiled to himself, remembering. “I really did. Made it out of papier-mâché. Just practicing,” he said, remembering how Jeremiah’s golden, Storm, had sat patiently, letting Sam do his worst. “Pop took it off before it had a chance to dry.”

She was smiling at him and her eyes looked. shiny. Something in him shifted, gave way, and uncomfortable, Sam straightened up and gulped at his coffee again. “Anyway, the point is, Jeremiah won’t let me touch him. I’ll talk to his doctor, though. Get what information I can.”

“Good.” She nodded and turned to stir the eggs, a golden foamy layer in the skillet on the stove. “I mean, it’s good that you can check. I’m worried. He’s been so…”

“What?”

She turned around to look at him again. “It’s not something I can put my finger on and say, There. That’s different. That’s wrong. It’s just that he’s not the same lately. He seems a little more tired. A little more… fragile somehow.”

“He’s closing in on seventy,” Sam reminded her and scowled to himself as he realized just how much time had slipped past him.

“And up until two weeks ago,” she said, “you wouldn’t have known it. Up at sunrise, doing chores, driving into town to have lunch with Dr. Evans, square dancing on Friday night.”

“Square dancing?” Another surprise and another flicker of irritation that this woman knew so much more about his grandfather than he did.

She waved one hand at him while she stirred the eggs. “He and some of his friends go to the senior center in Fresno on Fridays.” She paused and sighed. “At least, he used to.”

“Maybe it’s nothing,” he said, and wasn’t sure which of them he was trying to console.

“I hope so.”

He heard the hope in her voice and was touched that she cared so deeply. “You really love him, don’t you?”

“I really do.” She turned her back on the stove and faced him. “Look, Sam.” She said his name firmly, as if forcing herself to make a connection that she really wasn’t interested in. “You’re here to see your grandfather and I’m glad. For his sake.”

He shifted, pushing away from the counter to stand on his own two feet. “But…?”

“But…” she said, turning for the stove and the pan that was beginning to smoke, “I think that we should try to stay out of each other’s way while you’re here.”

“Is that right?” He stepped up alongside her and he felt tension ripple between them. Damn it. He didn’t need this. Didn’t want it. And he’d had every intention of steering clear of the little housekeeper. Until she’d suggested it.

Maggie stirred the scrambled eggs quickly, flipping them over and over again in the cast-iron skillet until they were a golden-brown and dry, just the way Jeremiah liked them. She tried to keep her mind on her cooking, but with Sam standing so close, it wasn’t easy.

She’d made up her mind last night that the one sure way to protect her place on this ranch was to stay out of the way this summer. She didn’t want to give any of the Lonergan cousins reason to think that their grandfather would be better off with someone other than her taking care of him.

She’d lain awake in her bed most of the night, thinking about this place and what it meant to her. About the old man who had become her family.

And if she were to be completely honest, sometime around dawn she’d thought about Sam. About the way she’d felt when he’d looked at her walking naked from the water.

About the swirl of heat that had swept through her, making the chill wind nothing more than a whisper. And she’d wondered what it would feel like to have him touch her, smooth his hands over her skin, dip his fingers into her—

“The eggs are burning.”

“What?” She blinked, stared at the pan and instinctively used her free hand to push it off the flame.

Instantly pain bristled on her palm and she dropped the spatula to cradle her left hand against her chest. Tears clouded her eyes and a whimper squeaked past her lips.

“Damn it!” Sam set his coffee cup on the stove, grabbed her left hand, looked at it, then dragged her with him across the kitchen to the sink. He turned on the cold water and held her hand beneath the icy stream. Instantly the pain subsided and she sighed.

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” she said, wiggling her fingers in an effort to pull her hand free of his tight grasp. It didn’t work. “I just—”

“Doesn’t look bad,” he said, smoothing his fingers over the palm of her hand with a tenderness that touched something deep inside her. “Hold still and let me be sure.”

The doctor in him took over, she noticed, as the cranky man became suddenly all business.

Then something shifted. Something changed.

His touch became less professional and more… personal. He turned her hand beneath the flow of water, inspecting every inch of her skin. And Maggie closed her eyes against the twin sensations rushing through her. The cold of the water numbed her even as the heat of Sam’s touch engulfed her. Her breath staggered a little as she felt his fingertips glide across her wet skin with a gentleness that she’d never known before.

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her. Their gazes locked and a thread of something warm and unspoken drew tight between them. Her breath staggered out of her lungs and her heartbeat thundered in her ears. After what felt like a small eternity, she couldn’t bear the tension-filled silence anymore. Mouth dry, voice croaking, she asked, “Is my hand okay?”

“You were lucky.” His voice was a low growl of sound that seemed to reverberate around the room. “There’s no blistering.”

“Good,” she managed to say while she locked her knees so they wouldn’t wobble and give out on her. God. Was the air really hot? Or was it just her own blood boiling? Oh, yeah, going to keep her distance this summer. Nice start to that plan.

His fingers continued to stroke and soothe her skin and she felt that touch all the way to the center of her. Strange. She’d never experienced anything like this before. A simple touch shouldn’t turn her insides to mush.

At last, he turned off the water and reached for a dish towel. Holding her hand in his, he used the soft linen to blot her skin dry. Then he lifted his gaze to hers again, and Maggie felt a jolt of something amazing pass between them just before he dropped her hand as if it was a rattler and took a step back.

“You’ll be fine,” he said, pushing one hand through his hair. “Just be more careful, okay?”

“I usually am.”

“Right.” He paused, took a breath and said, “Look, about last night—”

Her head snapped up and her gaze locked with his. “What?”

He studied her for a long minute before lowering his gaze. “Nothing. Never mind. Probably better all around if we just forgot last night ever happened.”

Sure. Pretend he hadn’t seen her naked. No problem. “Probably would.”

“Yeah.” He tossed the towel to the counter, then shoved both hands into the back pockets of his jeans, as if unwilling to risk touching her again. “I’m thinking you’re right about something, too. Better if we just stayed out of each other’s way this summer.”

“Okay.” Maggie was still struggling to even out her breath and convince her heart to slide down back into her chest where it belonged. Apparently, though, Sam Lonergan had much quicker recuperative powers. Because he could pretend all he wanted—she knew he’d felt something as powerful as she had.

“Fine. Then we’re agreed.” He glanced around the room as if he didn’t remember where he was. Then, shaking his head, he crossed the room and grabbed up his coffee cup. Stalking to the counter, he refilled it, then passed her on his way out of the room. He stopped in the doorway and looked back at her. “I’m going to grab a quick shower. Then I’m headed into Coleville. Want to talk to Jeremiah’s doctor.”

She nodded, but he was already leaving the room with steps so quick his feet might have been on fire. Apparently she wasn’t the only one a little flustered by what had just happened.

She’d thought that Sam Lonergan could be a threat to the home she loved so much.

But she hadn’t expected him to be an entirely different kind of threat to her sanity.