Читать книгу The Rancher Needs A Wife - Terry McLaughlin - Страница 7

CHAPTER THREE

MAGGIE FINGER-COMBED her short, layered hair in the Granite Ridge guest cabin Friday morning and then paused, staring beyond her reflection to the log walls and beamed ceiling that had once seemed to press in on her. She gripped the edge of the dresser, remembering last summer’s plunge into failure and anxiety, the dizzying spiral drop that had left her gutted and clumsy with a case of the shakes.

Her first panic attack had sent her scurrying from Chicago. Her second had tempted her to extend her stay in Granite Ridge indefinitely. But Harrisons didn’t cry or crumble. And now her life had purpose again.

No more shakes, not today, not tomorrow, not next week or next month. “I’m back,” she told the Maggie in the mirror.

Behind her, one of her grandmother’s quilts spread across the tarnished brass bed, and a braided wool rug lay over pine plank floors. She smiled at the comforting familiarity and the sense of timeless belonging. The snug place was earthy and warm, and as different from the bedroom in her Chicago condo as it was possible to get while remaining on the same planet.

Her former Chicago condo, that was.

She pulled a cashmere sweater over her silk camisole top, adjusting the neckline to let a bit of lace show in the front vee. The ache of loss seemed duller this morning, and the fingers fastening a string of beads around her neck were steady.

Now she could admit that her rush to sell her share of the furnishings to her soon-to-be ex-husband during the divorce proceedings had been a mistake. At the time, all she’d wanted was to get clear and get out, but she missed her French mantel clock and the wide-mouthed majolica vase, the art deco bronze and the signed Konopacki print. When she’d quit her job and fled the city, she hadn’t known where she’d land. And her things certainly wouldn’t match the decor in this cabin her brother Tom had built for his wife and their baby girl.

A ripple of sorrow caught her by surprise. It seemed she’d done more grieving for her brother in the three months she’d spent here at Granite Ridge than she’d done three years ago, when the pain of his death was fresh and raw.

Her widowed sister-in-law had recovered and remarried, and her niece seemed delighted with the development. Even her mother, Jenna, had found herself a new husband. Now it was Maggie who was on her own, who was taking her turn to make a fresh start.

She intended to make the most of it. She believed in making the most of everything.

“Everything,” she said with a nod. “I’m back, and soon I’m going to be back on top.”

She smoothed her slim wool skirt over her hips and stepped into snappy heeled pumps with contrasting oxford-style top-stitching. Dressing as if she were heading to her former position at a private college-preparatory academy gave her the illusion of normalcy, even if she was about to climb into a mud-splattered sports utility vehicle and travel narrow county roads toward her temporary job teaching English classes at Tucker High School.

She collected her leather briefcase, slung a tweed overcoat over one arm and stepped into the knife-edged chill of a Ruby River valley morning. Sticky-fingered yellowed leaves clung to the willows edging Whistle Creek, and the serrated mountain peaks that seemed to hang close above wore a dusting of early snow. Overhead, geese called in their nasal tones, and underfoot the frosted ground crackled beneath her heels.

Memories floated about her like field haze as she bumped along the track leading to the creek bridge. She supposed it was the sharp bend in the gravel road that made her think of her first kiss with that fast-moving preacher’s boy behind the snack stand at the barrel racing tournament. And it must have been the faint scent of alfalfa in the cargo section that brought back the night she’d had one beer too many and let a Sheridan shortstop feel her up in the back of his daddy’s horse van.

Or it could be the eleven-month stretch of sexual deprivation that had her system keyed up over reruns of adolescent experiments in foreplay. Sentiment didn’t usually kick up her pulse rate and warm her from the inside out.

And dwelling in the past wouldn’t solve the problem of her future. There wasn’t a simple or convenient method to fill in the blanks, but she wouldn’t let that fact trigger another episode of shaky self-doubt. The divorce settlement had provided enough money to get her settled in the next place—wherever that might be. In the meantime, she had a roof over her head and time to spend with her family. Time to find a challenging placement, in an academically focused school in a stimulating urban setting.

Time to plot her steps and strategies, to win the battle she’d set in motion at the school board meeting.

She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, ready to transform all her frustrations into motivation and to focus her energies on her goals for the school theater. When she’d accomplished all she intended, sleepy little Tucker High wouldn’t know what had hit it. If there was one thing she knew how to stage, it was a campaign.

Around the last bend in the creek, perched on a knoll above the stumps of cottonwoods charred by last summer’s fire, she glimpsed the tall, white house where she’d spent her childhood. Constructed in the Victorian era responsible for its jutting angles and fanciful trim, the house had sheltered Harrisons for one hundred and twenty-five years. She loved its rambling wings and wide porches, the gables and bays, the nooks and crannies that still held her girlhood secrets and dreams.

She parked on the graveled side yard path and climbed the back porch steps, wincing when the screen door slapped the mudroom jamb. The aroma of the coffee kept fresh and waiting on a brightly tiled counter beckoned from her mother’s cheery kitchen. Beyond yellow-checked curtains at the sink window, puffy hydrangeas fading to mauve and the autumn-tinged leaves of hardy lilacs framed a view of freshly painted outbuildings and pasture land rolling on a grassland carpet toward the Tobacco Root mountains.

“Morning, Maggie.” Will Winterhawk, the Harrison ranch foreman, entered from the dining room and poured a mug of his own before settling at the oversize kitchen table. It still seemed odd to see him take his place there so casually, though he’d been an unofficial part of the family for over twenty years. Last month he’d made it official with a wedding, and he’d moved his small bundle of clothing and his dozens of boxes of books into Jenna’s lavender-scented bedroom suite at one end of the second-floor hall.

The fact that her mother had received a marriage proposal from a younger man—a certified hunk of a younger man—was deeply satisfying.

“Morning, Will.”

“You’re up early.”

She turned to face him and leaned back against the counter. “You know what they say about the early bird.”

“It catches the school board’s approval?”

She lifted her mug in acknowledgment. “You heard about that, did you?”

“News travels fast around here. You should remember that.”

She cocked her head. “Was that an observation or a warning?”

One of Will’s slow smiles spread across his dark features. “Take it any way you choose.”

Fitz Kelleran, barefoot and damp around the edges, jogged down the narrow service stairs and dropped a grade-school spelling text on the kitchen table. Even in worn work clothes, the man was ridiculously handsome. His golden-boy features and devilish charm had given him his start in the movies; his talent kept him on Hollywood’s A list. “Morning, Will.”

Will nodded a greeting.

Fitz headed for the coffee and nudged Maggie aside with his hip. “Morning, Margaret.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Margaret?”

“Oops. Sorry. I forgot that’s what your ex calls you.”

“You didn’t forget. You don’t forget a thing. In fact, you seem to have an annoyingly efficient instant recall of most conversations, word for word.”

“It’s not instant,” he said with one of his dazzling grins. “It’s permanent.”

“Except when it suits you.”

“That’s the annoyingly efficient part.”

“Children.” Jenna carried a laundry basket piled high with bath towels past the table, headed toward the mudroom. Her gold hair was threaded with silver, but her features and figure were still youthful. “Please. If you must bicker, take it outside.”

“It’s too cold to bicker outside,” said Fitz. “May we bicker in the office? How about whispered taunting? Only the tauntee would hear it, I swear.”

“Can it, Kelleran.” Maggie finished her coffee and turned to rinse the mug. “I don’t have time for any of your nonsense.”

“I could make it fast.” He leaned in and lowered his voice in a sample whisper. “Come on, Maggie. One good insult, to start the day right.”

“Can it, or I’ll tell Ellie you’re bugging me again.”

That shut him up fast. There was something oddly endearing about the way the man pretended to live in abject terror of her pint- size former sister-in-law.

Maybe that’s what had gone wrong in her own marriage. Not enough playful pretense or genuine concern. At least, not on her husband’s part. Alan was the premier member in their unequal partnership, the one with the blue-blooded background, the one with the ivy-league education and the finely tuned sensibilities. Recently she’d realized that his expectations weren’t so much a subtle tutoring as a smothering burden.

But it was too early in the day for regrets and recriminations. And she’d already spent too much time this morning indulging in memories. She needed to concentrate on the business she’d intended to discuss with Fitz when she’d headed to the house this morning.

“That was a nice offer that was announced at the board meeting last night,” she said. “Very generous.”

“Thank you.” He sipped at his coffee. “And that was an interesting proposal you made.”

“Interesting?”

“Very interesting.” He saluted her with his mug. “And well prepared.”

“Two compliments in one morning.” She waved her hand in front of her face. “I’m all aflutter.”

“I wouldn’t let the local males know you’re such an easy mark, if I were you.”

“Don’t worry about it. And don’t worry about my plans for the theater.” She settled back against the counter and crossed her arms. “I did my research.”

He nodded. “And plenty of it.”

“So…”

“So?”

“So, what do you think, Will?” she said, turning to the ranch foreman for a little extra

support. “Don’t you think improving the stage area would be a good use of those funds?”

“I think I’m going to have to think long and hard on this whole situation.”

“How long?” she asked.

“Until it’s over.” Will gave her a wink and sipped at his coffee.

“Then it’s a good thing you don’t have a part in making the decision,” she said. “But some people do. Some people have a serious responsibility.”

Fitz donned a suitably sober face. “Responsibility.”

“Yes. A very serious one.” She shook her head with a sigh. “Making the right decision is a heavy burden. It can impact the future in countless ways.”

“Hmm,” murmured Fitz. “I suppose I could deal with that burden by offering another donation next year.”

“Yes, you could.” She unfolded her arms and checked her manicure. “Or you could double this year’s.”

“Yes, I could.” Fitz’s serious frown slowly dissolved into a wicked grin. “But I won’t.”

She raised one eyebrow. “You won’t even consider the option?”

“Nope.” He rocked back on his heels. “I want to see you try to get people to change their minds. Ten bucks says you can’t do it.”

“I’m not going to bet on something this important.”

“Ten bucks, and the loser takes out a full-page ad in the Tucker Tribune. Winner chooses the wording.”

She choked back a laugh. “No.”

“Afraid you’ll lose?”

“It’s not a competition.”

“No one said it was.”

“It’s going to turn into one,” said Will. “I hope you realize that. Both of you.”

Before Maggie could respond, Jody, her twelve-year-old niece, bounded down the stairs. “Morning, everyone. What’s for breakfast?”

“Your gran mentioned something about French toast,” said Will. “I’m hanging around to see if she meant it.”

“Jenna’s making her French toast?” Fitz looped an ankle around a chair leg and snagged a place at the table. “Sorry to give such late notice, Will, but I won’t be helping you repair the south well house this morning. I quit.”

“You can’t quit,” said Jody as she dropped into her seat. She pulled a napkin into her lap and tucked hair the same reddish hue as her mother’s behind one ear. “You’re the boss.”

“Explain that to your mom,” said Fitz. “Please.”

Fitz may have purchased the ranch after the fire’s destruction pushed Granite Ridge’s shaky finances to the edge of bankruptcy, but Ellie remained in charge, managing the day-to-day details as she had since Tom’s death.

“You knew what you were getting into when you married her,” said Jody. “I warned you.”

“You did not.”

“Yes, I did. I said, ‘Fitz, watch out.’”

“That had nothing to do with marrying your mother. That was before I stepped in that pile of shit out behind the barn and ruined my dress loafers.”

“It could be the same thing, only different. Like a metaphor.” Jody shot him a smug smile. “We studied similes and metaphors in English this week.”

“And you obviously paid close attention.” Maggie decided to join the breakfast crowd and squeezed in beside Will. “That was a wonderful comparison. Slightly abstract, but loaded with meaning.”

Ellie strolled in from the dining room. She’d probably been up since dawn, working on the books in the office off the front entry. “Morning, everyone.”

Fitz caught her hand as she passed him on her way to the coffeepot. Maggie noticed the quick squeeze he gave her fingers before he released them, and the way his hot and hungry gaze followed her across the room.

Had Alan ever looked at her like that? She couldn’t remember. And surely a look like that would be something a woman would never forget.

“Time for the spelling review.” Fitz picked up the text and flipped through the pages. “Ready, Jody?”

“Ready.”

“Satellite.”

Jody dutifully spelled out the word as Jenna came back into the room and began to assemble breakfast supplies on the counter.

“Reception,” said Fitz.

Ellie selected a large skillet from the overhead rack and turned to adjust the flame under a burner. Jody spelled the word.

“Remote.”

Will tipped his chair back against the wall with the hint of a smile as Jody continued the exercise.

“Control.”

“Hold it right there.” Ellie spun around with the skillet in her hand.

“Oh-oh,” said Jody. “Bad timing.”

“Satellite reception?” Ellie glared at Fitz. “Remote control?”

Jenna’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, and Will’s smile spread across his face. Fitz’s innocent expression was a testament to his skill as an actor.

“It’s an experiment, Mom,” said Jody. “We’re studying subliminal advertising in English this week.”

“Subliminal,” said Fitz. “S-u-b-l—”

“I know how it’s spelled,” said Ellie. “And I know what the two of you are up to. And it’s not going to work.”

“I told you.” Jody glanced at Fitz with a sigh.

“You did not. You said it was a good idea.”

“The satellite TV hookup, not the spelling stuff. That was Fitz’s idea,” she told her mother.

“I can tell when something is Fitz’s idea,” said Ellie. “It’s usually harebrained and half-baked, and comes at me from every point on the compass for weeks at a time.”

“Got to give the man points for trying,” said Will.

Ellie aimed the skillet at him. “You stay out of this.”

“Thanks, Will.” Fitz gave him a comrade-in- arms nod. “I appreciate it.”

“I’m not risking my health on your account,” said Will. “I kind of like the idea of a couple more channels to watch late at night.”

“Since when do you watch TV at night instead of reading?” Ellie asked.

“Well, now…I’ve changed my habits of late,” said Will. “I thought it might be nice to watch some of those nature shows, but I guess there are plenty of other things I could find to do instead of reading.”

At the sink, Jenna made a strangled sound.

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Maggie rose from the table and began to crack eggs into Jenna’s big mixing bowl. “Get the satellite hookup, Ellie. Better yet, get Wes to drag cable out here. Hell, have him dig a ten-mile-long ditch and put it all underground so you don’t have to look at it. It’s not like your husband can’t afford it.”

“That’s not the point.” Ellie didn’t sound too sure of the point any longer, but that wouldn’t pry her stubborn grip from it. Once she’d dug into something, it could take a few sticks of dynamite—or an extra-strength dose of Fitz’s charm—to shake her loose.

“While you’re at it,” Maggie continued, “I’d like to have a hookup at the cabin. There are lots of educational shows I could be recording for school.”

“Hundreds of them,” Jody added.

Fitz stood and carefully removed the skillet from Ellie’s hands. He set it on the counter and wrapped his arms around her waist. “We missed one of my old movies last night. The one where I played a downhill racing skier.”

Ellie smiled and softened against him. “That was Robert Redford.”

“It was? I get myself mixed up with him sometimes.”

“In your dreams, Kelleran.”

“That’s my favorite cue.” He bent and scooped Ellie over his shoulder. Ignoring her shrieks, he headed toward the stairs. “And I’m suddenly in the mood to continue this discussion in private. Jenna, kindly save some French toast for two. The missus and I will have our breakfasts later.”

Jody shook her head with a worldly sigh. “Looks like I’ll need a ride to school again, Aunt Maggie.”

“Sure, kiddo.” She watched with a smile as her brother-in-law toted his bride up the stairs. “I’d like a chance to discuss this subliminal advertising concept with you.”