Читать книгу An Honorable Texan - Victoria Chancellor - Страница 10

Christie Simmons put her Cadillac SRX into Park but didn’t turn off the engine. She didn’t plan to get out of the car unless a certain tall, tan, brown-haired rancher exited the ranch house and asked what the heck she was doing on his property.

She waited, but no one came out. Which meant he probably wasn’t home yet.

But he was coming home, any day now. That’s what his brother’s fiancée had told her on the phone yesterday. That’s what the nice waitress at the café in town had told her. Christie knew small towns had very active grapevines. By now, they’d probably be buzzing with news that a blond “city girl” had been asking about Cal Crawford.

A blond city girl with a nine-month-old baby, Christie corrected herself, turning to look at the rear-facing car seat. She could only see his cute little face in the special infant mirror attached to the backseat. Peter slept as he usually did when she drove long distances—just like a baby. If she stayed parked here too long, though, he’d awaken and want a bottle, some attention or his diaper changed. Maybe all three. She’d rather find a place to stay before Peter started fussing. A bed-and-breakfast, or even a motel would do, as long as it was clean and safe.

Still, she sat for a minute longer, returning her attention to the beige brick ranch house with the green trim. It was neat and well maintained, as was the red barn maybe half a football field away. In the pasture surrounding the yard, black-and-white cows—the kind in those cheese commercials—grazed on newly greening grass. In another pasture, bison, of all things, appeared to be dozing in the noontime sun. On a rocky hill, chickens of every color pecked among the stunted shrubs and clumps of cactus. What a strange and wonderful place!

Especially for a city girl, she thought. She was rarely around animals, except for her mother’s overindulged, yappy and slightly asthmatic Pekingese, Mr. Boodles. Christie had always wanted a yellow Lab, but her parents had insisted big dogs were too much trouble, so she’d lavished her attention on her friends’ pets.

When Peter was old enough, she’d get him that yellow Lab she’d never had as a child. She’d have a yard for him to play in and one of those cute inflatable kiddie pools. When Peter and the dog got wet and dirty, she’d clean them up and laugh with them, not scold them for making a mess.

She would not raise her child as she’d been raised, in a luxurious but cold home where perfection was more important than happiness.

With a sigh, she circled back onto the drive leading to the county road. She passed under a wooden arch that spelled out Rocking C in rustic iron letters. She was sure Cal had told her that four generations of Crawfords had lived on the ranch. She also had a vague memory of him mentioning he raised Hereford cattle. She recalled those red-and-white animals from the annual Fort Worth Fat Stock Show. She’d dutifully attended for years as the child of one of the rodeo sponsors. Everyone who was anyone in Fort Worth had ties to the Fat Stock Show, the Bass Performance Hall or the Kimball Art Museum. Maybe all three.

Cal had been gone a year and a half. Perhaps the ranch had changed since he’d been away. Perhaps it wasn’t even his any longer…. But, no, his brother’s fiancée had mentioned Cal was really looking forward to returning to the Rocking C.

“Soon,” she whispered to her sleeping son. “Soon you’ll meet your daddy.”

She headed into Brody’s Crossing to find a place to stay until Calvin Peter Crawford IV came home from Afghanistan.

THE RIDE FROM DFW AIRPORT was damn near as uncomfortable as having four pieces of shrapnel cut out of his face. Granted, three of them had been tiny, but the fourth one had left an ugly gash near his right temple.

He’d been called up for active duty just a few months before his military commitment was due to end. His service had been extended by a year of active duty, and while he was gone, his little brother had completely changed the ranch into some kind of organic, bizarre collection of everything he didn’t want: buffalo, dairy cows and free-range chickens. What self-respecting rancher raised those animals when he could have good old regular beef cattle grazing on his acres?

He should never have given Troy the power of attorney that James Brody, their lawyer, had said they needed. That simple document had allowed his brother to do whatever he wanted with the Rocking C while Cal was away. And, dammit, he had. He and Cal had exchanged sometimes heated e-mails over the changes to the ranch and had talked a few times by phone, until Cal had become too frustrated to speak to Troy. Cal figured they didn’t have anything else to discuss until he actually saw the ranch.

“You need to stop anywhere along the way?” Troy asked.

“No. If I need anything, I’ll go into town later.” First, he wanted to get out of the desert fatigues and army-issue boots of Sergeant Calvin P. Crawford IV and into the comfortable, worn jeans, Western shirt and cowboy boots of Cal Crawford, rancher. Then, he looked forward to visiting Dewey’s Saloon and Steakhouse, seeing his neighbors and having a few beers with a nice, juicy T-bone. No more MREs or institutional trays of food that made school lunches seem appealing.

“Raven has something planned, just so you know,” Troy said as they turned onto Highway 16 and headed north, avoiding the main street and its two stoplights.

“Great.” There went his plans for the evening. Troy had mentioned that his fiancée was an organic farmer and weaver from New Hampshire. Cal knew she’d come to Texas due to a mix-up with a garden association and had stayed to “help” Troy make all those changes he’d decided were necessary. Cal had seen a picture of Raven in one of Troy’s e-mails—she looked like what their father would call a “hippie.” She’d probably serve some kind of vegetarian smorgasbord. Or did folks from New Hampshire have smorgasbords? Maybe not. Cal had lived all his life in Brody’s Crossing, Texas, except for basic training, two weeks’ service every summer and the deployment to Afghanistan. With any luck, he’d never leave here again.

“Who’s invited?”

“Just a few friends and some of our new business associates.”

“Don’t even get me started on the changes to the ranch.”

Troy sighed. “Look, Cal, why don’t you just admit that something had to be done? The ranch was failing. You were way too far into the bank for operational loans. You could never have recovered the cost of those Herefords from the market price. I know you liked to look out and see them grazing in the pasture, just like they’d always been there, but—”

“Butt out, that’s what. You did what you did. I’m going to do what I have to do.”

“You’re as stubborn as our old man.”

“I think the word is loyal, not stubborn. Some of us value the past.” Cal didn’t understand why Troy was so dead set against the traditions of the Rocking C. Yeah, his life hadn’t been perfect, but whose had? Troy had been more of a mama’s boy, and when their mother had left the family when he was fourteen, he’d been hurt. Cal knew his brother also resented the fact that he’d been the younger son. Their dad had obviously groomed Cal to run the ranch, and that might chafe Troy a bit, but such was life. The oldest son usually took over the family’s responsibilities.

Someday, when he had a son, Cal vowed that he’d groom him the same way. He’d need to be tough to run a ranch.

Of course, first Cal needed to get the Rocking C back to the way it was.

“Just don’t take your bad mood out on Raven. All the changes were mine, understood? Just because I chose not to be a rancher doesn’t mean I’m ignorant of the cattle industry. I was marketing a new cattle breed, you know.”

“Yeah, I know that and I hear you loud and clear. I know just who to blame.”

“Hell, Cal, I know you’ve had a rough time, but your attitude sucks. I’m sorry about Dad’s accident. I’m sorry I got to go away to college while you stayed to run the ranch. I’m sorry for the timing of your military service. But I’m glad I could take a leave from my job after my vacation ran out, and I’m glad I got a chance to help the ranch survive. If I hadn’t done something, including investing a stack of my own cash into the Rocking C, then you’d be coming back to a foreclosure, no stock and no place to live.”

“So you say. I see it differently. And don’t talk about my bad attitude when I’ve been serving my country.”

“Oh, please. As if you’re more patriotic than the rest of us. You only joined the reserves because Dad and Granddad and the rest of the men in our family served in the army.”

“You’re so full of it.”

“And you’re not? I’m your brother. I think I know you pretty well.”

Cal snorted. His brother didn’t know him at all. He turned his head and looked out the window as they passed under the Rocking C sign. Troy must have repaired it and painted it black. Just the first of many changes. Fresh gravel crunched beneath Troy’s fancy SUV’s tires as they drove past repaired fences. Cal didn’t want to look into the pastures, where Herefords used to graze.

He had a sick feeling in his stomach, along with a racing heartbeat and overreaching sense of dread. He was finally home, but whose home? Not the one he remembered, that was for sure.

His little brother had taken over his life.

Troy thought he knew so much about running a ranch, about life in Brody’s Crossing, about family heritage, but he didn’t know everything. He didn’t know Cal’s secret.

And he never would. No one would.

RAVEN HAD INVITED CHRISTIE to the casual family “welcome home” party for Cal, but she’d declined. For one thing, she had no one to watch Peter. For another, she didn’t think springing “Hi, welcome home, you’re a daddy” would be the right approach in the midst of a family get-together.

So she’d wait. She’d already waited a year and a half since she’d discovered, to her great surprise, that she was pregnant.

During her marriage, while they’d lived in Europe, she’d been told she couldn’t get pregnant. The Italian doctor had been so wrong, she thought, as Peter pulled himself up on the ottoman.

They were staying about ten miles away in Graham since Brody’s Crossing had no hotel, motel or bed-and-breakfast.

“All that’s about to change,” Christie told her grinning son. “Yes, it is.” She smiled back at him and stroked his soft, downy hair. Light brown, like his father’s. But he had blue-green eyes, like hers.

“We’re going to open a motel, aren’t we?” she asked as he held on and wobbled, trying to stay upright on the carpet. The idea of running her own business still astounded her, and yet felt so right.

She’d bought the Sweet Dreams Motel in Brody’s Crossing just yesterday, paying with a cashier’s check from her bank in Fort Worth. The place was a run-down mess, with broken windows, horrid bathrooms and a parking lot so patched it looked like a crazy quilt. The stucco and concrete block walls were cracked in places, and the roof had to be replaced before the next big rain. During the walk-through with the Realtor, they’d disturbed a surly opossum and a family of mice living in the maintenance shed. Birds had flown out of gaps in the siding over the office.

Other than that, it was perfect.

“It will be great,” she told Peter, and she believed it. Because despite the neglected motel’s problems, it had one thing going for it: retro appeal. The old sign alone had made her want to own the darn thing. A crescent moon and sleeping baby, the name and vacancy sign all outlined in—currently inoperable—neon lights. The style was pure late fifties/early sixties, with a low roof and colored, painted doors and metal railings with geometric shapes. The motel had never been remodeled before it closed in the 1980s, so it was still authentic.

Christie wasn’t a remodeler or a decorator, but she knew what she liked. And she absolutely loved the decrepit Sweet Dreams Motel.

She’d already hired a contractor. Brody’s Crossing mayor Toni Casale was the best, Christie had been told by several people, and she’d hit it off with the other woman, who was near her age and also a blonde. As a matter of fact, they’d shared a laugh at the fact that two blondes were doing what no men had attempted—opening the old motel, which, according to Toni, was sorely needed in a town with no rooms to rent.

She glanced at the clock. “Aren’t you getting tired?” she asked Peter, who had grown bored with standing and had crawled over to his favorite toy, a plastic piano that played the most irritating electronic tunes when he hit the big, primary-color keys. To answer her question, he grinned and began pounding.

Christie hoped they didn’t have any close neighbors tonight who objected to her baby’s piano music.

She was going to call Cal at the ranch later and arrange a meeting. There was no sense in putting off the news any longer. Perhaps they could have lunch in a public place, like that steakhouse she’d gone to with Toni. Or the cute little café in town, although that would be much more public and people might be able to hear their conversation.

That was her big fear—that Cal would find out about Peter from someone else. That’s why she’d been very careful to mention she was a widow, and not to act too interested in Cal when she’d talked to others. She’d developed a friendly relationship with Troy’s fiancée, Raven, although she’d never told the other woman about Peter. They’d only talked on the phone. She’d tried to be very careful and respectful of Cal’s privacy, just as she would have wanted had she been in the same situation.

Not that she’d ever expected to be a single parent. Or to have her own biological child.

Peter quit banging on the piano and rubbed his eyes.

“Time for your bottle? Ba-ba?” she asked, pushing up from the chair and scooping him off the floor. With Peter on her hip, she went to the little kitchen area of the motel room. As soon as he saw the bottle of powdered formula, he waved his arms and started saying, “Ba-ba-ba.” That was his word for bottle. He also said, “Ma-ma-ma,” but Christie wasn’t sure if that was a true mama word or just sounds.

Maybe someday soon he’d learn to say “da-da.”

She fed Peter, changed his diaper, then sang to him a little until his eyes closed. Within minutes he was sound asleep in his portable crib.

And Christie had no more excuses to keep her from calling Cal.

AFTER A QUESTIONABLE DINNER of some family favorites and some new-age greenery, all Cal wanted to do was retreat to his bedroom, lie on his familiar mattress and watch a little sports. Mavericks, Rangers, Stars—whatever was in season was fine with him. He probably wouldn’t have gone to Dewey’s even without the planned dinner and company. He’d spent thirty-five years nearly alone, and the past eighteen months surrounded by troops twenty-four hours a day. He just needed some time to himself.

Tonight, several of his neighbors—along with the guy leasing the pasture for his free-range chickens, a nuisance if Cal ever heard one, and Brian Wilkerson, the man who leased the pasture and the new barn for organic dairy cows—had come to share coffee and dessert. Brian came to the ranch twice daily to feed and milk the cows. The only animals the Rocking C owned were the few Herefords Troy had saved from the original herd, a handful of laying hens, horses and a pasture of overgrown, scraggly bison. The ranch hardly looked the same as when they’d raised nothing but regular beef cattle.

Besides Troy’s fiancée, Cal had met another new town resident, his lawyer’s bride, Scarlett. She was cute in a quirky kind of way, but definitely not his style. She wouldn’t make a good ranch wife. James seemed crazy about her, though.

He nudged off his boots, kicked them in the direction of the closet and settled back on the bed. His bedspread was one of those thin cotton ones with ridged lines, brown just like the trim on the house used to be. He’d missed that damned bedspread. At least Troy and Raven hadn’t thrown it out, even though it was a little threadbare in spots.

He’d barely gotten into the bottom of the first inning of the Rangers game when Raven knocked on the door. “You have a call,” she said through the closed door.

He swung his legs off the bed and opened the door. “I hope this isn’t a solicitation. I don’t want a credit card or a cell phone.”

“No, it’s not one of those. I think you might want to take this call.”

“Yeah?” He took the phone from Troy’s fiancée, who looked as though she knew something he didn’t. “Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said, and shut the door.

He settled back on his bed. “Hello,” he said, wondering who would call him his first night back. Probably one of his friends from the feed store who hadn’t come for coffee.

He thought perhaps the caller had hung up, but then a woman’s voice said, “Cal?”

“Uh, Christie?”

“Yes! I’m so glad you remembered.”

“How could I forget?” How, indeed. She’d been every man’s dream of a great weekend. Tall, blond, built, fun, smart and sexy. Very sexy. They’d met at the Barnes & Noble in Fort Worth’s Sundance Square on the Friday afternoon before his unit was scheduled to deploy. They’d both carried the same recently released biography and had ordered coffee at the attached café. He’d told her the truth—that he was a rancher who was in the reserves, called up for active duty and set to leave the next week. As far as he knew, she’d told him the truth—she was a widow who lived in Fort Worth and worked in marketing.

They’d spent one fantastic weekend together. He’d never expected to hear from her again, not that he minded she’d called him tonight.

Unless she was some kind of weird stalker…

“What’s up, Christie?”

“I’d like to see you, Cal. Maybe tomorrow for lunch?”

“In Fort Worth? I just got home and—”

“No, I’m nearby, in Graham. I could meet you at Dewey’s, or, if you’d rather, we could meet in Graham. There are several restaurants here.”

“Yeah, I know, but…I don’t want to be rude, but what are you doing here?” She seemed to know her way around already.

“I…I just need to see you. I have something to tell you.”

“Tell me now.”

“I can’t. I need to see you.”

“I’m not real fond of surprises, Christie.”

“Yes, I can imagine you’re not, but this is one of those times when you’ll just have to trust me.”

“Or not.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment, and he kind of regretted cutting her off at the knees. In a low voice, she said, “Please, Cal.”

He paused for a moment, then asked, “You’re not dying or anything, are you?”

“No! I’m fine.”

“No illnesses that you want to tell me about?” He knew he didn’t have anything, since he’d had about a dozen physicals since their weekend together.

“Absolutely not.”

Well, hell. His curiosity was piqued. “All right,” he said. “Noon at Dewey’s.”

“We…I’ll be there.”

“We what?”

“Nothing. We just need to talk. I’ll see you at noon. Good night, Cal.”

“Good night.”

He ended the call and sat there on the edge of his bed, wondering what the hell was up. What couldn’t she tell him over the phone? Or had that been just a ploy to get him to meet her? She didn’t have to resort to games. He would have been glad to see her for a replay of their time together. She’d had some tough luck in her life, though. Her husband had been killed in an accident, and she couldn’t have kids. That would be hard for any woman to handle, but she’d shown an inner strength when she’d told him a little about her past.

She’d been one special woman.

Maybe she still was. Maybe he was worrying too much, but he’d learned to be cautious. He’d trusted his brother to take care of the family ranch, and Troy had changed everything. He’d trusted the military to let him out when his time was up, and they’d extended his duty.

What else could possibly happen?

CHRISTIE ARRIVED EARLY, requested a booth near the back and tried not to show Peter how nervous she felt. She settled him in the wooden high chair and spread a handful of finger food on the table in front of him. Oblivious to her worries, he babbled and grabbed a handful.

She would have preferred finding a babysitter for Peter, but she knew so few people: Toni Casale on a professional basis, Raven York via the telephone, the daytime front-desk clerk at the motel in Graham. She didn’t know any of those women well enough to ask them to watch Peter while she went to lunch with Cal. Besides, they might not be good with children.

Maybe she should go ahead and hire a nanny. She rarely felt she needed one, but with the upcoming renovations on the motel, perhaps it would be wise to have a professional available to watch the baby. He was crawling and nearly walking, and getting into everything. She had to settle down, perhaps even find a house in Brody’s Crossing for a few months until the owner’s suite at the motel could be finished.

Unless, of course, Cal absolutely pitched a fit, rudely and publicly denounced her and his son and told her to get out of town.

Would she listen? Her first instinct was no, she would fight. But for what? If he was insistent that he didn’t want to acknowledge Peter, maybe they would be better off without him in her son’s life. She didn’t have to stay in Brody’s Crossing. Her nice condo in downtown Fort Worth waited for her, if she chose to move back, or she could buy a house in the suburbs. She wanted to give Cal a chance for all their sakes, but only if he wanted to be a positive part of Peter’s life. A bad father was worse than no father at all, in her opinion.

Her own father hadn’t been bad, but he hadn’t been nurturing and kind, that was for sure. When she’d done something he approved of, however, he’d been generous with his attention and his money. His love, as he defined the emotion, had been conditional.

Oh, why was she worrying so much? Cal would be here soon, and she would know almost immediately how he’d react to the news that they’d created a son together.

“Ba-ba-ba,” Peter demanded, banging on the table, scattering finger foods.

“Are you ready for your bottle already?” she asked. “Okay, Mommy’s hurrying,” she said, digging in the diaper bag on the seat beside her. Once she found it, she motioned the waitress over. “Could I get some warm water, please?”

“Of course. What can I get you to drink?”

“Iced tea would be fine,” Christie replied, fishing for the terry-cloth bib she kept for Peter’s feedings. “Here it is,” she said to the baby, and held it up for him to see.

And sat frozen in place. Standing behind Peter’s high chair was the man she’d known for only three days. He wore a plaid Western shirt, jeans and a stern expression on his handsome face. He stood tall and seemed lean, yet more imposing, his shoulders broader. He should have been a stranger, but he seemed so familiar.

That’s because you look at a baby version of his face every day.

“Cal,” she whispered.

“Christie,” he replied, his face tight. An angry red scar cut across his temple, between his eye and his hairline. “What’s going on?”

“Lunch,” she said, motioning to the other side of the booth.

He sat down, stiff and distrustful, and eyed Peter as if he’d never seen a baby before.

“Cal, this is Peter,” she said, and the baby turned his head toward her and grinned when he heard his name. “He’s—”

“Here’s your hot water,” the waitress said, “and your tea.” She set both on the table. “Oh, hi, Cal. Welcome home. What can I get for you?”

He looked as if he were trying to force a smile for the waitress, but the gesture came out more of a grimace. He must really be upset.

“Iced tea, please, Twila,” he said, then added as soon as the girl left, “and maybe I should have a beer or a shot. What do you think, Christie? Do I need a drink?”

“I don’t know, Cal,” she replied, getting a bit irritated. “I suppose that depends on how well you take the news that you’re a father.”