Читать книгу The Calamity Janes - Sherryl Woods, Sherryl Woods - Страница 9

Ford hadn’t intended to go anywhere near the Winding River High School class reunion. With no other reporter on staff, he’d assigned Teddy Taylor to cover it and given him a camera to take along. Teddy had been ecstatic.

“Be sure you get a few shots of Lauren Winters,” he reminded the teenager. “Everyone’s going to want to see the big celebrity deigning to mingle with the small-town folks.”

Ford’s sarcasm was unmistakable, even to Teddy. The boy had frowned. “I don’t think Lauren’s like that. Uncle Ryan says she’s great. She was the smartest kid in the class. He says she was real serious back then. Nobody expected her to wind up an actress.”

“Whatever,” Ford said, dismissing the ardent defense. “Just get lots of pictures. You probably know who’s important better than I do.”

“I hope so. I got a list from Uncle Ryan. He knows everybody. There’s a lady named Gina who has one of the hottest restaurants in New York—”

“Gina Petrillo?” Ford asked, startled. “Owns a place called Café Tuscany?”

Teddy glanced at his notes, then nodded. “Yeah, that’s it. You’ve heard of it?”

“I’ve eaten there,” he said. The editors of a New York paper had taken him there when they’d been courting him, trying to steal him away from an investigative team in Chicago. He’d been impressed by the food and the ambience, if not by the New Yorkers’ pitch. The owner’s name had stuck with him, though he’d only caught a glimpse of her as she rushed from the kitchen to greet favored guests. Discovering that Gina Petrillo came from Winding River was a surprise.

“And there’s someone named Emma, who’s some kind of courtroom barracuda in Denver now,” Teddy had continued. “And Cole Davis, the big computer-programming genius—well, he wasn’t in the class, but his girlfriend was. Uncle Ryan says he’ll probably be there even though he’s a couple of years older. Everybody’s turning out because it’s such a big deal for the town that Lauren’s coming.”

Ford had been even more startled by the complete litany of success stories. Even though he’d come from a small town himself, he’d always felt that the odds of success were stacked against him. To find so many high achievers coming out of one small class in Winding River—okay, two classes, if Cole Davis had been a year or two ahead of the others—was intriguing.

The more he’d thought about it, the more convinced he’d become that there was a story there. Who or what had motivated these four people to work so hard? Was it a teacher? A parent? A community-wide commitment to education? Their stories could well provide motivation for the current crop of students.

Because of his fascination with the idea, he’d bought a ticket to the Saturday night dance. He had his tape recorder in his pocket, but for the moment he was content to stand on the fringes of the party and watch the dancing.

It was early yet. There was plenty of time for tracking down the class celebrities. Not that he expected to have any difficulty identifying them. The others would probably be fawning all over them, with the possible exception of the attorney. They might be giving her a wide berth. In his experience, most sensible people were wary of lawyers.

“Young man, why aren’t you dancing?” Geraldine Hawkins demanded.

Ford glanced down into twinkling blue eyes framed by gray bangs. The veteran English teacher was sixty-five and barely five feet tall. Yet, according to Ron Haggerty, she could intimidate a six-five, two-hundred-forty-pound linebacker. She’d been one of the first people Ford had met, the introduction preceded by an admonition not to underestimate her. Mrs. Hawkins, despite her diminutive size, was a well-respected powerhouse in town. A decade ago, she had been mayor twice, but now she claimed she no longer had time for that “nonsense.”

She stood before him now with increasing impatience. “Well, young man?”

“Two left feet,” Ford told her.

“I don’t believe that for a minute.” She gestured across the room to five women sitting at a table with one man. One of those women was unmistakably the gorgeous Lauren Winters. Another he recognized as Gina Petrillo. “Now go on over there and ask someone to dance. Nobody should be a wallflower at their own class reunion, especially not when there’s a handsome, available man in the room.”

Ford grinned at her. “I’d rather dance with you, Mrs. Hawkins. How about it? Care to take a spin around the floor with me?”

Color flamed in her cheeks, but she demurely held out her hand. “Why, I don’t mind if I do. Just stay off my toes, young man. I have corns.”

He laughed at that. “I’ll do my best, but I’m not making any promises.”

He swept her into his arms and waltzed her gracefully around the floor. When the music ended, she scolded, “Young man, you fibbed to me. You know perfectly well how to dance.”

“You inspired me,” he insisted.

“Nonsense. Now go ask someone your own age to dance.”

“Anyone in particular?”

She glanced over at the same group of women. One of them was clutching a cell phone to her ear and nodding, her expression intense. She was beautiful in an uptight, regal way, Ford mused.

“I’d recommend Emma,” Mrs. Hawkins said. “The one on the phone. She needs a distraction. Whoever invented cell phones ought to be shot, but since it’s too late for that, we can only try to get them away from the people who are addicted to them.”

“Emma?” Ford repeated, recalling his conversation with Teddy. “She’s an attorney?”

“A fine one, from what I’ve heard. Works too hard, though. I’ve heard that, as well. Just look at her. Here she is at a dance with all of her old friends and she’s on the phone. I guarantee you that it’s a business call.”

Even as they stared at her, Emma reluctantly handed the phone to Lauren, who dialed, spoke to someone, then hung up, her expression triumphant. When Emma reached for the phone, Lauren held it away from her.

“Good for Lauren,” Mrs. Hawkins said approvingly. “Now it’s up to you. Ask her to dance. If ever there was a young woman in need of some fun, it’s our Emma.”

Ford sensed that the teacher was not going to give up until he was back out on the dance floor, preferably with the workaholic attorney. Since he’d intended to seek Emma out anyway, he nodded. “You win. But if I step all over her toes and she sues me, I’m holding you responsible.”

“I’m not concerned,” the English teacher said with a blithe expression.

Ford crossed the high school gym. By the time he reached the table, Emma was sitting all alone, her expression glum.

“I’ve been commanded to dance with you,” Ford told her.

She gazed up at him, her expression startled. “Commanded? Now there’s a gracious invitation, if ever I heard one.” She might be an uptight workaholic, but Emma was even more attractive up close. For a brief moment Ford was grateful the English teacher had sent him on this mission of mercy. He suspected though, that Emma was going to do her very best to see that he got over that benevolent feeling.

“Mrs. Hawkins,” he said, nodding in the teacher’s direction.

To his surprise, a smile spread across Emma’s face, softening the harsh lines of her mouth and putting a sparkle into her eyes. “She does have a way of getting what she wants, doesn’t she? She actually managed to nudge me into reading Shakespeare. I hated it, but she never once let up. Eventually I began to like it.”

“She must not have had to nudge too hard,” Ford said. “From what I hear, you were a terrific student. I’m Ford Hamilton, by the way.”

Her expression cooled considerably. “Ah,” she said, “the new owner of the paper. I’ve heard about you.”

“Nothing too damning, I hope.”

“So far no, but then you’ve only been here a few weeks. I’m sure you haven’t done your worst yet.” She stood up. “Thanks for asking me to dance, but I have some old friends I need to see.”

She brushed past him and headed straight for the hallway. Ford stared after her, wondering what he’d said to offend her. Or was it nothing more than the fact that he owned the paper?

“Ms. Rogers?” he called after her.

She hesitated but didn’t turn around. Refusing to talk to her back, he walked over and stepped in front of her.

“When you have a few minutes, I’d like to speak with you,” he said.

Her expression remained cool. “About?”

“What or who motivated you when you were at Winding River High. I’m hoping to talk to all of the major success stories from your class. I think there might be some lessons in what drove you to succeed.”

Her gaze narrowed. “What’s your measure of success, Mr. Hamilton? Fame? Money?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Then we have nothing to talk about. You see, the people I view as successful from our class are the ones who are doing what they love to do, who are happy with their lives. For instance, my friend Karen. She’s not famous, and she probably has very little savings. But she’s working a ranch she loves with a man she adores. That’s success, Mr. Hamilton, not what I do.”

Before he could respond, there was a scuffle of some kind across the gym. A man who looked as if he was probably drunk was tugging on the arm of a woman, while another man looked as if he might intervene. Only after a subtle nod from the woman did the second man back away with a shrug. Finally he turned and left the room.

Beside Ford, Emma tensed. He glanced down and saw genuine worry on her face. “You know them?”

“Of course. Everyone in Winding River knows everyone else. Sue Ellen was in my class. Donny was a year older. They were high school sweethearts.”

“They don’t look so happy now,” Ford observed. “Would they qualify as one of your success stories?”

“I really couldn’t say. I haven’t kept up,” Emma replied frostily. “Look, Mr. Hamilton, I wish you luck with the paper. I really do—Winding River needs a good newspaper. But I’m not interested in being interviewed.”

“Not even for the sake of inspiring a student?”

“Not even for that,” she said firmly. “Now you really will have to excuse me.”

“Has the media given you a tough time, Ms. Rogers?” he asked, halting her in her tracks. “Is that why you won’t take five minutes out of your busy schedule to talk to a reporter from your hometown paper?”

Eyes flashing, she faced him. “Why I don’t care to talk to you is my business. The bottom line is that I won’t. Good night, Mr. Hamilton.”

This time when she walked away, Ford let her go. He’d run across her type before. She wouldn’t be above using the media if it served her purposes, but the rest of the time she treated each and every journalist with disdain. He hadn’t expected to run across that kind of attitude in Winding River, but, of course, Emma Rogers lived in Denver now. Whatever bee she had in her bonnet about reporters came from a bad experience there. He’d bet his tape recorder on that.

He should let it pass. What did it matter if she didn’t want to talk to him? He had other prospects for his story. But the competitive part of him that hated being beat out of any potential scoop rebelled. First thing in the morning, he’d go on the Internet and do a search of the archives of the Denver papers. If Emma Rogers was as high profile as everyone said, there were bound to be mentions. They would give him some insight into what made the woman tick.

Once he knew that…well, it remained to be seen what he would do with the information.

“Don’t tell me what I saw!” Donny Carter shouted, weaving in place in front of his wife. “You were flirting with Russell. The man’s hands were all over you.”

The sound of Donny’s voice carried across the dance floor to where Emma sat with her friends. This was Donny’s second outburst of the evening, and their former classmate was threatening to get out of hand. He was clearly drunker now…and angrier.

“I see Donny’s still getting sloshed at the slightest provocation,” Emma said to her friends. “I thought his beer-drinking days would be over by now.”

“They’re not,” Karen said tersely.

“And he’s still taking out his bad temper on Sue Ellen,” Cassie added. “They’ve been at it all weekend. Not that the Carters’ battles are anything new. My mother says their neighbors are constantly calling the sheriff over there to break up fights. And Sue Ellen’s been to the hospital twice in the past few months.”

Emma felt her stomach clench. Donny and Sue Ellen had always had a volatile romance. She’d hoped that would change with maturity, but obviously it hadn’t. If anything, it was even worse than she’d suspected when she’d witnessed the earlier incident. She’d recognized all the signs of an abusive relationship, but she’d been praying it was mostly verbal. Cassie’s information suggested otherwise.

“Why doesn’t she leave him?” Lauren asked, viewing the scene with indignation. “She shouldn’t have to take that kind of treatment from her own husband.”

“She says she loves him, that it’s her fault for upsetting him,” Karen said, her worried gaze on the arguing couple. “I guarantee you, if you were to walk over there right now, she’d be apologizing all over the place for saying hello to Russell—which by the way, is all she did. I was standing right there with her earlier. But you’d never persuade her husband of the truth. Donny is jealous and possessive when he’s sober. Drunk, he’s even worse. He’s downright mean.”

A few minutes later, as the argument escalated again, Emma saw the sheriff intervene, settling Donny down by escorting him outside for a chat. Donny went along with Ryan Taylor docilely enough. As they exited, Emma noticed that Ford Hamilton was observing the scene with interest.

“I hope he doesn’t intend to report that little drama in next week’s paper,” she murmured, half to herself.

“I don’t think Ford would do that,” Karen said.

“He’s a journalist, isn’t he? It’s his job to muckrake whenever the opportunity arises,” Emma replied, leaving little doubt of the contempt in which she held Ford Hamilton’s profession.

“Maybe in the city, but not here,” Cassie said. “Mom likes Ford. She met him when he came into the hair salon one day when she was there and asked if Sara Ruth cut men’s hair.”

Despite herself, Emma bit back a grin. The Twist and Curl had been strictly a women’s domain for two generations. “Oh, my. How did that go over?”

“Actually, after the initial shock, he charmed everyone in the room,” Cassie reported. “Mom’s been thinking of inviting him over for Sunday dinner. He’s a bachelor. She’s worried he might be lonely.”

“A little young for your mom, though, isn’t he?”

“Very funny,” Cassie said. “She’s just being neighborly.”

Emma turned another speculative look on the journalist. Maybe she’d judged him too harshly earlier, but she knew the type. There was no mistaking the arrogance in his stance. What she’d at first dismissed as idle curiosity was clearly the far more dangerous nosiness of a professional snoop.

Over the years Emma had had more than her share of run-ins with reporters. She didn’t have much use for them as a breed. Most of them managed to get their facts straight, but in her view they had the sensitivity and discretion of a runaway bulldozer. That alone would have been enough for her to give the press a wide berth, but there had been one incident that had come close to destroying her career with a little help from Kit. Hell would freeze over before she gave another reporter any assistance on a story, even if the story itself was as well-intentioned as the one Ford had described to her earlier.

“Didn’t I see him asking you to dance earlier?” Lauren asked, regarding her curiously. “Did he say something to upset you?”

“Not really. He was just acting on Mrs. Hawkins’s orders.” Emma wondered if she might have warmed more to the classically handsome newspaperman if she’d thought he’d been drawn to her by appreciation of her own charms, but decided no, she wasn’t that vain. Still, it irked her ever so slightly that it was Mrs. Hawkins’s prodding that had sent him her way.

“Mrs. Hawkins was matchmaking?” Cassie said, chuckling. “Imagine that. I seem to recall she spent most of my sophomore year trying to keep Cole and me separated. And we weren’t even dating at that point.”

“Maybe she just has good instincts about who belongs with whom,” Lauren said, casting a speculative gaze at Emma. “I can see you with a journalist.”

“Me? Never,” Emma said fiercely. “They’re always poking their noses in where they don’t belong. Just look at the way he’s been watching Sue Ellen and Donny, taking mental notes. If the opportunity arises, he’ll report this without giving a second thought to the consequences.”

“Which are?” Lauren asked.

“If Donny and Sue Ellen have a serious problem, putting it in the paper will only escalate the tension,” Emma predicted.

“Or maybe getting it out into the open will force them to face what they’re doing to each other,” Karen said, looking thoughtful. “Everybody tiptoes around it, because Sue Ellen clearly doesn’t want to acknowledge that Donny hits her. It’s just one of those unspoken truths that everyone knows.”

“And you think publicly humiliating her will make the situation better?” Emma demanded. “I say she needs to be able to cling to whatever dignity she can.”

The others sighed.

“I doubt we’re going to solve Sue Ellen’s problems for her,” Cassie said. “She has to want to get out of the relationship.”

“Let’s just hope she doesn’t wait too long,” Emma murmured. She glanced in Sue Ellen’s direction, but when their classmate realized she was the subject of Emma’s scrutiny, she fled, her cheeks flaming.

“Okay, enough of this,” Karen said. “I’m going to look for my husband. I want to dance.”

Gina and Cassie drifted away as well, leaving Emma alone with Lauren.

“You’re really concerned about Sue Ellen, aren’t you?” Lauren asked.

Emma nodded. “I’ve seen too many women like her in my pro bono work. They’re scared to go and they’re terrified to stay. Either way, their lives are hell. A few make it out. Too many stay and wind up severely beaten or dead.” She shuddered. “It’s the most depressing kind of case I handle. I don’t do it often, because it takes a terrible toll on me emotionally. I keep thinking, ‘there but for the grace of God go I.’”

Lauren stared at her in shock. “Kit?”

Emma nodded reluctantly. She never spoke about what the last days of her marriage had been like, but she couldn’t bring herself to skirt the truth with Lauren. “He never laid a hand on me, but the psychological abuse was almost as bad.”

“You never said a word about this,” Lauren said, her gaze filled with concern. “What did he do?”

“He did everything he could to convince me I would never make it as an attorney,” Emma said, chilled by the memory. “He wanted me dependent on him, emotionally and financially. I was lucky—I’m stubborn and strong willed. He couldn’t intimidate me. I believed I could succeed without him. After all, I had made it into one of the best colleges in the country and had finished law school at the top of my class. I refused to let Kit diminish those accomplishments.”

“Yet even now that he’s out of your life, you’re still proving yourself to him, aren’t you?” Lauren said, regarding her thoughtfully. “That’s why you work so hard.”

Emma opened her mouth to disagree vehemently, but the denial died on her lips. “You could be right,” she admitted slowly. “I never considered that before.”

“Maybe you should think about it now,” Lauren advised, “so you’ll be able to give yourself permission to slow down. You don’t want to wake up one day and realize you’ve missed every single important event in Caitlyn’s life all because you were trying to prove something to a man like Kit Rogers.”

“Caitlyn’s only six,” Emma said defensively. “She hasn’t had a lot of important events.”

“She’s had birthdays, hasn’t she? And Christmases? And school vacations? How many of those have you spent with her?” Lauren asked.

“I’ve never missed a birthday or Christmas,” Emma retorted.

“Good. But I know for a fact that this is the first trip the two of you have taken in two years. Part of the joy of being a mother is seeing things through your child’s eyes. You’re missing that.” Her expression turned wistful. “If I had what you have, I wouldn’t waste a second.”

Lauren’s words struck a nerve, which was probably why Emma felt inclined to snap at her. She resisted the urge, confining herself to a pointed question. “When did you get to be an expert on motherhood?”

“Wishful thinking,” Lauren said lightly.

“I’ve never heard you talk about kids before.”

“Maybe I just never heard my biological clock ticking quite so loudly before.” Lauren forced a smile. “Enough of this. I’m going out right this second to find myself the handsomest man in the room to dance with, even if he’s married to somebody else.”

“Just don’t forget to give him back,” Emma teased. “I don’t want to have to rescue you from a vengeful wife.”

Lauren waved off the suggestion as she began weaving through the couples on the dance floor. Only after Lauren had gone did Emma realize that her friend had taken Emma’s cell phone with her.

“You look a little lost,” Ford Hamilton noted, pulling out the chair next to her. “Missing your phone?”

She was startled by his intuition. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

“Do you conduct a lot of business on a Saturday night?”

“When necessary.” She frowned at him. “I still don’t want to be interviewed, Mr. Hamilton.”

“I got the message. You don’t object to dancing with a journalist, though, do you? I promise I won’t take notes if you miss a step or two.”

Emma hadn’t been on a dance floor in…well, too long. Listening to the oldies being played by the band reminded her that once she had loved to dance. She’d been good at it, too. If she could forget for a minute who and what he was, it could be fun.

“Let’s wait for a fast dance,” she said, eyeing him with amusement. “Then we’ll see if you can keep up.”

“No contest,” he retorted. “Anything you can do—”

Emma laughed. “Don’t finish that thought. I might view it as a challenge.”

“It was meant to be.” His gaze clashed with hers.

To Emma’s astonishment, she felt a little tingle of anticipation in the pit of her stomach. Her pulse did an unexpected dip and sway that left her feeling giddy. Fascinating. Lately the only time she felt any stirring of excitement was in a courtroom. Discovering that Ford Hamilton could have the same effect was more than mildly intriguing.

One dance, she promised herself. No more. Just for the sheer exhilaration of it. And if she felt a bit off-kilter, a bit breathless at the conclusion, she could blame it on the unfamiliar exertion. It certainly wouldn’t have anything at all to do with the man who was regarding her with such an amused glint in his blue eyes.

The beat of the music slowed, as the band slid from one tune to another, but then the pace quickened. Emma recognized an old Chubby Checker hit.

“They’re playing our song, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, reaching for his hand and drawing him onto the floor.

He was a tall, lanky man, and the twist was definitely not his dance. He was a good sport about it, though, laughing when they drew a cheering, clapping crowd of her friends.

At the end of the song, Emma was ready to claim victory, but Ford wasn’t quite so quick to release her. As the band began a slow song, he drew her into his arms. She went with less reluctance than she’d intended.

For a beat or two, Emma held herself stiffly, but then the music, the scent of Ford’s aftershave, the gentle pressure of his hand against her back, had her relaxing into the rhythm. Her cheek fit perfectly against his shoulder. It was rare that she’d been with a man who had several inches in height on her own five-ten. She caught herself right before she sighed with the pure pleasure of it.

This time, when the song ended, he released her, then took a step back. He seemed suddenly wary, as if the dance had been more than he’d bargained for, as well.

“Thanks for the dance,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you around town.”

His dismissal irritated her, but she managed to keep her voice and her expression cool. “I doubt that. I’ll be leaving on Sunday.”

“On your next visit, then,” he said. “Or will that be a long time coming?”

She didn’t like the implied criticism. “I get home when I can.”

“Every couple of years is what I hear.”

“Been asking a lot of probing questions tonight, Mr. Hamilton?” she inquired, disconcerted by the thought. A part of her had hoped she’d been wrong about him being like all the other reporters.

“A few. You obviously lead a busy life.”

“I do.”

“Too bad it’s not fulfilling,” he said, then gave her a jaunty wave as he started away.

This time she was the one calling him back. “Why would you say something like that?” she demanded indignantly. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Deductive reasoning,” he said. “Besides, you admitted as much earlier.”

“When?”

“When I said I wanted to interview the town’s success stories,” he answered. “You gave me your interpretation of success, then all but said you couldn’t claim to have that kind of achievement.”

Emma hadn’t realized her words had been so telling, or that Ford Hamilton was sensitive enough to pick up on what she’d left unspoken.

“Well?” he prodded. “Are you denying it?”

She forced a grim smile. “No comment.”

He grinned. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“And if you quote me on it, I’ll call you a liar,” she retorted.

“Oh, this isn’t for publication,” he assured her. “It’s just between us. I like to tuck away useful information about the people I meet.”

Something about the way he said it—the way he looked at her when he said it—suggested she might have been better off giving him the interview he’d wanted hours ago. This conversation had red flags all over it.