Читать книгу The Return Of Rafe MacKade: the classic story from the queen of romance that you won’t be able to put down - Нора Робертс - Страница 9

It was a good sound. The thud of hammers, the buzz of saws, the whir of drills. Through it came the jingle of a radio set to country music, so that Wynonna wailed over the clomp of boots and male voices.

It was a noise, the music of labor, that Rafe had known all of his life. This was different from the clatter of the milking barn, the hum of a tractor in the field. He preferred it. He’d chosen it the day he left Antietam.

Construction work had probably saved him. He had no problem admitting he’d been looking to rumble when he roared out of Washington County a decade before on his secondhand Harley. But he’d needed to eat, so he’d needed to work.

He’d strapped on a tool belt and sweated out the worst of the frustration.

He still remembered when he’d stepped back and looked at the first house he’d had a part in building. It had come to him in a flash that he could make something that mattered. And that he could make something of himself.

So he’d saved, and he’d sweated, and he’d learned.

The first place he’d bought, in central Florida, was little more than a shack. He’d choked on drywall dust, hammered until his muscles wept with the strain. But he’d made a profit, and used that to buy again. To sell again.

In four years, the tiny shoestring company called MacKade had earned a reputation for reliable, quality work.

Still, he’d never stopped looking back. Now, standing in the parlor of the Barlow place, he understood he’d come full circle.

He was going to make something in the town he’d been so hell-bent to escape from. Whether he stayed or not after he was done was undecided. But he would, at least, have left his mark.

Hunkered down in front of the fireplace, Rafe studied the stone hearth. He’d already gone to work on the chimney, and was covered with soot and grime. She’d draw, he thought with satisfaction. The first thing he was going to do, when the new lining was installed to bring it up to code, was build a fire. He wanted to watch the flames and warm his hands on them.

He wanted just the right andirons, the right screen. He could depend on Regan for that.

With a little smile, he picked up his trowel to mix a bucket of mortar. He had a feeling Regan could be depended on for most anything.

With care, precision and enjoyment, he began to repoint the stone.

“I figured the boss would be sitting at a desk, running figures.”

Rafe glanced back and lifted a brow. Jared stood in the center of the room, his gleaming black shoes resting on a spattered drop cloth. For some reason, his black Wayfarer shades didn’t look out of place with his gray pin-striped three-piece suit.

“That stuff’s for lawyers and bookkeepers.”

Jared took off the sunglasses and tucked them into the pocket of his suit jacket. “And think what the world would be without them.”

“Simpler.” Rafe stuck his trowel in the mortar and gave his brother a once-over. “On your way to a funeral?”

“I had business in town, thought I’d drop by and see how things are going.” He glanced around the room, then back toward the hall when something crashed, someone cursed. “So, how’s it going?”

“Steady.” Rafe sighed when Jared took out a slim cigar. “Blow some of that over here, will you? I quit ten really long days ago.”

“Reforming yourself?” Obligingly, Jared walked over, crouched. He smoked lazily as he and Rafe frowned meaningfully at the stone. “Not too shabby.”

Rafe knocked a fist against the rose-grained marble. “An Adam, pal.”

Jared grunted, clamped the cigar between his teeth. “Need a hand around here?”

Blandly Rafe looked down. “You’re wearing your lawyer shoes.”

“I meant over the weekend.”

“I can always use another back.” Pleased with the offer, Rafe picked up the trowel again. “How’s yours?”

“As good as yours.”

“Still working out?” He gave Jared’s biceps a testing punch. “I still say gyms are for sissies.”

Jared blew out a stream of smoke. “Want to go a round, bro?”

“Sure, when you’re not dressed so pretty.” To torture himself, Rafe sucked in secondhand smoke. “I appreciate you handling the settlement on this place for me.”

“You haven’t got my bill, yet.” Grinning, Jared straightened. “I thought you were crazy when you called and told me to go after it. Then I did a walk-through.” He turned, still grinning. “And I knew you were crazy. You practically stole the place, but I figure it’s got to cost you two times the purchase price to make it livable.”

“Three times,” Rafe said mildly, “to make it the way I want it.”

“How do you want it?”

“The way it was.” Rafe scraped the edge of his trowel over stone, leveling his mortar.

“That’s always a tough one,” Jared murmured. “You don’t seem to be having a problem with labor. I wondered if you would, considering the place’s rep.”

“Money talks. Lost a plumber’s assistant this morning, though.” Wicked amusement sparkled in his eyes. “They were checking pipes in one of the second-floor johns. This guy claims someone clamped a hand on his shoulder. He was still running when he made it to the road. Don’t guess he’ll be back.”

“Any other problems?”

“Nothing I need a lawyer for. Did you hear the one about the lawyer and the rattlesnake?”

“I’ve heard them all,” Jared said dryly. “I keep a file.”

With a chuckle, Rafe wiped his hands on his jeans. “You did good, Jare. Mom would’ve liked seeing you duded up like that.” For a moment, he said nothing. There was only the scrape of trowel on stone. “It’s weird, staying at the farm. Mostly just me and Shane. Devin spends half his nights on a cot in the sheriff’s office. You’re in that fancy little town house in the city. When I hear Shane get up in the morning, it’s still dark. The idiot’s whistling, like going out to milk in January’s just a boatload of laughs.”

“He’s always loved it. He’s kept that place alive.”

“I know.”

He recognized the tone, shook his head at it. “You did your part, Rafe. The money you sent back made a difference.” Eyes shadowed, Jared stared out the grimy window. “I’m thinking of selling the place in Hagerstown.” When Rafe said nothing, Jared moved his shoulders. “It seemed practical to keep it after the divorce. The market was soft, and we’d only built up a couple years’ equity. Barbara didn’t want it.”

“Still sore?”

“No. The divorce is three years past, and God knows it was civilized. We just didn’t like each other anymore.”

“I never liked her.”

Jared’s lips quirked. “I know. Anyway, I’m thinking of selling, hanging out at the farm for a while, until I find the right place.”

“Shane would like that. So would I. I missed you.” Rafe swiped a grimy hand over his grimy chin. “I didn’t realize how much until I got back.” Satisfied with the re-pointing, he scraped his trowel on the edge of the bucket. “So, you want to put in some honest labor on Saturday?”

“You buy the beer.”

Rafe nodded, rose. “Let’s see your hands, city boy.”

Jared’s response was crude, simple, and uttered just as Regan stepped into the room.

“Nice mouth, Counselor,” Rafe said with an easy smile. “Hello, darling.”

“I’m interrupting.”

“No. The guy from the gutter here’s my brother Jared.”

“I know. He’s my lawyer. Hello, Jared.”

“Regan.” Jared found an empty can of soda and doused the stub of his cigar. “How’s business?”

“Picking up, thanks to your little brother. I have some estimates, figures, suggestions, paint and fabric samples,” she said to Rafe. “I thought you’d like to look them over.”

“You’ve been busy.” He crouched again, flipped over the top of a small cooler. “Want a drink?”

“No, thanks.”

“Jare?”

“One for the road. I’ve got another appointment.” Jared caught the canned soft drink on the fly, then took his sunglasses out of his pocket. “I’ll let you two get down to business. Nice to see you again, Regan.”

“Saturday,” Rafe called out as Jared left the room. “Seven-thirty. That’s a.m., pal. And lose the suit.”

“I didn’t mean to chase him off,” Regan began.

“You didn’t. Want to sit down?”

“Where?”

He patted an overturned bucket.

“That’s very gracious of you, but I can’t stay. I’m on my lunch hour.”

“The boss isn’t going to dock you.”

“She certainly will.” Opening her briefcase, Regan took out two thick folders. “Everything’s in here. Once you have a chance to look through it, let me know.” For lack of anywhere better, she set the files across two sawhorses. She looked back over her shoulder, toward the hall. “You’ve certainly jumped right in.”

“When you know what you want, there’s no point in wasting time. So how about dinner?”

She looked back, narrowed her eyes. “Dinner?”

“Tonight. We can go over your files.” He tapped a finger against them, left a smudge of soot. “Save time.”

“Oh.” Still frowning, she combed her fingers through her hair. “I suppose.”

“How’s seven? We’ll go to the Lamplighter.”

“The where?”

“The Lamplighter. The little place off of Main, at Church Street.”

She tilted her head as she visualized the town. “There’s a video store at Main and Church.”

He jammed his hands in his pockets with an oath. “Used to be a restaurant. Your place used to be a hardware store.”

“I guess even small towns have their changes.”

“Yeah.” He couldn’t have said why it annoyed him. “Like Italian?”

“Yes. But the closest Italian place is across the river, into West Virginia. We can just meet at Ed’s.”

“No. Italian. I’ll come by about six-thirty.” Needing to gauge his time, he pulled a watch from his pocket. “Yeah, I can do six-thirty.”

“That’s a nice one.” Without thinking, she crossed over, took his wrist gingerly in two fingers to get a better look at the pocket watch. “Hmm…American Watch Company, mid-1800s.” Already appraising, she turned the watch over to study the case. “Sterling, good condition. I’ll give you seventy-five for it.”

“I paid ninety.”

She laughed and shook back her hair. “Then you got a hell of a bargain. It’s worth a hundred and fifty.” Her gaze danced up to his. “You don’t look like the pocket-watch type.”

“Wear one on your wrist on the job, they end up smashed.” He wanted to touch her. She looked so neat and tidy that the idea of mussing her up was enormously appealing. “Damn shame my hands are filthy.”

Alerted, she released his wrist, brushed one hand against the other. “So’s your face. But you’re still pretty.” After shifting her briefcase strap more comfortably on her shoulder, she stepped back. “Six-thirty, then. Don’t forget the files.”

She’d changed three times before she caught herself. A business dinner, Regan thought as she dropped down on the padded stool of her vanity, was a business dinner. Her appearance was certainly important, but it was secondary.