Читать книгу The Cowboy Upstairs - Tanya Michaels - Страница 11

Chapter Two

Marc Johnston watched the soccer ball, a whirl of white and black as it came at him, and wished it would roll far away. Off the field. Into the street. His mama would never let him chase it into the street. No ball, no soccer practice. He could go home to play in his room! It was too hot outside.

But that was a dumb wish. If the ball rolled into the street, his mama would chase it down and bring it back to him. She’d told him a zillion times, “I’m always here for you.” Not like his daddy, who’d gone away. Mama was never far.

Right now, she was coaching from the side of the field. “Kick the ball, Marc! You can do it!”

He swung his leg. It wasn’t really a kick, not a good one. He brushed the side of the ball, which kept moving, and lost his balance as it rolled under his foot. He wobbled, then fell on his back, the sting just enough to make him suck in a breath. Ow.

Mama jogged toward him, her face crinkly with worry. She helped him up, brushing grass and dirt off his uniform. “You okay, champ?”

“I guess.”

She patted him on the shoulder. “Maybe you should take a break and drink some water.”

He’d rather have soda from the machine by the bleachers, but knew better than to ask. Mama handed him a water bottle, then turned to give instructions to Jodie Prescott, who was taller than Marc even though his birthday was before hers. He didn’t like Jodie—she called him Shorty—but he was glad she was keeping Mama busy so he could go sit in the shade. There was another boy there, not in Marc’s grade, playing on a Nintendo 3DS.

“Are you here for soccer practice?” Marc asked.

The kid grunted. “Does it look like I’m playing soccer? My dad’s coaching my sister’s team over there.” He flung an arm toward another field without looking up from the screen. “I’m waiting.”

“You’re lucky you have a DS.” And lucky you have a dad. And, also, lucky he didn’t have to play soccer. “Can I have a turn?”

“No. But you can watch me.” He scooted a little closer so that Marc could see the screen.

It was the best soccer practice ever. Marc almost forgot how hot it was. He even almost forgot about his mama, who had to call his name twice when it was time to go home. On their way to the van, the way she watched him made him feel bad for not trying harder at soccer.

She brushed the back of his shirt again. “We’d better get this straight in the washer if I’m going to get the stain out.”

“Sorry.” His mother didn’t like stains. Or running in the house. Or when he forgot to swallow his food before telling her interesting stories, like how Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake got out of its cage. Marc had learned at dinner last night she also didn’t like stories about Kenny Whittmeyer’s pet snake.

“You don’t have to apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong—everyone falls down.”

“Even you?” It was hard to imagine Mama falling. She never messed up.

“On occasion.” She hit the key button that made the doors unlock. He got in the back seat, wishing he was big enough to sit in the front. It felt lonely back here.

Although she started the engine, she didn’t drive anywhere. She looked at him in the mirror. “Marc, are you enjoying soccer?”

If he told her the truth, would he still have to play? Probably. She was the coach. They couldn’t just quit the team. “Soccer’s okay.”

“You know you can talk to me, right?”

“Yes, Mama.”

She sighed. She made that sound a lot. Marc didn’t remember her doing it so much when his dad lived with them, but those memories were blurry, like when he tried to see underwater at the community pool.

“Mama? A girl in my class has parents with a divorce.”

“Parents who are divorced.”

“She says she lives with her dad in the summer. Is it summer soon?”

“Next month, after the election.”

“Will I live with Daddy then?”

“No, I’m afraid not, champ.” Her eyes were shiny in the mirror, like she might cry, and Marc wished he hadn’t asked. “But I’ll do my best to make sure you and I have a great summer. Okay?”

“Okay.” He looked out his window. “Is Mr. Zeke coming back?” For months, the bald, smiling man had been around their house, making what Mama called ren-o-vations. Mr. Zeke had shown Marc cool drills and saws.

“Not anytime soon. The attic’s finished now, so he’s moved on to his next job. But now that the attic apartment is ready to rent, maybe we’ll have guests.”

That would be nice. It would be even better if whoever came to stay with them was as cool as Mr. Zeke.

* * *

BECCA HAD MIXED feelings about her son’s silence on the drive home. On the one hand, she’d had a very long day and appreciated the few minutes of peace. But she was worried; quiet reflection was not the seven-year-old’s natural state. Was he still in pain from his fall? More likely he’s still in pain from his father’s defection. The questions about when he would see his dad, followed by whether or not the general contractor would be back, made it pretty clear that he missed having a man to look up to in his life.

Her throat burned. Nothing mattered more to her than her son, but she couldn’t be everything to him. The town’s upcoming centennial celebration was taking up her time for the next couple weeks. But maybe after that, she could invite Zeke, a widower in his late fifties, over for dinner—a home-cooked thank-you for a job well done.

By the time they rolled into the driveway, the stillness in the minivan was becoming oppressive. This called for emergency measures. “How about I order pizza for dinner while you take your shower?”

The excited whoop from the back seat made her smile. She’d barely pulled the keys from the ignition before her son flew out of the vehicle and up the three wide porch steps. There, he sat dutifully to remove his cleats. She took a minute to stare at the house, gleaming white in the Texas sunshine, and remembered the day she and Colin had moved in. It was a beautiful two-story home, complete with a porch swing, surrounding rosebushes and gorgeous maple trees in the yard. It had all symbolized how far she’d come from an overcrowded double-wide trailer on a gravel lot. To her, this house had been the castle at the end of the fairy tale.

It still can be. She clenched her fists at her sides, summoning determination. Okay, yes, Colin had turned out to be more fraudulent frog than prince. But she didn’t need him for a happy ending. She would become mayor and raise a wonderful son.

“Mama, I can’t get this knot out.”

Joining Marc at the top of the steps, she knelt down over his shoe. Her promise of pizza must have really improved his mood, because by the time she’d unlaced both cleats, he was happily chatting away. She didn’t even register the sound of the vehicle at the bottom of the driveway until the door closed.

“Excuse me,” a deep masculine voice called, “are you by any chance Becca J—”

As she turned, the man stopped dead, recognition striking them both. The cowboy from the bar? What was he doing here? Stalking her?

“You,” he breathed. His mouth curled in a slow, satisfied smile. “You’re the woman who was checking m—”

“Marc, you run along and take your shower,” she instructed. She was about to throw this man off her property. It was probably better that her son didn’t witness it...or overhear any of the man’s lewd commentary on what she may have been “checking.” Unbelievable. She’d ogled a stranger once since her divorce, and he’d followed her home. What were the odds?

“Uh, Mama? The door’s locked.”

Right. She knew that. She fiddled with the key, but the dead bolt got only part of her attention. The sense that she could feel the man’s gaze on her was distracting. “There you go, champ.” She swung the main door wide open, expecting her son to reach for the handle on the inner screen door.

Instead, he hesitated, waving at the approaching cowboy. “Hi, I’m Marc.”

The cowboy smiled, his long-legged stride graceful and annoyingly mesmerizing to watch. “I’m Sawyer.”

Marc’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the man’s gold belt buckle, etched with a cowboy on the back of a bucking horse; Becca read the word champion before realizing that she was staring in the direction of the man’s groin, and averted her eyes. “Did you win a rodeo?” her son asked.

“Quite a few.”

“That is so cool! Maybe I’ll ride in a rodeo someday,” Marc said, surprising Becca. He’d never expressed any interest in that. “I take riding lessons from Ms. Meredith. She’s nice, but I like Ms. Kate better. She’s my piano teacher. She gives me cookies.”

Hearing him list his teachers out loud, Becca mentally kicked herself. She’d inadvertently surrounded him with women. Why hadn’t she checked to see if Jarrett Ross was taking on any more riding students over at his ranch? In Becca’s defense, Marc’s soccer coach was supposed to have been a man. But when he’d broken his leg the first week of the season, she’d stepped up to fill the void.

Sawyer winked down at her son. “Keep at that piano practice. The ladies love musicians.”

Yeah, that’s what her seven-year-old needed—advice on picking up women. From the cocky way Sawyer carried himself, she just bet he had plenty of experience in that area. “Ladies also love hygiene,” she said wryly. “Now about your shower...”

Marc opened the screen door. “Back in a minute!”

“Take your time and do the job right,” Becca cautioned. “There’s no rush.”

“But I’m hungry. If I hurry, I get pizza faster. Mr. Sawyer, do you like pizza?”

“As a matter of fact, I love it.”

“Then you should—”

“Marc! Scoot.”

“—have dinner with us,” her son invited.

Becca bit back a groan; Sawyer’s eyes glittered with humor as he met her gaze. He was amused by her discomfort, which did nothing to raise her opinion of him.

“Well,” he said as Marc disappeared inside, “at least one of you likes me.”

Now that he was on the step just below her, she could see his eyes were green, flecked with gold, and she hated herself for noticing. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment,” she said tightly, “I need to call in an order for pizza.” That would give her an opportunity to regain her composure.

He smirked. Didn’t the man have any other expressions? “Want to know what toppings I like?”

She shot him a look that should have vaporized him on the spot, leaving nothing but his memory and scorch marks on the sidewalk.

“I’ll just wait here then,” he said, moving past her to make himself comfortable on the porch swing. He even took his hat off and ran a hand through his brown hair. In the sunlight, a few threads shone a deep coppery red, much darker than her own strawberry blond.

His hair was thick, wavy, and she wondered errantly if it was soft to the touch. Rebecca Ruth Baker Johnston, pull yourself together. Just because she hadn’t had sex in the two years since Colin skipped town was no reason to become unhinged in hormonal desperation. She marched into the house, locking the door behind her. No matter how good-looking he was, Sawyer was a stranger; she was a single woman with a child to protect. She called the pizza place, but she was so preoccupied that there was no telling what she ordered. For all she knew, instead of a large pepperoni pie with extra olives, dinner tonight might be a piece of garlic bread and six liters of soda.

Well, that’s what she got for stalling. Her philosophy had always been to tackle problems efficiently, then put them behind her. Time to figure out why this cowboy was here and send him on his way. She returned to the porch, her tone brisk as she asked, “So is Sawyer your first name or last?”

“First. Sawyer McCall.” He extended a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. Officially.”

Her fingers brushed over his in something too brief to qualify as a handshake before she pulled away. “Becca Johnston. What are you doing here?” Besides bonding with my son and trying to mooch free pizza.

“Brody Davenport sent me. I don’t know if you happened to notice while you were undressing me with your eyes—”

She exhaled in an outraged squeak.

“—but he’s who I was having lunch with. Brody and I are old friends. He contacted me a few months ago about coming to town to help with the centennial trail ride and to finally meet Jasmine. I need a place to stay.”

That place sure as hell wouldn’t be under her roof. “There are two motels in the Cupid’s Bow area,” she said. “I can draw you maps to both of them.”

He bobbed his head. “Yeah, Brody said you were pretty much an expert on this town—which would be useful to me, since I’m writing a travel piece. Brody also said that if I stayed here, the room would be spotlessly clean and the food would be excellent.”

She bit the inside of her lip. When she’d had the bright idea to rent out her attic, she’d been thinking more in terms of single women who might feel vulnerable staying alone at a hotel, or who would appreciate bubble baths in the spacious claw-foot tub. Maybe she could even rent the room as a long-term apartment to a woman like herself, divorced and needing to regroup. She certainly hadn’t considered giving the key to a smug, sexy stranger. “I think I would prefer female tenants,” she said. “At least until I get a guard dog.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a dog person.”

She wasn’t; training and grooming seemed like a lot of work when she was already stretched thin with limited hours in the day. But she resented being pigeonholed. “You don’t know anything about me, Mr. McCall.”

“No, but from what Brody said...” He cleared his throat, looking sheepish.

Ah. So there’d been more to the rancher’s characterization of her than the promise of a clean house and good food. All Sierra’s teasing about being a control freak echoed in Becca’s head.

“Do you currently have any female tenants scheduled?” Sawyer asked.

“Well, not yet.”

“I can pay up front. Cash. And I can give you a list of references, including Brody and his aunt Marie, to assure you I’m not some whack-job.”

She’d known Marie Davenport, a now-retired 911 operator, for years. And there was no denying Becca could use the money; her salary running the community center and her stipend as a town-council member were barely a full-time income. That’s why she’d decided to invest in renovating her attic to an apartment in the first place, so she could rent it to a paying customer. Yes, but...him?

Becca had spent her life mastering the art of structure. During the happier moments of her marriage, she’d relaxed, grown complacent, and she’d paid for it with scandal and divorce. Now, she was more determined than ever to keep her life smooth and orderly. Sawyer McCall might be smooth, with his glib manner and roguish smile, but instinct screamed that life would be anything but orderly with this cowboy living upstairs.

“Mr. McCall, I really don’t think—”

The screen door banged open and a mini tornado gusted across the porch in the form of her son, his green dinosaur pajamas plastered to the wet chest and limbs he hadn’t bothered to dry. “You’re still here! Are you staying for pizza? Mama, can I show him my space cowboys and robot horses?”

Becca studied her son’s eager face and tried to recall the last time she’d seen him look so purely happy. “Mr. McCall and I aren’t finished talking yet, champ. Why don’t you go set the table for three?” She wasn’t convinced she would rent the room to Sawyer, but a slice of pizza was a small price to pay for her son’s beaming smile.

Marc disappeared back inside as quickly as he’d come.

She took a deep breath. “The attic apartment has its own back stair entrance and a private bathroom. No kitchen, although there’s a small refrigerator up there for beverages and snacks. Whoever I rent the room to is welcome to join Marc and me for meals—but in exchange, I was hoping to find someone with a bit of child-care experience. Occasional babysitting in trade for my cooking.” She’d only just now had that brainstorm, realizing how much it would mean to Marc to be around a man, but it sounded plausible. And if Sawyer said no, it would help justify turning him away.

He shrugged. “Sounds reasonable. I’m no child-care expert, but I’ve worked with kids at equestrian camps and on family trail rides.”

She sighed, regretting what she was about to say before it even left her mouth. “Then, assuming your references check out, you’ve got a deal, Mr. McCall.”

His grin, boldly triumphant and male, sent tiny shivers up her arms. “When do I get to see my room?”