Читать книгу Lone Star Legacy - Roxanne Rustand - Страница 8

“ARE YOU SURE?” Beth looked down at the paper in her hand with a dubious expression, apparently adding up the numbers a second time. “This is way below the other estimates.”

Joel shrugged. “Seemed fair enough to me.”

“B-but the materials. Your time.” She looked up at him and frowned. “Have you actually done much remodeling?”

“You can check out what I’ve been doing over at the clinic. I also worked my way through college on a construction crew.”

Joel watched her expressive face as she sorted out what was, in truth, an estimate far below the going rate. He didn’t need the money right now—he’d only started the remodeling work for Walt to fill his time with something worthwhile, though if he stayed in Texas, he might turn it into a business.

But in this case, he’d wanted to make doubly sure that the client would accept.

The irony was that perhaps he’d gone too low.

“Honestly, I hadn’t intended to even consider you, but this estimate is just too affordable for me to pass up,” she said slowly. “I know you’re still working on the clinic, though, and that should come first.”

He nodded. Either way, she wouldn’t be far out of sight.

“So how about this—quote me an hourly rate for your labor if I go pick up the materials myself.”

He suppressed a grin, and again he shot her a low quote—one that barely topped the wage of a convenience store clerk in Dallas.

“Let’s go one project at a time, then,” she murmured. “If that’s okay with you, then I guess we have a deal.”

“So…where do you want to start?”

She led the way from the café into the dark and dingy kitchen. “Once I can get the café up and running, it will help finance the rest of the work, and might also make this place more desirable to buyers.

“I’ll do the painting.” She tapped her copy of Joel’s estimate. “But all of those old wooden butcher-block counters have got to go. The floor tile needs to be replaced. The vent system is filthy, to say the least. The three-compartment sink leaks. With this low estimate of yours, I’ll be able to afford a small commercial dishwasher, but it will need to be installed.”

“Not a problem. So tell me,” he added casually, “why are you tackling this whole place on your own? No steady guy around to pitch in?”

“I…” She turned away and picked up an old teapot. Studied the label underneath. “You probably heard my daughter mention her father, on that first day.”

He nodded.

“He died about a year ago. Unexpectedly—in a single car accident.” She unconsciously touched a thin white scar tracing the edge of her cheek and temple. “Sophie and I were with him.” Her mouth curved into a faint, sad smile. “She was just three, and now she thinks every tall, dark-haired man looks like her daddy.”

Sophie was napping now, thank God, but at just the mention of her name, painful images from the past blindsided him. She was so sweet, so innocent. So very, very fragile.

And in the space of minutes, a precious child could be gone forever. It was a responsibility he never wanted to face again.

“Joel?” Beth was staring at him, the wariness back in her eyes.

He jerked his thoughts back into the present and scrambled for a response. “I—I’m sorry about your loss.”

“We’re doing okay. It’s harder for Sophie, because she suffered some hearing loss and she still has nightmares.” She stared over his shoulder, her brow furrowed. “I’ve tried and tried to remember what happened, but it’s all a total blank from the time we left home until I woke up in the ICU sometime the next day.”

Some of his perceptions about Beth shifted.

Of course anyone who’d been through such a tragedy would be deeply affected. Her wariness was probably a perfectly normal reaction by a grieving, vulnerable widow alone in a strange town.

“Perhaps that’s for the best.” He suddenly felt awkward, out of his depth. “Not remembering the accident, that is.”

“No.” Her knuckles whitened around the spout of the old china pot. “Sometimes Sophie wakes up screaming, saying things that make no sense. If I could remember, maybe I could help her.”

She winced, then opened her hand and looked down at her palm. The spout lay there broken, and blood welled from a cut at the base of her thumb. “All I can do is hold her, and tell her that everything will be all right. But that’s no help at all.”

BY THE END OF THE WEEK, Beth knew two things—that she’d never make it as receptionist/bookkeeper, and that no project was ever as easy as it looked.

“Tell me again about Elena,” she grumbled at Walt as he passed by the front office with a Schnauzer tucked under his arm. “She was a paragon, right?”

“She was.”

It was always interesting to hear Walt’s views about his former employee while trying to make sense of Elena’s innovative filing system. “Um…doesn’t P usually come after L, or is it just my imagination?”

He backed up and peered over her shoulder. “That’s the Petersons’ file. They have llamas.”

“But it’s under L. She filed under types of animals?”

He smiled patiently at her. “Now, that surely would be too confusing for a ranch, wouldn’t it?”

Beth bit back a growl of frustration. “Yes, it surely would. But you say Elena got married, and she won’t be back. Is that correct?”

“Afraid so.” He shook his head sadly and moved on down the hall.

“Then I’ve got a month or so to fix this filing system before some other poor soul has to deal with it,” Beth muttered under her breath. “Unless I go mad before then.”

Joel walked in the front door with his tool belt slung low on his hips and an armload of two-by-fours. He lifted an eyebrow, apparently picking up on her frustration. “How’s the job?”

“The animals are great, and that’s as far as I’m going. Except for Walt, of course.” She paused, considering. “And I guess you aren’t as grumpy as I first thought.”

He laughed. “Admit it. You’ll miss this place when you open that café of yours.”

“Not the filing system.” She smiled back at him, relieved at the easier camaraderie they’d gradually developed over the last four days.

He probably just felt sorry for her, what with the loss of her husband and the all-too-visible scars she tried to hide with a loose hairstyle and long-sleeved shirts. But as much as she disliked pity, it was better than his sharp-eyed suspicion from the week before.

She truly did enjoy being here at the clinic for a few hours at the end of every day, and it had to be good for Sophie to spend time with other children at her new babysitter’s place, too.

“I’ll be stopping by again tonight,” Joel said as he passed the desk empty-handed, heading outside for another load. “I can install stainless steel counters for the café from a set I found in an old bar, if you’re interested. The owner says you can have them all for fifty bucks.”

“That’s fantastic.” Filled with gratitude, she watched him go out the door, then flopped back in her chair and sighed.

He’d been over nearly every evening, working until midnight. Finding shortcuts and cost-saving materials that were as good or better than she would have paid for new.

In another place, another time, she might just be a little infatuated with him, watching that smooth ripple of muscle play beneath those T-shirts, hearing his deep laugh. Seeing his skill at making something beautiful out of almost nothing. But there were a dozen reasons why that wouldn’t happen, and she only had to think about Sophie—whom Joel carefully avoided—or Patrick to bring the biggest ones to mind.

Being a fool once had been bad enough.

Walt strode back down the hall and handed her a slip of paper. “Payday. Every Friday, so you can keep up on things at home.”

She accepted it with just a glance at the number, then took a longer look. “This has to be a mistake.”

“No mistake. You’re saving this place from total ruin, and me from keeling over from stress.” He grinned and turned on his heel. “I’m heading for home now. Just forward all the calls to my cell when you leave.”

“But really—”

He waved and went out the back door, leaving her to fan herself with the check. Could it be that things would actually work out here?

The café phone had been installed yesterday. It wouldn’t be long before she could decorate the little place and then start ordering food supplies.

She smiled, imagining a bakery case of lovely almond crescents. Cream-filled croque en bouche. Baguettes. Tempting little salads, artfully arranged, with a golden brioche on a matching plate, and a select variety of teas and coffees to tempt the palate.

How could she go wrong?

THE NEXT DAY, Joel stopped by the front desk and stared over her shoulder at the menu she’d drawn up on the clinic computer during her coffee break.

He was speechless for a moment, then he burst into laughter. “Sugar, do you know where you are? You’re in the middle of rural Texas. Home of roadhouse barbeque, chicken-fried steak and sweet tea. Folks in this town aren’t gonna know your fancy teas from a turnip.”

Affronted on behalf of all the Texans in…well, Texas, she drew herself up to her full height. “If they haven’t tried my kind of menu before, they’ll be surprised. And happy.”

“They aren’t going to be happy. They’re gonna be mystified. Now give ’em corn bread and a pot of pinto beans, and they’ll know what you’re talking about.”

“I’ve been to Dallas. It’s a very cosmopolitan place.”

“Right. But this is a bitty town two hundred miles from nowhere.” He raised his hands, palm up, in a gesture of defeat. “Do what you want. I’m just saying…”

He turned away, but apparently couldn’t help himself, because he came right back. His lips twitched. “And another thing, you buy breakfast out here, and it isn’t brioche and a latte. It’s hot biscuits. Jalapeño roast beef hash or fried ham. Eggs. Fried potatoes. And don’t forget the grits and hotcakes. These ranchers want good fuel, not an international experience.”

“They’re looking for a heart attack.”

A teasing glint came into his eye. “Show them your menu, and you’ll probably give them a good one.”

SOPHIE CUDDLED close to Beth on the couch in their apartment. It was ten o’clock and the poor child should have been asleep over an hour ago, but she’d awakened screaming, with tears streaming down her cheeks.

“I don’t want to go to the babysitter. Not anymore.”

“I thought you liked Mrs. Garcia. We heard very nice things about her, you know.” Beth stroked her daughter’s silky hair. “Can you tell me what happened today?”

Sophie sniffled against Beth’s shirt. “It’s every day.”

Beth pulled her onto her lap and held her close. “What happened?”

“The k-kids.”

“Her kids?”

“Th-the others. They say—” Sophie dissolved into renewed tears. “Th-they say I’m st-stupid.”

Beth hugged her tighter and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “Oh, sweetheart, you know that isn’t true. You’re the smartest little girl I know.”

“They laugh at me!”

Her words were muffled against Beth’s shirt, but still cut through her sharp as any knife. “Do you remember what the doctor said?”

“U-use my good ear?”

“He said this was because of the accident, so it has nothing to do with you being smart, sweetie. He said to turn your better ear toward people, and that your hurt ear would get better over time.”

“But it isn’t.”

“It has—you’re doing so much better already. And in the meanwhile, we just need to make sure people understand that they should talk directly to you.” Beth slowly rocked Sophie in her arms, treasuring her warmth. Wishing she could take away every hurt her daughter would ever have. “I’ll talk to Mrs. Garcia tomorrow. Then she can tell the kids to speak up.”

Sophie pulled away in alarm. “They’ll say I’m a tattletale!”

“No, I’ll ask her to be really subtle—er, careful—so they won’t think that.” Beth gently pulled her back into her arms and snuggled her close. “Things will be okay.”

Sophie whimpered, but finally her breathing slowed and her little body relaxed into the boneless warmth of sleep. Beth savored her closeness for a few minutes more, then carried her back to bed and tucked her in.

The unfamiliar jangling of the phone—the first time she’d heard it ring—startled her into a fast search for where she’d left the portable receiver.

She nabbed it on the fourth ring from the serving counter in the kitchen. But no one responded when she said hello.

“Crystal’s Café,” she repeated. “Can I help you?”

“You’d better hope so,” the man said on a harsh laugh. As usual, his voice was low and gritty, slightly muffled. As if he purposely lowered its register and was speaking through a heavy cloth over the receiver. “The question is, how fast. It won’t be that hard to get to you, if that’s what it takes.”

She gripped the receiver, her heart hammering against her ribs and her palms sweating. “I—I swear to you, I searched everything. I don’t have what you want.”

“You owe me, sweetheart, and you’d better think twice, because my patience is wearing thin.”

“I…don’t have it, and I don’t even know who you are. I owe you nothing.” She swallowed hard, her fear warring with anger. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair. “You’re crazy.”

“You don’t think the Chicago police would like a little information on you? I figure you’re good for fifteen to twenty, federal time.”

A familiar wave of dizziness careened through her midsection, leaving nausea in its wake. “Th-there’s nothing to tell them, because I did nothing wrong. They didn’t press charges of any kind.”

“Oh, but they will…when they know more.” His voice lowered to a growl laced with pure menace. “Don’t make me come after you and that little girl of yours. One way or another, you’re gonna give me what I’m after. And believe me, until I get the key and that file, you aren’t safe anywhere on this planet—so don’t think your little move to Texas was any help at all.”

The line went dead.

Beth sagged to the cold floor, the receiver still in her hand, her pulse still pounding in her ears.

From the first anonymous call, she’d desperately started searching for what he wanted, planning to turn it all over to the police—hoping that it would lead to the arrest of the man harassing her.

But there’d been nothing.

No paperwork on any mysterious bank account and no key—though she’d been through every inch of the house in Chicago twice, and had gone through all of her possessions a third time while packing for the move to Texas.

Back in Chicago, she’d reported the man’s four threatening calls, but tracing them had led to public phones all over the city. There’d been nothing to go on. Though reporting them had brought the cops back into her life again, and she’d seen the suspicion in their eyes. Then an investigator had shown up at her door—the same one who’d interrogated her after Patrick’s death—and his hard-hitting questions had shaken her even more.

What if the caller was telling the truth—and had some sort of evidence that could lead to her arrest? And what would happen to Sophie then?

Wrapping her arms around her knees, Beth closed her eyes and tried to slow her racing heart. There was so much about her husband’s secret life that she hadn’t known until the police had shown up after his funeral with a thousand questions she couldn’t begin to answer.

Oh, Patrick, what on earth did you do?