Читать книгу The Lawman Meets His Bride - Meagan McKinney - Страница 8

Once her Jeep started climbing out of the verdant valley, winding higher on Old Mill Road, Constance felt Beth Ann’s “Eighth House” nonsense lift from her like a weight.

It was a gloriously fine day, much more like early May than late January. White tufts of cloud drifted across a sky blue as a deep lagoon. Even this late in the afternoon the sun had weight as well as warmth. It felt good through her wool skirt and blazer.

Below her, in Mystery Valley, Hazel McCallum’s cattle clustered around feed stations in pastures that once again soon would be rich with sweet grass, timothy and clover. Hazel’s next wheat crop would be heading up, too. If this weather held, planting season would come very early this year.

Seeing the cattle queen’s realm spread out below like a panoramic painting made her decide to call Hazel. After all, this was the first nibble on that old cabin, which had been sitting vacant ever since old Ron Hupenbecker passed away back in the ’80s. Hazel didn’t really need the money, of course. Even the low prices for beef lately hadn’t hurt her valley empire much.

But Mystery’s matriarch seemed eager to know someone was living there again. “An empty house on my land,” she once confided to Constance, “makes me feel like I’ve broken a promise.”

She fished the cell phone out of her purse and tried Hazel’s number.

“Hello?” Hazel answered immediately in a youthful voice that belied her seventy-five years.

“Hazel, hi, it’s Connie.”

“What’s cookin’, good-lookin’? Haven’t heard from you in days. I was hoping maybe you’d run off to have a fling with one of my cowboys.”

Constance laughed. “You’d love it if I did, wouldn’t you?”

“So might you, so go right ahead. Tell you what…whoever you pick, I won’t even dock his wages.”

“Hazel, my God! I’m not even half your age, yet I end up doing all the blushing.”

“Hon, I grew up on a ranch. Nothing makes me blush. Oh, I know you like smart men who read books and talk about great painters. A girl with your looks, going all the way overseas to spend her vacations alone at stuffy museums with idiotic names like Santa’s Soap.”

“It’s Santa Sophia,” Constance corrected her, laughing, “and it’s a magnificent cathedral in Istanbul. Besides, I’m not always alone—I’ve met some very fascinating men at museums. Believe it or not, cowgirl, there’s life outside the rodeo.”

“Oh, stuff those highbrow types. Cowboys have their good points, too.”

“Sorry, Hazel. I just can’t warm up to men who treat their boots better than their women.”

Both women enjoyed a good laugh, for the joke had a nubbin of truth to it. Despite the ease and affection of their banter, however, Constance knew that Hazel was dead serious about that fling offer—and even better if it led to something more permanent.

Constance had gradually taken on the status of one of Mystery’s most glaring marriage holdouts. Two of her younger siblings were married, a third engaged. When Hazel pressed her about it, she usually demurred with the excuse that she hadn’t found “the one” yet. But that was only a partial truth, and Hazel knew it as well as she.

And even now the wily old cattle queen must have sensed the tenor of her thoughts.

“The burnt child fears the fire,” Hazel said gently. “But, dear, does one bad burn mean you must remain in the cold forever?”

Constance slowed down for a rough section of road, trying to ignore the sudden tightness in her throat. She loved Hazel; in fact, she considered the town matriarch her closest friend. But the candid old gal sometimes forced her to confront facts Constance would rather ignore.

In the cold. Aptly put, she decided. Career-wise she was content and becoming more so. She loved her family, and she loved Mystery. Overall, she considered herself blessed and felt humble enough to admit it. But Hazel was right. Romantically speaking, she was trapped out in the cold—in a sort of lovers’ Purgatory, that lonely and hopeless dwelling of those neither loved nor loving.

“Doug Huntington was your one permissible youthful indiscretion,” Hazel assured her. “He fooled me, too, Connie, and you know very few folks ever pull the wool over this gal’s eyes.”

No, Connie thought, trusting was no crime. But because of trust, she had nearly married a career criminal. Only weeks before she was to marry Doug, he had suddenly left the state. But being jilted was only the beginning. About the same time he left for parts unknown, she had started receiving the first of many massive credit-card bills. Thousands of dollars in purchases she never made—and none of the cards had been stolen. He had copied the ID numbers and gone on a telephone and Internet spending spree with them.

Bad enough that she had to pay all the bills, since the cards were not reported missing. Adding final insult to grievous injury, many of the bills were for women’s fine lingerie and jewelry; she had paid the bills for Doug’s little sex kittens.

Her only emotional salvation from the mess was to bury it like a squirrel buries acorns. To go to the police would mean reports and maybe a trial, and she couldn’t relive it again and again; it would break her. So she never reported him and never heard from him again. No one saw it outwardly in her bearing, but that trauma of the heart had orphaned all her hopes for romance. Since then, her confidence had been badly shattered when it came to judging men and their character. She doubted if she could ever pick up all the pieces again.

“Well, anyway, I didn’t call you to rake up the past,” she told her friend. “Possible good news. I’m on my way to show the old Hupenbecker place to a potential buyer.”

“See?” Hazel perked up in triumph, never one to be sidetracked from an unpleasant topic. “You feared no one would ever call. It just needed a little time, was all. Just like you. Give it a little time, and grass will push over a stone.”

“Time,” Constance told her wryly, “is a rare commodity when you’re trying to build up your own real-estate company.”

“There’s always time for love,” Hazel insisted. “But you have to allow it an appointment now and then, busy lady.”

“Maybe I will,” Constance said with little inward conviction. “When business slows down a little. Right now it’s booming, and I’m lucky if I have time to heat a microwave meal, much less meet my significant other. Speaking of business—wish me luck. Five minutes, and I’ll be showing the cabin.”

Before she hung up, Hazel asked, “To a man or a woman?”

“Man. One who seems used to ‘politely but firmly’ getting his way, too.”

“Hmm,” was all Hazel said to that, yet her oo-la-la tone suggested plenty. She added quickly, “Make sure to show him that lovely creek out back. Jake McCallum himself built the stone bridge over it. The State Historical Society wants to put a plaque on it, the silly featherheads. The oldest stone bridge in Montana.”

“I will,” Constance promised before she thumbed her phone off and put it away.

The road was almost all sand by now, and she shifted to a lower gear, the plucky little Jeep surging upward. Only now did it occur to her to wonder why a man in such a hurry would have time to be poking around out here in “Robin Hood’s barn,” as Hazel called the wild country.

She slid through a final, dogleg bend and spotted a fairly new, loden-green Lexus parked in the overgrown clearing out front of the cabin. George Henning himself, she presumed, was leaning rather oddly against one front fender.

He looked nothing like she’d expected him to. He was no mountain man in search of an out-of-the-way cabin; instead she had a quick first impression of a business suit-clad but slightly disheveled man in his middle thirties. The short, neatly cropped black hair contrasted noticeably with his pale complexion. His handsome wingtips and subdued silk necktie suggested he belonged to the fast and furious urban jungle, not cool mountain heights.

But in spite of his dark, conservative attire, she still didn’t fail to notice his pleasing physique: easily over six feet tall, wide at the shoulders, slim at the hips, an Olympic swimmer’s wiry, lithe build.

That’s some professional attitude, Ms. Adams, she chided herself as she parked behind his car and set the handbrake. She slid from behind the wheel, smoothing her skirt with both hands.

She felt a little flush of annoyance when he made no effort whatsoever to walk over and introduce himself. Instead, he remained leaning against his car, regally waiting for her to attend to him.

“Mr. Henning? Hello, there! I’m Constance Adams, the listing agent on the property.”

He gave her a closemouthed smile. Yet even that small politeness seemed to cause him great effort.

“Miss Adams, thanks for agreeing to come out so late. I do appreciate it.”

“Please don’t mention it. I enjoyed the drive, actually. I haven’t been up here in some time. I tend to forget how lovely it is.”

“Yes, it is,” he replied curtly, a note of impatience creeping into his voice.

Instantly her annoyance at him shaded over into dislike. He was big city and too busy for her. The fact that she was putting in overtime on his account didn’t rate at all. His time above all else was tantamount.

He’s the customer, she tempered to herself. Still she didn’t appreciate the rude treatment. Nor the strange feeling she had whenever she looked at him. It seemed horribly akin to attraction, and after Doug, she was going to have none of that.

“Since you had to wait for me,” she said, “I assume you’ve already seen the bridge?”

He gave her a blank look. “Bridge? I…actually, no. I caught up on some work while I waited.”

So he didn’t even bother to explore out back. It struck her as almost incredible that anyone serious about buying the place would not have stepped around back for a peek, at least. He seemed to resent her questions and made a big production out of looking at his watch to remind her he was in a hurry.

But it wasn’t her way to let others treat her like a menial servant—not even for a potential sale. The more you pressure me, Mr. Henning, the longer it’s going to take, she resolved.

“And what kind of work do you do?” she asked politely as the two of them began walking toward the cabin. She noticed that he favored his left leg.

“I’m self-employed,” he replied, irritation clear in his tone and his face. He acted as if each word were being wrenched out of him. “I’m an investment advisor.”

“How interesting.” She was playing his game with a coy vengeance, becoming more chatty and polite in proportion as he grew irritated and terse. “And where are you from, Mr. Henning? Surely you’re not from these parts, or I’d recognize you.”

“Look, Miss Adams, I don’t mean to rush you. Or to offend you. But I really do need to hurry. Could we just skip all the polite chitchat? My flight leaves soon.”

Again the imperious tone was back, as if he were the lord of the manor and she some lowly supplicant.

Constance fished the key out of her purse. Instead of unlocking the heavy slab door, however, she deliberately aimed for the back corner of the cabin.

“Oh, but Mr. Henning, you simply must see the creek and the bridge first,” she insisted, her voice saccharine-sweet. “The owner herself insists. It’s positively charming back here.”

He scowled and lingered in front of the door, his face exasperated. He tapped his watch.

Tap it till it cracks, Constance thought, willing away her attraction to him. I don’t live in your pocket.

“Nonsense, Mr. Henning, you can see them from here. I promise, you won’t miss your plane or muss your shoes.”

If he felt the barb she’d just thrust into him, Constance couldn’t tell it. He gave up and headed toward her. She wasn’t sure if he was simply limping, or limping and trying to cover it.

“Look at that! Dead of winter, yet the fox grapes and wild mint are flourishing back here,” she pointed out. “The mint makes a delicious mountain tea.”

“How interesting,” he replied from a stoic dead-pan, mimicking her. His voice sounded machine-generated.

Not bothering to get his permission, Constance walked the short distance to the bridge. She wondered how he could not be captivated by the beauty of this spot.

The creek formed a clear little pool beneath the stone arch of the bridge. The water’s calm, glassine surface wrinkled with each wind gust. Golden fingers of sunlight poked through the leafless canopy of trees surrounding them. From the bridge she could look straight down and glimpse the silvery flash-and-dart of minnows.

He joined her on the bridge, pointedly ignoring the view. His cool, smoky stare riveted to her.

Why, his face is sweaty, she noted. But it was quite brisk weather up here, practically no humidity. She felt chilly even with her wool blazer, while he had no topcoat at all.

She pointed toward some mossy boulders half-submerged at the water’s edge. “Those always put me in mind of green-upholstered stools. Aren’t they fascinating?”

His stony silence implied he couldn’t care less. Constance noticed how his shadow seemed long and sinister in the waning light. She’d left her sunglasses in the Jeep, and when she looked up at him she was forced to lift a hand to shade her eyes from the low sun.

“Miss Adams,” he began, laboring to speak, “I confess I don’t give a tinker’s damn about those rocks. Now…are you going to unlock that cabin or not?”

Or not? His pointed emphasis on those last two words altered her mood. Suddenly she was fully aware of his intimidating physical advantage over her. She wondered, for just a moment, what might happen if she said not. But she decided she didn’t want to find out.

“Of course.” She gave in, stepping around him and walking down off the bridge. “But to be frank, Mr. Henning, I can’t imagine you being very…at home up here. As you can see, this is a nature lover’s hideaway. The place isn’t even wired for electricity.”

“I’ll use a portable generator,” he replied curtly. “It’s just for vacations, anyway.”

By now her dislike for this rude, intimidating man made Constance desirous of discouraging him. Like Hazel, she wasn’t simply interested in selling the cabin—she wanted to match it up with someone who appreciated its rustic charms. This creep would be bored by the Grand Canyon.

She unlocked the heavy padlock, slid it from the hasp, and swung the front door wide open, flooding the dark, musty interior with light.

“Pretty basic,” she told him, which was certainly true. The unfurnished cabin was partitioned into two rooms, with a sleeping loft over the largest.

Only a few braided rugs covered the floorboards.

“I need a little more light,” he told her, crossing to one of the shuttered windows. He slid it up, slid back the bolt lock on the heavy batten shutters, and swung them wide.

She only wanted to be rid of this man. She stayed back in the doorway, saying nothing to further a sale.

He glanced around indifferently.

“Well,” he said after a few moments, adding nothing else. She noticed that his eye coloring was variable according to the light—the smoky tint she noticed outside seemed almost like a teal blue in here. He really was extraordinarily good-looking, if one could see past that sneer of cold command. And that ashen complexion…it seemed curiously unhealthy in light of his robust build.

“Thank you,” he told her with another cursory dismissal. “I’ll give it some thought and call you.”

Despite her desire to be rid of him, Constance could hardly believe her ears. The man had been downright desperate to see the place. But now, clearly, his tone was cold—he had no intention whatsoever of calling her, she could tell.

“Fine, Mr. Henning,” she replied with a bare minimum of civility. Never mind her wasted time; at least she’d be rid of him. “Now I really must get back to Mystery.”

“Let me close the shutter and window,” he offered quickly as she started toward them. She could have sworn his limp seemed more pronounced when he crossed to the window. For the first time, she noticed the small tear in his trousers on the back of the left thigh. A dark stain ringed it. The tear and the stain was at odds with the man’s impeccable attire, and she wondered if it had anything to do with the fact that he was in a hurry.

“You forgot to bolt the shutter,” she pointed out as he turned to join her.

“No, it’s fine,” he assured her, his tone brooking no debate on the matter.

She was on the verge of pointing out that it clearly was not locked—she could see a seam of daylight where the shutters failed to join tightly.

Then she spotted it on the bare wooden floor, brightly illuminated in the sunlight flooding through the front door: a glistening scarlet drop that could only be fresh blood.

For a long moment she paused, on the edge of her next breath, cold dread filling her limbs as if they were buckets under a tap. She glanced around and spotted another drop, another—several of them, all marking places where he had walked.

A terrible sense of foreboding gripped her. She had to grab hold of the door to steady herself. Henning, meantime, had stepped outside, waiting for her to lock up.

“Mr. Henning?” she said without turning around.

“Yes?”

“Are you…I mean—Mr. Henning, are you…bleeding?”

The moment she asked, some instinct warned her she should have pretended not to notice. His next comment verified her instinct.

“I’m sorry you had to notice that, Miss Adams. I truly wish to God you hadn’t.”

Fighting a sudden, watery weakness in her calves, she turned toward the yard to confront him. And encountered the single, unblinking eye of the gun in his hand.