Kitabı oku: «That Man Matthews», sayfa 4

CHAPTER FOUR

HE SHOULD HAVE SENT one of the ranch hands to pick her up.

In twenty-four hours he had to be in Dallas, negotiating his way past a school of legal sharks determined to chew up his plans for the property he’d bought in San Antonio. He should be gearing himself up for the mental gymnastics of that confrontation. Not bumping along the dusty, knotted ribbon of road that led to Luna D’Oro with Miss Joan Paxton seated primly beside him on the sun-cracked seat of the ranch pickup.

The truck smelled like feed-store molasses and needed new shocks. It was rattling the fillings right out of his teeth, for Pete’s sake. He should have thought to bring the Rover. But it had been an impulse decision to pluck the keys from Tomas’s hand at the last minute to run this errand himself.

He slid a glance across the seat as the pickup lurched into and then out of a pothole. The woman looked tired and uncomfortable, trying to hang on to that ramrod posture of hers, in spite of every rut and curve that threatened to toss her around the cab like a pea in a hollow gourd.

She’d hardly said two words since they’d left San Antonio. There was a pinched look around her lips, and he wondered if some grievance against him was fermenting in her. She was probably angry because he’d taken one look at her expensive luggage, snorted in disgust and then tossed the bags into the truck bed with little more respect than he’d give sacks of grain.

He hadn’t been able to help himself. In spite of his suggestion that she dress in casual, comfortable clothing, she’d come off the plane looking like a Madison Avenue executive: tailored suit, designer attaché case and an air of indomitability. She looked primed for a nine-o’clock appointment with a company president, not a twelve-year-old child. Cody knew that the moment Sarah saw her she’d become as balky as a barn-sour nag.

He felt some of his old rebellion and resentment rise. How could this haughty blue blood succeed where he could not? What had he seen in Joan Paxton that day in her apartment to make him think she’d have some special talent for figuring out what the hell was wrong with Sarah? The woman had admitted she wasn’t in the business of working miracles, so why had he pushed her to take the job?

’Cause you’re flat-out desperate, that’s why. And if he wanted to deny that, he had only to remember last night—the latest go-round with Sarah over the poor showing she’d made for the school year.

She was already barely hanging on by her teeth in two subjects. Last week Miss Beasley had sent home a note about Sarah’s final exam.

Maybe he ought to float the latest problem past Joan Paxton and get her opinion. No sense stalling. Hells bells, wasn’t that the reason he’d brought her here? He chewed the inside of his cheek a moment, thinking that the woman had one heck of a challenge ahead of her.

“Sarah’s in the doghouse with me right now.” He broke the silence. “I’d like to think that means she’ll be on her best behavior, but there’s no telling how she’ll react to you.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her head swing in his direction. “Given what you’ve told me, I’m not expecting to be welcomed with open arms,” she said mildly. “What did you tell Sarah was the reason for my coming here?”

“I told her that I knew she was having a hard time in school lately. At home, too. And that I didn’t seem to be helping the situation much. I said you were an educational expert for children her age, and that you might be able to give us some advice.”

“How did she respond to that?”

“Suspicious looks. A surly attitude. We ended up in an argument.”

“Over what?”

“Her school progress reports this year have been going steadily downhill. Math. Science. Now history. Just before Sarah’s last test, her teacher, Miss Beasley, sent home a note saying that because she didn’t finish some big semester project, if she got anything less than a B on her exam she’d ‘jeopardize her chances for promotion.’ Which, if I remember correctly, is diplomatic teacher talk for being held back a year.”

“So how did Sarah do?”

“She thinks she passed the test. We won’t know for sure until we pick up her grades at the end of this week. But she’s all in a huff. She got a real attitude when Beasley claimed she hadn’t turned in the written portion of her project.”

“What kind of attitude?”

“She called Miss Beasley a liar.”

He sensed her grimacing reaction. “And your response to that?”

Cody took his eyes off the road for a moment to meet her inquiring gaze. “Personally, I think Miss Beasley is still the same dried-up, embittered old biddy she was when I had her as a kid, but I couldn’t let Sarah call her teacher a liar. I lectured her until I ran out of breath and then sent her to her room without supper. I told her if she got held back a year, she could kiss her horse goodbye.” He snorted, remembering what a storm of protest that comment had brought. “She still wasn’t speaking to me this morning. When I told her I would be back around noon and she’d better be there ready to meet you at lunch, she just looked at me.”

Joan Paxton nodded absently, and he wished he could tell what she was thinking. He switched his attention back to the highway.

“Why do you think she called her teacher a liar?” she asked after a long silence. “Why not just call her mean or crazy or too hard? Why specifically that accusation?”

He thought about it a moment, but came up empty. “I don’t know. Maybe she felt cornered. Maybe she’d got caught not completing an assignment,” he said at last, “and that was the first thing she could think to say.”

“Is it possible she did complete it? That Miss Beasley is wrong?”

That approach surprised him. He’d expected her to state Sarah’s behavior was classic ADD. “I’d like to think that Beasley’s wrong, but Sarah’s record on follow-through has been crap lately. More likely this is just one more project she decided not to finish.” He slid a glance toward her. “And isn’t sticking with a project a problem for ADD kids?”

She lifted an amused brow. “You’ve been reading up.”

He shrugged. “Just trying to get a better feel for it.”

She gave him a smile that made the interior of the cab feel suddenly airless, then turned her attention back out the window, seemingly absorbed in the flat, boring landscape. A few wisps of hair trailed against the high collar of her blouse, like gold filaments unraveling from a tapestry. He wondered why she insisted on confining it in that roll, when it would have looked magnificent caught in a stray breeze, swirling around her head and shoulders like the gilded hooded cape of some ancient warrior queen.

He was annoyed with himself for noticing, and for turning so fanciful all of a sudden. Experience always left its mark, and long ago he’d had his fill of women with flawless, aristocratic features who had very little going for them underneath all the window dressing. Sure, she seemed bright, in addition to good-looking. She might even have a spark of interest in him—if he could believe that list he’d read in her apartment. But there was no sense in trying to ignite that spark, because it always got out of control, and sooner or later they’d both end up burned. No more Daphnes, he’d sworn six months ago. And he’d meant it.

He squinted ahead, down the long highway. She was here to help Sarah. Not him. Whatever magic this woman might be able to work with his daughter, he’d better plan on staying immune to it himself.

SPARSE.

That was the only word that came to mind as Joan watched the dry monotony of southern Texas parade past her window. Nothing moved out here. No brooks giggling over slick rocks. No ancient hardwoods competing for space along riverbeds and waterfalls. Not even a puff of dust as a jackrabbit sprinted across the road.

The land here looked hot and hostile. Even the rock formations dotting the landscape resembled the jagged teeth of some fire-breathing dragon, and the battered pickup seemed to be rattling them down into the bowels of the beast.

As though he’d heard some unspoken complaint, the man beside her notched up the air-conditioning. Cool air fanned her cheeks.

“Gonna be another hot summer,” Cody Matthews said suddenly. His eyes flicked over her suit. “Too hot to spend it wrapped up like a New York banker. You bring anything cooler?”

She tossed a quick look his way. In jeans and a well-worn Stetson, he was once more playing the tall, laconic Texan. “I’m sure what I’ve brought will be fine.”

“Uh-huh. First scorcher we get, I’ll be scooping you up out of a dead faint.”

“I doubt that. I’m very adaptable.” She kept her voice as smooth as whipped cream, having already decided that William Cody Matthews was a man who delighted in keeping a person off balance.

“We’ll see,” came his skeptical reply. He gestured over the steering wheel, pointing toward a line of dark clouds on the horizon. “Might get some rain soon. That’ll cool things down a bit.”

“It’s much more dry and barren than I expected.”

“You get used to it.”

She couldn’t miss the affection in his voice. “You like living here.”

“I was born and raised here. My grandfather bought the property Luna D’Oro sits on when there was nothing there but an abandoned line shack. Pa got busted up on the rodeo circuit and decided to try his hand at ranching. Ended up striking oil, instead. Not enough to put us on easy street, but enough to add considerably to the land. Since that time, I’ve expanded our holdings, bought the house we live in now. I can’t imagine living anywhere else but on the ranch.”

That surprised her. “Your father gave me the impression that your business keeps you away from the ranch quite often.”

“I don’t know that I’d say ‘often,”’ he replied with a scowl. “More than I like, perhaps. I have an office in San Antone where I handle a small investment group. I spent a few years on Wall Street after I graduated from college, developed quite a knack for guiding new investors through the market.”

“But you decided to give up Wall Street and come back here?”

“It took me a while to realize that I’m not meant to live in a big city. Some people just don’t take to it.” His eyes raked over her. “Any more than a hot-house flower could survive in a place like this.”

The implication that she couldn’t stand up to a harsh south-Texas climate irritated her. As a diplomat’s daughter, she’d done her share of traveling to far-off exotic places that had been much more intimidating than this environment.

“Mr. Matthews—”

“You think you could start calling me Cody? Or at least what everyone else on the ranch calls me?”

“Jefe.”

“Yeah. Jefe grande, actually.”

Of course, she thought. When hell freezes over. In her most agreeable tone she replied, “Perhaps Cody would be easier and less formal. For Sarah’s sake.”

He threw her a knowing look. “I told Merlita to hold lunch for us. You like Tex-Mex?”

“Most of it.”

“I’ve asked her to take it easy on the jalapeños since we’ll have a tenderfoot in our midst.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Joan remarked evenly, remembering times when she’d sampled native dishes so spicy they’d nearly burned the taste buds off her tongue.

Cody’s gaze strayed to the floor of the truck cab, where a brown, oblong case sat at her feet. She’d refused to see it carelessly tossed in the back with the rest of her luggage. “What’s in there? You bring your own rifle?”

“Perhaps I should have,” she said lightly. “No, it’s my violin. I play for my own enjoyment, and I couldn’t leave it behind.”

“Fiddle player, huh? Never cared for it much. Always thought it sounds like two cats squalling in a back alley.”

She gave him a thin smile, determined not to let him get under her skin. “What a colorful analogy. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard that comparison.”

“You any good?”

“Well…I’ve never had anyone call Animal Control. In fact, at one point in my life, I thought I wanted to play professionally.”

“So what changed your mind?”

“Working with children pleased me more.”

“Sarah’s pretty good on the piano,” he remarked when the quiet again seemed to have stretched a little too long.

“Perhaps we could practice together.” After another thoughtful silence, she added, “That might be a way to make a connection with her.”

“I wish I could believe it would be that easy.”

She looked at him sharply. For the past few minutes there had been something in the air, an edginess between them. He was watching the road, but she sensed that the tension in his posture had nothing to do with driving.

“Mr. Matthews—Cody—you’re still not sure I can help Sarah, are you?”

He seemed unmoved by the friction in her question, his attention focused on maneuvering a twisting curve. “I hired you, didn’t I? I want you to succeed. And I don’t doubt your credentials.”

“That wasn’t my question.” When he made no response to that, she decided to push a little harder. “Is there something personally you dislike about me?”

He frowned. “No.”

“From the very first moment we met, I’ve sensed a hostility in you that doesn’t seem professionally motivated.”

The frown darkened into a full-blown scowl. “You’ve got an overactive imagination.”

“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t treat me like a fool.”

The truck slowed suddenly as Cody braked and pulled off the road, gravel spewing from beneath the wheels. He pushed the gearshift into park and turned in his seat to face her, one hand draped over the steering wheel. His look was as precise and sharp as a knife blade, but she didn’t sense anger. Only that he’d come to a few decisions of his own.

With one finger he tipped back the brim of his hat. “Okay. You want the short and skinny of it? I’m not crazy about you, but it’s nothing personal. I just don’t happen to like your type.”

“What type is that? Female?”

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes. “Let me ask you a question. How much did you pay for that luggage back there? Or for those pearls you’re wearing?”

Whatever Joan had been expecting from him, this attack on her belongings wasn’t it. “I beg your pardon?”

“Have you ever bought anything that didn’t have a designer label on it? Or jewelry that didn’t come from Tiffany’s? I know your background. I know what your kind of privileged childhood does to a woman. What you expect out of life. Yes, I want you to succeed with my daughter. But I’m a little worried. Because I’ll be damned if I know how you’re going to ‘connect’ with her when you obviously grew up with a silver spoon in your mouth, and Sarah is all denim and cowboy boots.”

His words left her nearly speechless. “You’re serious, aren’t you?” When he remained silent, she continued, “I don’t know why I should bother trying to explain, but for your information, that luggage was a college-graduation present from my aunt. The reason it looks fairly new is because on a teacher’s salary I don’t get much chance to use it.” She plucked her necklace away from her blouse with two fingers. “As for these pearls, they’re fakes. Good ones, but fakes all the same. If anything I own looks expensive, it’s because I try to buy the best so that it will last a long time. Is being a smart shopper against the law in Texas?”

“Joan—”

“I won’t make excuses for who my parents are or where I went to school or how many European vacations I took as a child. That’s your problem, not mine. But your implication that it would somehow diminish my ability to deal with your daughter is ridiculous. It’s like saying a writer has to have committed a murder before he can write a murder mystery.”

“Joan—Miss Paxton…”

She subsided with a sigh of displeasure. To her surprise, the sky had darkened in the past few minutes, threatening a summer squall meant to match her mood. How dare he form an opinion of her based on such paltry evidence? He didn’t know anything about her. “If you’re really so concerned, it’s not too late to take me back to the San Antonio airport.”

“Joan—” he said patiently.

“I suppose now you’re going to offer up another one of those ‘Aw shucks, ma’am,’ apologies of yours.”

“Not exactly.”

She snapped her head around to discover that he looked far from apologetic.

With no trace of irritation in his voice, he said, “It’s been my experience that women of your breeding and background follow certain patterns in life. Ones that I find personally annoying. If I’ve lumped you unfairly in that category, then I’m sorry, but I’ve seldom been wrong about this. I may not have wanted to hire you, but I’ve accepted that I need outside help. For Sarah’s sake, I’d like us to get along, as I would want any business arrangement to progress. But we don’t have to be…”

“Friends?”

“Exactly. I don’t necessarily like or agree with everyone I do business with, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make a go of it, does it? We’re adults.”

“Well, at least one of us is,” she muttered.

“You asked for the truth. I’m giving it to you.”

She swallowed a variety of possible retorts and said calmly, “You’re right. There’s no reason why we can’t make this work.”

He released a long breath. “Good. I’m glad you’re going to be sensible about this.”

“You’re the boss,” she said, watching a tumble-weed dance across the road. “Jefe grande.”

If he caught the sarcasm in her tone, he chose to ignore it. Instead, with a short nod of agreement and his jaw clamped as tight as an old turtle’s, he restarted the truck and pulled back onto the road.

Twenty minutes later they bumped off the highway and onto a narrow dirt road bracketed by rough-hewn oak columns. Wrought iron formed a connecting arch overhead bearing the words Luna D’Oro, framed on either side by artfully depicted half-moons with an inset of the letter G.

“That’s the ranch brand,” Cody said, pointing to the ironwork as they drove under it. She could hear the pride in his voice. “You know any Spanish?”

“A little. Golden Moon,” she translated. “Sounds very romantic.”

“Yeah, for a while we took some kidding over the name from the other ranches. But in recent years we’ve offered some of the best crossbred cattle in the state, so they give us respect now.” He inclined his head toward a small herd of healthy-looking cattle munching scrubby grass on a nearby rise. “That’s Luna D’Oro stock. From here to the house, everything you see is mine.”

The weight of the words and the way he said them made Joan glance at him. People, too? she wondered. It would be interesting to see just how much power this man thought he wielded in the lives of his family.

The dry pasture landscape gave way to an approach drive to the house. As they pulled to a stop in front of the place, Joan realized that house wasn’t quite the right word. “Oh, my,” she said on a soft exclamation of surprise.

Cody grinned. “I know. Looks a little like the Alamo, doesn’t it?”

“All that’s missing is Santa Ana’s army surrounding the place.”

The long low profile of the house was part mission-style, part Southwestern. The thick beige adobe walls, deep windowsills and heavy mesquite doors looked like they could withstand an assault from the most determined desperado. Shoulder-high walls fanned out from either side of the house to form a square, like a protective barrier meant to keep a hostile world at bay, but through one open gate Joan glimpsed an inviting courtyard crowded with huge terra-cotta pots filled with flowering shrubbery.

Cody was retrieving her bags from the back of the truck, obviously enjoying her look of amazement. When he stood beside her, he said, “Right after Sarah was born I bought the place from the bankrupt estate of a silent-film star. He played Davy Crockett in one of the first westerns they filmed in the area. It’s sort of a rambling hodgepodge. But we like it.”

“It’s wonderful.”

He looked pleased by her praise. Lifting her bags, he said, “Bring your fiddle and come on in. I’ll give you the nickel tour of the place after lunch. Something tells me you’re going to love the portal that runs the whole back of the house. That’s Spanish for covered porch, and it’s the place we do most of our living.”

She followed in his wake, enchanted by the fantasy feel to the house, as though she’d suddenly been dropped into an early Clint Eastwood movie.

“You should have seen it when I first looked at it. There was a tree growing in the living room that had taken hold in the mud and clay of the adobe. Pa and I did everything ourselves. Re-stuccoed, laid Mexican tile.” He motioned toward the chimneys that indicated at least four fireplaces. “Even rebuilt the original kivas.”

As they stepped inside, she was surprised to find that, in spite of the exposed beam ceiling, dark woods and thick walls, the rooms seemed light and cool, with none of the overpowering severity that Western architecture sometimes created. Anyone would feel safe and secure in a home like this, Joan thought, and yet, the structure was quirky and unique enough to invite exploration.

A stocky Mexican woman in a peasant-style blouse and colorful skirt hurried to meet them. She smiled broadly at Joan, and her black eyes twinkled. Cody introduced her as Merlita Soledad, the “best housekeeper and cook north of the Rio Grande.”

“Jefe always makes free with the pretty words when I’m about to put food on the table,” Merlita claimed with a hearty laugh. Cody objected, but Joan could see that it was all in fun; there was a great deal of affection between them.

An older man she recognized as Walt Matthews joined them, shaking Joan’s hand and telling her how nice it was to see her again. She noticed that he still leaned heavily on the metal crutch she’d seen him use at the Austin seminar.

Cody set Joan’s bags down. “If you don’t mind, we’ll get you settled in after lunch. I’m starved. Where’s Sarah?”

The housekeeper’s smile died, and she looked fretfully at Walt Matthews. Even before the old man grimaced and shook his head at Cody, Joan knew what he was about to say.

“I’m afraid she’s not here, son,” he said. “We don’t know where she’s run off to.”