Читать книгу Claimed by a Cowboy - Tanya Michaels, Tanya Michaels - Страница 11

Chapter Three

Lorelei hung up the phone with a sigh and glanced across the kitchen. Ava was stocking the refrigerator with all manner of casseroles and comfort foods. Judging by the dozens of containers she’d arrived with an hour ago, she’d been cooking nonstop since yesterday.

“That was the last one,” Lorelei said wearily. She’d gone through her mom’s reservation file at the computer and called to cancel all the guests scheduled for the following week. After that… Well, surviving this week was the first step.

Lorelei didn’t really know what she would do about the inn. She supposed hiring someone to manage it for her was a possibility, but she’d never really warmed to this place. When her mother—who’d worked previous jobs as a cook in another hotel and an administrative assistant in the town tourism bureau—first said she wanted to open her own inn, Lorelei had thought it would be a good fit for her, assuming Wanda could get the necessary loans. Ever since her husband’s death, Wanda had slipped into more and more elaborate flights of fancy. She used to wake Lorelei up in the middle of the night to excitedly tell her, “Your daddy visited me again. He’s watching over us, honey, and he’s real proud of you.” Lorelei had wanted to shake her, had wanted to yell at her mother to stop it. It was so hard to let go and heal when Wanda kept his specter alive and well in their home. Lorelei had foolishly presumed that running a business would keep Wanda more grounded.

Should’ve known better. There were lots of bed-and-breakfasts and guest ranches dotting the Hill Country. Wanda had tried to set hers apart with its theme. Her place served as sort of a museum for Hill Country folklore and ghost stories. Each guest room was based on some local legend.

For instance, Lorelei’s room, from the comforter printed with running wolves to the hand-carved figures on the wooden vanity, centered on the wolf spirit that “haunted” nearby Devil’s Backbone, an area also rumored to host the apparitions of monks, Native Americans and Confederate soldiers. Sam’s suite was based on the famed Faust Hotel, a historic haunted site, and Wanda had decorated it based on old photos she’d seen of the establishment. The only creepy room was the one based on a cave, in which Wanda had blacked out the windows and bat noises played periodically through a hidden speaker. In addition to the themed decorating, Wanda had also arranged tours that took visitors through the region from one “unexplained phenomenon” to another. And Wanda had always been a hell of a storyteller, probably because she believed the outlandish tales she shared.

“She’ll be missed,” one of the scheduled guests had told Lorelei, choked up by the news that the inn’s proprietor had died. “My husband and I came to the Haunted Hill Country every year for our anniversary, and we just loved Wanda. Your mother was a special woman.”

Ava came toward her with two cups of coffee. “You look like you could use some.” Then she reached into a cabinet beneath the counter and procured a bottle of whiskey. “And maybe a shot of this with it.”

Lorelei gave a dry laugh. She wasn’t much of a drinker, but she appreciated the thought. “Thanks, Ava.”

“Least I can do.” Ava slid her glasses up on her nose with a finger. “I wish you had let me help with those calls. You didn’t have to take care of them alone. Can’t be easy to tell people over and over that your mama’s gone.”

“I wanted to.” Saying it forced her to accept it. Running from the truth wouldn’t change it. “I needed to be doing something, keeping busy.”

Ava cast a sheepish look over her shoulder, at the crammed full refrigerator. “Guess I can understand that.”

Lorelei poured a modest token shot into her coffee and raised her eyebrows questioningly at Ava, who nodded and pushed her own mug across the counter.

“Hit me, barkeep.” Ava waited for her own more generous slug, then stirred cream into both mugs with a cinnamon stick.

Lorelei inhaled deeply. Her mug smelled like heaven. “Ava, can I ask you a…delicate question?”

The older woman nodded, her faded grey eyes earnest. “I know we haven’t seen much of each other in the years since you got your degree, but Wanda was the closest thing I ever had to a sister. I’d be honored if you thought of me as kin.”

“Was there something romantic going on between Mom and Sam Travis?”

Ava spluttered, choking on coffee.

“Sorry.” Lorelei handed her a couple of napkins, feeling guilty as Ava continued to cough.

“What a thing to suggest!” Ava finally managed to say, cream dotting her upper lip. “Of course there wasn’t anything romantic. Thank God you asked me and not Sam. He’d be horrified.”

Lorelei’s face grew hot. Now that she’d voiced the question, it did sound absurd—especially given how devoted Wanda had remained to her late husband. “Well, I didn’t think so, but I wanted to be sure. It’s not like she was always conventional with her beliefs, so she might have overlooked the age difference. He was cryptic and grudging. All he told me was that they were ‘good friends.’ But he’d obviously talked to her right before she went to sleep and he was the one who found her in her bed.”

Had Sam Travis been the person to hear her mother’s final words?

Lorelei couldn’t help flinching, recalling her mom’s last words the last time they’d spoken. I’ll be here. The mug trembled in Lorelei’s hands. She’d taken for granted that her mother would, indeed, always be here.

She cleared her throat. “The biggest reason I wondered about their relationship is because of you.”

“Me?” Ava squeaked.

“Well, you didn’t mention him to me when we spoke on the phone and you said all the guests had gone.” A heads-up that someone else was going to be under the same roof with her would have been nice. “But every time he’s come up in conversation this afternoon, you’ve…”

Ava turned away, busying herself with a rag and wiping down the long expanse of already clean counter.

“You’re acting weird about Sam.” Almost guilty, which had made Lorelei speculate that maybe Ava harbored a secret about her mom and the cowboy. Something was clearly bothering Ava.

“Is there anything you want to tell me?” Lorelei prodded.

“Only that it’s wonderful to see you again.” Ava put the rag down and smiled sadly. “I just wish you could have come home before this.” There was no accusation in her voice, but that made it even worse somehow.

Lorelei was tempted to agree with Ava, to say I wish I had, too, but Lorelei had given up wishing a long time ago. When her dad died, she’d wised up—no wishing wells or “first star I see tonight” or fairy stories for her. Those were all just pretty guises for denial. Lorelei needed to live in cold, hard reality. And that meant she knew what to do with the inn.

She’d sell the property and use the money to help with her staggering college loans. Wanda would approve. Her mother had been proud that Lorelei got into such a prestigious school and she’d always fretted that she couldn’t do more to take care of her daughter from so far away. The woman who’d once given her crystals and dream catchers for protection would be assisting in protection from debt, a far more useful security. It was something tangible and parental Wanda could do for her, which made Lorelei feel, for a moment, closer to the mother she’d lost.

Lorelei bit her lip, wondering if she should tell Ava what she intended to do. But it seemed cruel just now, with the inn being the most visible reminder of Wanda. Lorelei didn’t want the kind-hearted woman to feel as if she was losing her friend twice in one week. I’ll tell her after the memorial service Saturday.

With the decision made to sell, Lorelei felt as if she could breathe easier. As an adolescent, grieving for her father, she’d hoped that they could move away, start fresh somewhere his memory wasn’t so potent. At the very least, she’d wanted Wanda to date, to set the example that it wasn’t a betrayal to move on with life. Instead, Wanda had continued to talk about him as if he were a member of their household. On holidays and special occasions, she set a place for him at the table. She talked about having spirit conversations with him in her dreams and seeing his ghost in his favorite recliner. The lack of closure had ripped at Lorelei.

Not this time. After the service and the will-reading, when she officially inherited the inn, she’d call the would-be guests in her mom’s files and break the news to them. She’d sell the B and B to someone who could create their own niche here, and she’d return to her life in Philly, her ties to Fredericksburg severed. Lorelei would have the closure she so desperately needed.

SITTING IN THE MIDDLE of a semi-circle of pictures, Lorelei debated opening a window. It’s stuffy in here. Given the high ceiling of the great room and the dropping evening temperatures, she knew the stifling sensation was in her imagination. Raising a window would be yielding to her sudden illogical claustrophobia. Lorelei was a pragmatic woman. She refused to start acting squirrelly just because it was late and she was all alone in the inn.

Sam’s estimated “couple of hours” of being gone had turned into all afternoon and evening. Ava had insisted on staying long enough to have dinner with Lorelei but then had returned home to her husband. Both women had listlessly pushed their food around on Wanda’s sunset-colored ceramic plates. During the meal, Ava had tentatively broached the subject of the eulogy Lorelei needed to write for Saturday’s memorial. There was also the task of selecting pictures for display at the funeral home. A salon decorated with mementos of Wanda Keller’s life would open an hour prior to the formal service so that loved ones could gather to share their recollections. And their grief.

The service would take place there at the funeral home. Wanda, never really a churchgoing woman, had decided against having her final farewell at one of the local chapels. Since she was being cremated, like her husband before her, there would be no graveyard burial, either.

Lorelei shoved her hands through her hair. Her first attempt at drafting a eulogy had been disastrous. She’d thought that pulling out all these old photos, conjuring the memories, would help organize her thoughts. Sort of like an outline for a college paper. But seeing her mother’s life, now ended, spread out on the carpet around her…

A jagged keening broke the silence, and she pressed her fist against her mouth, trying to stem the dark wave of despair. Though she was usually comfortable with solitude, right now the overpowering sense of aloneness choked her. She gripped her cell phone, wanting to escape by talking to someone outside of Fredericksburg. But it was too late to call any of her work friends back in Philly, especially given the time difference. Rick, maybe?

No. She recalled with a grimace his distant response when she’d learned of her mother’s death. He’d said he was sorry, naturally, had even offered the rote “if there’s anything I can do…” But he’d sounded more like a lawyer giving a client bad news than a potential lover. “Can I send flowers?” he’d asked. “Or was she one of those people who’d prefer a donation to charity, in lieu of?”

A metallic jiggling cut through Lorelei’s thoughts and she stiffened. The B and B had never seemed creepier than it did at that moment.

Once she realized that what she’d heard was the back door being unlocked, she expelled a shaky breath. Sam. When they’d met earlier today, all she’d wanted was for him to get the hell out. Tonight, though, she was grateful for his presence. She almost called out to him but bit her lip, embarrassed by her neediness. He’d come through here anyway to get to his suite.

Sure enough, a moment later, booted footsteps sounded in the short, hardwood hallway leading from the kitchen. Then Sam appeared at the edge of the spacious living room, his face shadowed by his cowboy hat and the dark hall. It probably would have been better for her nerves if she’d turned on more lights than the standing fixture in the corner and a stained-glass antique table lamp.

She felt exposed in her circle of photos and muted light. The fact that she was wearing a tank top and flannel pajama bottoms didn’t help. “Hi.”

He leaned against the wall, seeming caught by all the images of Wanda. “Can’t believe she’s gone.” His quiet murmur didn’t completely mask the emotion in his voice. Once again, Lorelei wondered how Sam and her mother had met and what their relationship had been. It was easy to picture Wanda and Ava as best friends, laughing over botched recipes and antiquing together on the weekend. But what had Sam and Wanda shared?

“I’m supposed to pick photos for the funeral home,” she told him, her voice cracking only the slightest bit when she said funeral.

“Would you like to know which ones were her favorites?” Sam offered.

Her erstwhile relief at his company crisped and blackened to irritation. “I’m her daughter,” she said defensively. “You don’t think I can figure that out for myself?”

He tipped his hat back with a finger, staring her down with those green eyes.

“You think you knew her better than I did,” Lorelei said.

He somehow shrugged without ever moving his shoulders. “Even when we suppose we know someone, we can be surprised. But I did spend some time with her.”

And I didn’t spend nearly enough. Guilt clogged Lorelei’s windpipe, making it impossible to speak.

“She dragged out her box of photos plenty,” he said. “Made me look at them so she could talk about her husband. Or brag about you.”

Lorelei wanted so badly to ask what her mother had said. How had she described the brainy, estranged daughter who had so little in common with her?

Sam straightened slowly, awkwardly, and it was only as he moved away from the wall that she realized he was unsteady. Come to think of it, was his drawl more pronounced than it had been that afternoon?

“You’ve been drinking!”

“Not uncommon in these parts to honor a person’s memory by hoisting a glass.” He paused. “Can’t say I recall the exact number of glasses, but that’s why I walked. Left my truck at the bar.”

A strange shiver pulsed through her. She was alone in this large house with a broad-shouldered cowboy she barely knew and he might be inebriated. Should she be concerned for her welfare? Wanda had apparently believed in him, but then Wanda had believed a lot of things.

Sam approached, and Lorelei felt the instinct to scoot back, except there wasn’t much room behind her. She was between the ring of pictures and the bottom edge of the sofa. When he crouched down, Lorelei breathed in a subtle blend of denim, soap, beer and the crisp March night. It was unexpected. Rick always smelled like designer cologne—appealing, in a manufactured way, but indistinct from dozens of other successful men.

Sam Travis was distinct.

Looking into his eyes, she couldn’t remember having ever seen a pair like them. “Wh-what are you doing?”

“Helping.”

“I didn’t ask for your help.” It felt invasive, having him loom over these snapshots of her life. The too-short era when her mother and father were both alive, the later pictures of a smiling Wanda and tense adolescent Lorelei.

Sam’s jaw clenched. “Maybe I’m helping her. You’ll probably pick out the most formal portraits in the bunch, regardless of how Wanda would want to be remembered.”

“That’s not true. I’m aware of how different my mother and I are. Were.”

A fuzzy photo that predated the age of clear digital prints caught her eye, this one of a blurry Wanda laughing with tourists at a festival booth. She had thrived on the conversation and merriment around her. At the edge of the picture was a dark-haired smudge. Me. Though it was difficult to tell from the shot, Lorelei had been huddled in a lawn chair with her nose in a book. For all that Lorelei had excelled in school, she’d always had the feeling that her free-spirited mother, who held no degree of her own, would have been more proud if her daughter had put the books down and just enjoyed the sunshine and crowds more.

Sam rocked back on his heels. “Sorry. You’re right, this isn’t my place.” He stood, exiting the room with efficient speed and purpose despite however many glasses he’d drunk in Wanda’s memory.

Lorelei bit her bottom lip hard, staring at the mix of antiques and fanciful touches in this central Texas bed-and-breakfast, none of which spoke to Lorelei or resembled her life in Philly. An all too familiar bubble of alienation surrounded her. It’s not my place, either.

THURSDAY NIGHT, SAM stepped into the kitchen as gingerly as a prowler trying to pass through the house unnoticed. He’d grabbed a burger in town a couple of hours ago, but judging by the angry meow that had greeted Sam as soon as he set foot inside, Oberon had not yet eaten dinner. At least he has his appetite back.

Now that Sam was moving in the direction of the cat food, Oberon trilled his approval and wound figure eights between Sam’s cowboy boots, nearly tripping him. “You know,” he whispered, “you’ll get fed a lot faster if you don’t knock me on my ass.”

The tiptoeing and whispering was embarrassing—but preferable to another charged encounter with Lorelei Keller. Last night, a number of folks in town had been commiserating over Wanda’s death; though Sam wasn’t usually much of a joiner, he’d ended up drinking with them before walking back to the inn. The sight of Lorelei in the middle of the living room had surprised him. She’d looked like a completely different woman with her arms and shoulders bared in a thin tank top, her long dark hair cascading over her skin.

Or maybe it was the play of vulnerability across her face that had changed her appearance. At any rate, it hadn’t taken him long to realize he was intruding on her grief. He didn’t want to make the same mistake twice, especially on a night when he was bone sore and smelled like horse. He’d spent the day several towns over, helping a friend train an Arabian.

Suddenly a woman’s agitated voice cut through the silence. “Yes, but I’m telling you, that’s not necessary!” After that brief outburst, her voice trailed off some—he could only make out the words information and tomorrow. Whatever Lorelei was feeling in the wake of her mom’s death, he’d been wrong to imagine she was fragile and weepy. Even through a closed door, Sam could hear the steel in her voice.

“She’s about as warm and fuzzy as you are,” he told the cat, scooping canned food onto a small mound of kibble. Sam was just placing the plastic bowl in the floor when light flooded the kitchen. He blinked at the sudden illumination.

Lorelei gasped in the doorway, one hand flattened over her chest. Along with a pair of jeans, she was wearing another sweater that seemed too thick for Texas. “Jeez. What are you doing skulking in the dark? You scared the hell out of me.”

Sam glared. No way was he admitting he’d been sneaking around, trying to make himself as invisible as possible, out of respect to her. “I just came in to feed the cat. Someone should,” he said pointedly.

Her lip curled. “I don’t think vamp-cat wants pet store food. He’s after fresh blood. After trying to take a chunk from my leg yesterday, he lacerated my arm this afternoon when I stopped him from running out the front door.”

“Starving an animal does tend to make it mean.” He didn’t share that he himself had once suggested that Lucifer would be a more appropriate name for the animal.

Lorelei sighed. “You’re probably right. Not that he wasn’t mean to begin with, but I was negligent, forgetting to feed him. I suppose there’s a litter box around here somewhere, too?” She made a face. “I’m not used to taking care of anything.”

“Yeah, you don’t seem like the pet-owner type.”

She narrowed her eyes but didn’t argue. Instead, she sidestepped him. “I just came in here to get a drink. I’ll be out of your way in no time.” When she opened the fridge to retrieve a gallon of lemonade, he saw the mountain of food Ava had stocked was virtually untouched.

“You eat any dinner?” he heard himself ask awkwardly. Stupid question. She’s a grown woman, not the cat. She can feed herself when she chooses.

“Actually, no.” Lorelei sounded bemused by the realization. “Guess I forgot. I’ve been working all evening.”

“Working? Surely your bosses don’t expect you to be on call two days before your mother’s memorial service?” Sam had worked for a few hard-hearted SOBs in his time, but they’d all understood stopping to remember the dead.

“It was my choice. And my business.”

Right—so butt out, cowboy. Message received loud and clear.

He tipped his hat to her. “Good night then, Miss Keller. Oh, but before I forget.” Bending to the cabinet beneath the sink, he retrieved a small trash bag and a slotted plastic scooper. “Here. Cat box is in the sunroom.”

LORELEI’S FINGERS SHOOK as she unlocked the back door on Friday morning. In order to pull out her keys, she’d had to set down the cardboard flat she’d carried. The thought of picking it back up didn’t help her trembling. What she wouldn’t give to be in her office right now.

The desperate thought conjured an image of Sam’s disapproving expression last night. No doubt he considered her an unfeeling ice-queen for obsessing over work at a time like this. Not that she gave a damn about his opinion.

Her job was soothing. Numbers and facts and statistics—they’d always lulled her out of anxiety. Wasn’t that why people were supposed to count sheep? Unfortunately, being an actuary wasn’t really a work-from-home kind of career. She’d prevaricated yesterday. Her hours spent on the phone hadn’t been so much working as turning her projects over to two other junior actuaries at the company. Her supervisor had insisted.

“Take a couple of weeks off,” he’d told her. “You haven’t used a single vacation day in what, over a year? You need it. And we need you at one hundred percent. You’re officially on sabbatical.”

Tears stung her eyes. What her boss saw as sabbatical, she saw as exile from the only thing that might keep her sane through the next few days. Today had been awful, and she still had the memorial service and an obligatory meeting with her mom’s lawyer tomorrow.

Maybe I should have let Ava come with me this morning. The older woman had offered, but Lorelei had suspected her mother’s friend would dissolve into tears, threatening Lorelei’s own composure. Taking a deep breath, she carried the open-topped box inside and set it gingerly on the counter. The green-and-azure urn that rose from within was porcelain, decorated with bluebonnets and Indian paintbrush. Objectively, Lorelei had to admit it was a lovely container. Wanda had selected it to coordinate with her late husband’s urn, which bore a picture of a pecan tree.

Hysteria rose inside of Lorelei and erupted as a horrified giggle. Oh, God. This is all that’s left of my family—matching vases.

Reflexively, she reached into her pocket for her cell phone. She could call Celia, see how the policy presentation—which had been Lorelei’s and had now changed hands—was going. Part of Lorelei acknowledged that she was micromanaging a peer and that she was undoubtedly annoying Celia with her offers to answer questions or to email additional background information. As she dialed, she promised herself she’d do something to make it up to other woman when she returned to Philadelphia. For now, Lorelei just needed to survive the next forty-eight hours.