Читать книгу The Cowboy Meets His Match - Meagan McKinney, Meagan McKinney - Страница 9

Jacquelyn paid scant attention as Hazel went through the formalities of introducing her to Mystery’s leading rodeo celebrity.

Besides feeling confused, trapped and manipulated, she was almost indignant. Somehow she felt she was being hazed, as cowboys called it when they forced cattle to move where they wanted them to go.

Or more like it, Jacquelyn punned wryly to herself, she was being Hazeled.

“Personally,” Hazel nattered while Jacquelyn gathered her composure a bit, “I’ve become a dyed-in-the-wool home-body in my old age. I subscribe to the theory that a gal should never leave her time zone. But then, if some of us didn’t travel, we wouldn’t have Jacquelyn here summering with us in Mystery, would we, A.J.?”

“I guess that’s so,” the cowboy agreed reluctantly. His tone made it clear he could survive that contingency just fine.

He sat across from the two women in a leather wing chair, an immaculate gray Stetson balanced on his left knee. He wore clean range clothes and a neckerchief. Long, muscular, blue-jeans-clad legs were tucked into hand-stitched, high-heeled boots so pointy they looked like weapons. A. J. Clayburn, Jacquelyn noted reluctantly in a brief appraisal, was every bit as handsome as the photo of him in Hazel’s album.

But, in person, he also projected a sense of…physical readiness—even danger. That was undeniable even though he walked a bit stiff-legged from his recent injury.

Also undeniable was his smug awareness of his own abilities. He certainly would not shine among the old, genteel social circles back in Atlanta’s Peachtree Park, where subtlety and nuance opened doors of opportunity. But Jacquelyn had to grudgingly admit he was the kind of man she would want nearby in a crisis. Though, God knows, she’d want him gone after the trouble was over. Immediately after.

“If you youngsters will excuse me,” Hazel said, rising spryly from her chair, “I need to go upstairs and find some old letters that Jacquelyn requested for her series. You two will want to get acquainted, of course, and discuss your arrangements. I’ll try not to be too long.”

Again Jacquelyn felt dismay pulsing in her temples. Arrangements? Hazel was simply taking over her life, to hell with permission. And now came the lame pretext—she was leaving Jacquelyn virtually trapped with this arrogant, self-inflated rube.

A.J. rose politely while Hazel stood and left the parlor. So far, while Hazel was present, he had spared Jacquelyn the force of those penetrating eyes of his. Indeed, each time his gunmetal gaze touched her it slid quickly away.

As if he resented her presence.

Now that they were alone, however, all that changed. Jacquelyn felt his eyes on her, so probing and intense she felt violated by them.

“Is there a fly on my nose?” she finally asked, heat flooding into her face.

“Nope. Just looking.”

“It’s just looking, maybe, for the first few seconds. But eventually it becomes staring.”

His sardonic mouth twisted into a grin. “’At’s funny.”

“It is?”

“You don’t look like a book. But you sure-god talk like one.”

“Pardon me.” She commented, “I’ll try to sound more obtuse so you won’t feel challenged.”

Her acerbic tone didn’t daunt him at all; probably because he didn’t get the insult. She ached to dismiss him, but beneath his continued scrutiny she felt a flush heat her skin. Nervously she stood up and quickly smoothed her black matte jersey skirt over her thighs. Then she crossed to the wall behind her, covered with paintings and photographs. She could still feel the almost physical force of his stare.

“Mr. Clayburn, Hazel has told me her plan, but I’m afraid I’m not a camper, nor a horse packer. It seems she thinks I’m the best one to write about McCallum Trace, but there’s a fine young college boy interning at the office, and I think he’d be a much more appropriate choice for your—”

“You don’t have to convince me. I’m Mohammed. I can come to the mountain myself.” He jerked his head toward the door where Hazel had gone. “It’s the mountain you got to worry about moving.”

Jacquelyn looked at the empty doorway. The sinking feeling betrayed her cold bravado. The cowboy was, unfortunately, right; truer words and all that. Hazel was the mountain, and Jacquelyn Rousseaux might have an Ivy League education and a trust fund which she eschewed in order to make her own money and be her own woman, but she did not possess a backhoe.

So in the end her battle was with Hazel, not the man stuck in the room with her. Her innate Southern politeness finally won out.

“So…I understand you’re a rodeo champ,” she said, going back to her seat to wait for Hazel.

“That’s old news around here. Heard anything more interesting?”

His insolent, taunting tone made her want to spar with him. Worse was the strange feeling she had whenever his gaze raked over her. She realized she must have been far too long without male companionship because his every glance, his every stare was making her feel exposed and strangely flustered.

“You writing about cowboys, too?” he asked.

In spite of her better judgment, she retorted, “Actually I was thinking about it.” Archly she said, “In researching my articles on Jake McCallum, I read something about Montana cowboys. Is it true y’all are defensive because you’re just imitations of the true Texas cowboys?”

“’Y’all?”’ he repeated, raising one eyebrow.

To her chagrin he was unruffled. Then, to her surprise, he had managed to turn the question to her.

And Hazel seriously thought Jacquelyn would spend five days—not to mention nights—alone with this insulting, boorish hick?

There was no use in continuing the small talk. She turned her attention to an old, nineteenth-century tintype photo of Hazel’s grandmother, Mystery McCallum. Mystery wore a swag-fronted, bustled gown and a tight-laced corset to give her the wasp waist that had been fashionable then.

When A.J. spoke, his voice was so close to her ear that Jacquelyn almost flinched.

“I’ve heard that all those tight lacings sometimes kindled ‘impure desires.’ You being female and all, tell me—is that possible, you think?”

She spun around to face him, stepping back away from his invasion of her personal space. But not before she caught the scent of him—a decidedly masculine aroma of good leather and bay rum aftershave. The smell made her stomach quiver, as if it had some kind of hormonal effect on her, as if it kind of…kind of…turned her on.

She took a step backward and vowed to get out more and meet men now that she was unattached again. In her deprivation she was becoming a little too worked up about nothing. Certainly rawhide and dimestore aftershave weren’t her perferred sexual stimulants.

But then she caught another whiff of it, and she wondered if he wasn’t getting the best of her without even trying. Only pride stopped her from running from the room in terror, her nose pinched to protect her from her own unwanted chemical reactions.

With great effort she tossed him a bored, dismissive glance. “I’m so sorry. Did you say something?”

His handsome mouth twisted in a grin. “I don’t believe I whispered. I was asking you about corsets.”

“Well, I’m sorry to ruin your bunkhouse fantasies, but I don’t wear a corset and never have. But what I know from history is that tight corsets cracked ribs and deformed internal organs. They also constricted breathing and blood flow. I’m sure that’s obvious from the pictures, and I hardly think any of it was a thrill.”

“You’ve researched that, too—along with cowboys, huh, ice princess?”

It was only one silly insult among others he had already heaped on her in a brief time. But his remark cut dangerously close to memories that were still like open wounds. It’s not my fault you’re solid ice from the neck down.

For a second the old pain and humiliation rushed back, so fresh it numbed her. All over again she felt like one of those sordid, vulgar, shouting idiots on the tabloid TV shows—betrayed and publicly mortified by the very people she counted on most to sympathize with her.

The cowboy stood only a few feet away. His gleaming, invasive gaze held her while he waited for her to reply.

Hazel saved the day by arriving at the awful moment. She bustled into the parlor, skirts rustling, carrying an old-fashioned musette bag stuffed with faded envelopes.

“Here you go, Jacquelyn, some of Jake’s letters from the folks back East. I trust you two had a chance to discuss your upcoming ride?”

Jacquelyn had to fight to slow her pounding heart. It was now or never.

“Hazel, I can’t go,” she managed to say, with great difficulty, accepting the letters from Hazel. She hurried back to her chair to retrieve her recorder. Then she headed toward the wide parlor doors. During all the fluster of activity she refused to look in Clayburn’s direction.

“I’m sorry, Hazel, but it’s simply out of the question. I…I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

“All right, dear,” Hazel said, dismissing her. “It’s my fault, I suppose, for jumping to conclusions. One can’t assume the wood is solid just because the paint is pretty.”

“Yeah, she looks that way all right,” A.J.’s voice added behind Jacquelyn. “You ask me, though, the whole dang Rousseaux family needs to move their summer lodge out of here. They’d be more at home in a sunny condo in Florida or California. Among their own kind.”

Jacquelyn had been on the feather edge of rushing from the house, but Clayburn’s words acted on her like a brake. She turned to stare at him.

“And just what kind might that be, Mr. Clayburn?” she demanded, convinced her green eyes were snapping sparks.

“The grasping kind,” he told her bluntly and without hesitation. “I know all about your father and his dang plans to develop and ruin Mystery Valley. I’m no fan, Miss Rousseaux. I have no need for big-city developers and jet-setting money-grubbers who get rich off other men’s risk and labor. So what kind, Miss Rousseaux? The carpetbagging, uppity, Perrier-sipping, spoiled-brat kind who need to be brought down to size. That kind, Miss Rousseaux.”

He hurled each word at her like a poison-tipped spear.

But Jacquelyn only became even more determined and defiant. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Clayburn, that I don’t support my father in his company’s demand to develop Mystery Valley. But I’ll remind you that it’s not your place nor my place to make that decision for this community. It’s up to the town council to vote on it. And if you have an opinion, Mr. Rodeo Star, why don’t you hire someone to write it down for you and exercise your rights in this democracy of ours and give it to your town council.”

The silence almost boomed after she was through.

Hazel watched them both with the rapture of a tennis fan at Forest Hills.

Then suddenly A. J. Clayburn broke out in rude, lustful laughter. “I’ll be damned. You must be a writer. Nobody else I know could do that in a paragraph the way you just did.”

The anger almost choked her. “You know very well I’m a journalist, and it was not given to me, by the way, Mr. Clayburn. I had to work hard at it.”

“Even if Daddy does own the paper,” he taunted, his steely gaze shadowed by the rim of his hat.

“Even if Daddy does own the paper,” she defied, pronouncing every cold word.

“Then I’m half sorry we’re not going up on that mountain, miss. Maybe you could teach me a new word or two.” He looked at Hazel, resignation in his handsome smile.

“Hazel, I’ve changed my mind,” Jacquelyn announced, surprising even herself. “Mr. Clayburn, Hazel has my work and home phone numbers. Since we’ll be crossing one of the most difficult mountain passes in the Continental Divide, would I be too much of an ‘uppity, Perrier-sipping brat’ if I request at least one day to prepare?”

“You go right ahead, Miss Rousseaux. Do whatever you think is necessary,” he said as if patronizing her.

Hazel walked her out, looking way too pleased by Jacquelyn’s anger. Just as she was about to let the younger woman through the front door, Hazel whispered, “Don’t you worry about anything on the trip, Jacquelyn. A.J. will handle it. That’s why he’s the best one to take you. Oh, and by the way, don’t go teaching him any new words, either.” The older woman gave a meaningful pause. “He’d only want to learn the dirty Latin ones, anyway.”

Hazel’s Lazy M spread sat in the exact center of verdant Mystery Valley. Several thousand acres of lush pasture crisscrossed by creeks and run-off streams and dotted with scarlet patches of Indian paintbrush.

The town of Mystery, with a year-round population of four thousand, was a pleasant fifteen-minute drive due east from the Lazy M’s stone gateposts. The Rousseaux’s summer lodge was a ten-minute walk to the west, the ranch’s nearest habitation.

Jacquelyn, who had driven to Hazel’s place from the Gazette offices, turned east out of Hazel’s long driveway. Her thoughts, like her emotions, were still in a confused riot. What had she just committed herself to? How could she possibly ever endure such an ordeal—especially in the company of such a man?

Tears abruptly filmed her eyes. The extent of her vulnerability surprised and dismayed her. A. J. Clayburn’s crude baiting had brought back all the insecurities, all the bitter misery Joe and Gina had dragged her through.

Gina and Joe had proved perfect for each other, a matched set. As harmonious as the easy, breezy alliteration of their names. They were both charming, careless people, takers not givers, and honored no laws except self-survival and gratification of their sensual pleasures. And they had taught her a valuable lesson: it was easier to deal with known enemies than with phony friends.

At least, she had to admit as she reached the outskirts of town, A. J. Clayburn wasn’t feigning friendship.

She parked her car. When she entered the office, the red light was on over the darkroom door, which meant Bonnie was busy making photo-offset plates for the next issue of the paper. She left a brief note explaining Hazel’s imperious request, then hung up her hat for the day.

She was returning to her BMW, angle parked out front, when a throaty female voice cut into the tumult of her thoughts.

“Hey, there! How’s ’bout a ride for an old geezer?”

Jacquelyn saw her mother veer toward her along the brick sidewalk, carrying a plastic shopping bag. It bulged from the weight of several clinking liquor bottles.

“I walked to town,” Stephanie Rousseaux explained, “with all sorts of healthy aerobic intentions. But next time I get the fitness urge, I’ll remember to wear tennis shoes. Good God, my feet are killing me! I can’t wait until your father and I return to Atlanta. How I wish at least one of our local rednecks would exchange his pickup truck for a limo service.”

At forty-eight, Stephanie was still a striking woman, her hair covering the right side of her face in a hip style. Though lately she was stouter than she had been and a bit more grim around the mouth. She made it a point of honor to always be civil and even-tempered. But while she was far too cultivated and controlled to ever create an emotional scene, Stephanie had developed a chilly, disengaged manner that stymied others around her. Including her own daughter.

“Some of the local yokels,” Stephanie remarked as her daughter backed out into the sparse traffic of Main Street, “seem surprised that I’m still sober at midday.”

“Mother,” Jacquelyn pleaded, “please don’t start with that.”

“Start with what, Miss Goody Two-shoes?” Stephanie countered, adjusting her diva shades. “I’m quite proud that I have strict rules concerning my addiction. I’m disciplined, just like your dear old dad. After all, baby, decorum should rule everything, don’t you agree? Even a Southern debutante’s failed life.”

Mine or yours? Jacquelyn felt like shouting. But there was no point. She knew her mother meant herself.

“You know,” Jacquelyn said, keeping her tone patient and persuasive, “they have A.A. meetings out here, too, Mom. I checked it out. And you know, Dr. Rendquist told you—”

“Zip it. Renquist doesn’t know his elbow from his libido. The only reason I go to him is because he keeps me in touch with the charming Prince Valium. I’ve decided A.A. is for the great unwashed masses. Your elitist mother has a better system.”

Stephanie shook the bag, clinking the glass bottles inside to emphasize her point.

“Discipline. No therapy until the sun goes down. I despise a daylight drunk. Those lushes at A.A. lack discretion, self-control.”

Discretion and self-control. Two traits instilled in Stephanie back in Queen Anne County, by parents whose ancestry traced back to the First Families of Virginia. Traits that had proven invaluable for surviving a loveless marriage to a faithless, hypercritical man.

Jacquelyn ached to say something that might break through to her mother’s inner core. She knew, from her own childhood memory of her mother, that she had once possessed a deep well of inner feeling. But that well had long since gone dry.

Jacquelyn had borne silent witness for many years. By now Stephanie Rousseaux merely went through the motions of living. She simply reminded herself to change her facial expression now and then, so people would think she was properly “involved.” But in fact her existence had become a long, unbroken silence—the empty and meaningless stillness left behind when love and hope are abandoned.

And there was nothing her daughter could tell her to make things different. Stephanie was the frost queen Jacquelyn feared she herself was becoming—had perhaps already become. A chip off the old ice block.

Now Jacquelyn watched the town of Mystery roll past the car windows, alone with her thoughts. Downtown Mystery still included plenty of its original red brick buildings with black iron shutters—nothing fancy, just practical and sturdy. But the ornate, nineteenth century opera house with its scrollwork dome still placed the community a cut above plain saloon towns. So did the stately old courthouse, the only gray masonry building in town.

“Not exactly the height of sartorial splendor or exotic cuisine,” Stephanie drawled in her droll, husky voice. “But no squalid industrial sprawls, either. Although your father is working on that as I speak—that is, unless he’s relieving his stress with one of his new consultants.”

Consultants. The euphemism of choice, Jacquelyn realized, to designate the string of mistresses that Eric Rousseaux seemed to require in order to “validate his manhood.”

Hazel’s Lazy M Ranch slid by on their left as Jacquelyn headed toward the Rousseaux’s summer lodge at the western edge of Mystery Valley. A. J. Clayburn’s old rattletrap pickup truck was just at the entrance, turning to town. He passed them, tipping his hat while he went. Jacquelyn wondered if he recognized her car, or if he was just the good-ol’-boy type who tipped his hat to everyone in his path.

Again cold dread filled her limbs as if they were buckets under a tap. She wondered again what she had agreed to.

The Rousseaux place sat in a little teacup-shaped hollow about three-quarters of a mile west of the Lazy M. It was surrounded by bottom woods and Hazel’s pastures on the east and south, jagged mountains to the north and west.

The sprawling two-storey lodge was made of redwood timbers with a cedar-shake roof. Out back was the lodge guest house that Jacquelyn—insisting on independence—rented from her father. Additionally, there was a big pole corral, and low stables sported a fresh coat of white paint. Jacquelyn liked the lodge’s proximity to town. Often she had time to ride Boots, her big sorrel thoroughbred, into Mystery instead of driving. Though her mother and father both kept horses, too, neither of them rode much anymore.

Jacquelyn parked in the paved stone driveway out front.

“Home sweet home,” Stephanie said with lilting irony. “Thanks for the ride, kiddo.”

Jacquelyn headed through the house instead of around while Stephanie took her purchases into the basement to re-stock the wet bar. Jacquelyn encountered her father on the phone in the living room.

At fifty-one, Eric Rousseaux was trim and athletic—one of those vain middle-aged men who constantly found excuses to remove his shirt so others could admire the hard slabs of his sculpted abs and pecs.

He had accumulated his considerable fortune in newspaper publishing. Eric owned controlling interest in several major daily newspapers and a handful of smaller weeklies. Including, by monopolistic takeover, the Mystery Gazette. Recently, however, he had diversified into land-site development ventures.

“Money,” her father had once solemnly informed her, using the old cliché, “is like manure. It has to be spread around.”

Eric tossed his daughter a careless wave as she entered the room. Before she could hear what he was saying, he backed into his den and closed the door with his heel—talking in private on the phone was something he did a lot these days.

Was “the Lothario of the ink-slinging industry,” as her mother called him, involved in yet another romantic intrigue? Stephanie’s liquor consumption lately suggested he was.

A hopeless weight seemed to settle on her shoulders as Jacquelyn escaped to her house. A.J.’s words from earlier pricked at her again like nettles: huh, ice princess?

Cold on the surface, cold within. Everybody, it seemed, sensed a basic lack in Jacquelyn—something missing down deep inside her. Some empathetic quality necessary to complete her femininity. But the empathy was there, all right, and anyone who sensed the chink in her armor pounded away at it incessantly, so the scab never got a chance to heal.

Ice princess…daughter of the ice queen. “I’ll bet you even pee icicles,” Joe had insulted her on the night he unceremoniously dumped her for Gina.

Suddenly huge tears welled in her eyes, and she sat on the edge of her couch. Mother was back in the big house, hiding in the basement, waiting for sundown and the night’s first dose of anesthetic. Father was in his den, either arranging a bribe or a nooner. Yes…home sweet home!

Just why should she, Jacquelyn wondered, be able to nurture any belief in love? Who, in this travesty of a family, could have any confidence that they were worthy of love and affection—much less able to express it to others?

The phone on the table chirred. She cleared her throat, took a few deep breaths and picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Y’all requested one day’s notice,” A. J. Clayburn’s mocking voice informed her without preamble. “So that’s what y’all are getting. Be ready at sunrise tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at your place.”

“That’s not a full day’s notice. That’s impossible. I—”

But she was protesting for the benefit of her own walls—the line went dead when he hung up on her.