Kitabı oku: «Montana Dreaming», sayfa 4

Chapter Four

“Dammit!” Mark shut off the flame under the frying pan and turned on a fan that didn’t work.

A giggle erupted from Juliet, who sat on the sofa, but he ignored it as he hurried to place the smoking skillet in the sink, dump out the grease and burnt bacon and turn on the faucet. The water hit the hot pan, roaring and sputtering like someone had entered the gates of hell.

As the smoke alarm continued to blast, he looked up at the archaic safety device that didn’t have an on or off switch, then swore under his breath as he hurried to open the window, to let fresh air into the room, to allow the smoke to dissipate. All the while, the alarm continued to shriek like a drunken banshee.

By this time, Juliet’s giggle turned into a laugh, triggering a rush of embarrassment. Frustration. And anger at himself for getting distracted.

“What’s so funny?” he asked.

Grabbing a dish towel from the countertop, he began fanning the smoke away from the kitchen, hoping it would clear the air and make the stupid alarm shut up. When that didn’t seem to work, he reached up, jerked open the plastic contraption and removed the batteries.

Silence.

Except for Juliet’s laughter.

When he glanced over his shoulder, he watched her belly jiggle with mirth. “Hey, stop that. Do you want to shake the baby loose?”

She placed a hand on her enlarged womb, as though trying to hold back the tear-provoking laughter, but it didn’t work. Between her chuckles, she managed to say, “I assumed you knew how to cook.”

“I do. But I’m not used to this stove.”

Her gaze scanned the kitchen and lingered on the newspaper spread over the gold Formica countertop—no doubt realizing what he’d been doing when the bacon got away from him.

The editorial had caught his eye, dragging him into small-town politics, the debate about the gold rush, and the fortune hunters who’d converged on Thunder Canyon with hopes of striking it rich.

Consequently, Mark had neglected to watch the stove, the flame, the sizzling meat.

“Anything interesting going on in the world?”

“Undoubtedly,” he said. “But I was reading the Thunder Canyon Nugget, which is chock-full of nothing.”

“Well, something obviously caught your attention.”

“Not really. The paper, like this town, can’t compete with the real world.” He turned off the kitchen faucet and nodded toward the sink. “I’m afraid that was the last of the bacon. And the pan needs to go in that Dumpster outside.”

“Don’t throw it away. There’s cleanser and steel wool under the sink.”

“I’mnot going to scrub this thing.” He chucked the pan into the trashcan. “I’ll buy you a new one as soon as I get the chance.”

She swiped at the moisture under one eye, evidence of her amusement. But she couldn’t hide her grin. “I’ve got cornflakes in the cupboard. And there’s a banana on the counter. You can slice it—if you like fruit on your breakfast cereal.”

Mark didn’t like bananas, didn’t like the taste or the texture. He’d eat his cereal plain, although he preferred a manly meal like bacon and eggs.

As he rummaged through the kitchen, looking for bowls and a box of cornflakes, he tried to shake off the image of what would have made a hearty breakfast going up in smoke. Of course, with all the fast food he’d scarfed down in his travels, his body could probably use the fiber from the cereal. Better to flush those arteries than clog them.

“It was really sweet of you to try and cook for me,” she said.

Yeah, well, he didn’t feel sweet. Or funny. And if someone downstairs heard that damned alarm and called the fire department, he was going to feel stupid.

A few minutes later, after the smoke had begun to clear, he fixed her cereal, adding the sliced bananas on top. Then he placed her bowl on the coffee table so she wouldn’t need to get up and walk any more than necessary.

“Thanks.” She tugged at his sleeve, drawing his attention. “And I’m sorry for laughing.”

“No you aren’t.” He tossed her a laid-back grin, sliding back into the easy banter they shared.

“Okay, I’m not.” She giggled again. “You should have seen the look on your face when that alarm went off. And the way you frantically swung that dish towel around like a dime-store cowboy trying to lasso the horse that had thrown him.”

“I think you enjoyed seeing me screw up.”

“Let’s say I found it entertaining. I’m competitive by nature. Maybe it’s a little sister/big brother thing.”

Was she saying she thought of him as a big brother? He supposed that ought to be kind of nice. Or touching. But for some reason it irked him that she thought of him that way. As if he were too old for her to consider as a lover—well, if she weren’t having a baby and all.

Nah. She couldn’t have been thinking about him as lover material. Mother Nature probably disconnected all the sexual urges when a woman got pregnant. In fact, he doubted Juliet thought about making love at all—especially now.

So why had sex crossed his mind—even briefly?

Maybe because it had been a while since he’d had time to spend on a relationship—as noncommittal as his were.

She swung her feet around to the floor and sat up to eat, making room for him to take a seat beside her on the sofa.

Actually, when Mark put his frustration and embarrassment aside, he had to admit it was nice seeing her smile, hearing her laugh. He shot her a crooked grin. “I looked like a cowboy, huh?”

“Roy Rogers at his worst.” Her eyes glimmered and her lips twitched, as she used her spoon to snag a slice of banana and pop it in her mouth.

Although he enjoyed a good joke, a part of him didn’t like her laughing at him. But he chided himself for being sensitive about something so minor and took a sip of coffee. As he savored the rich brew, he realized he’d done something right this morning.

He glanced at the ceramic cup—white, with a pink carnation trim along the edge. The pattern was bright and cheery, unlike the other things in the house. And he wondered if she’d had a hand in choosing the dishes. “Was the kitchen furnished, too?”

“The dishes are mine. I packed Mrs. Tasker’s set in a box and put them in the closet.”

Mark looked at his cup. “I’ll bet these are nicer than the ones she had.”

“I think so. They’re not fancy, but they were my grandmother’s, so they’re special.”

Yeah, well he was beginning to think Juliet was special, too. Over the years, she’d lost her family. Yet she didn’t seem beaten.

His gaze dropped to her stomach, to where she carried her child. Why hadn’t the father of her baby stepped up to the plate? Why hadn’t he wanted a pretty woman like her? Maybe, over time, the guy would change his mind.

“Tell me something,” Mark said. “Does the baby’s father know where to find you?”

“No.” She dabbed her lips with the paper towel he’d given her to use as a napkin.

Mark might not have any desire to be a husband and father, but if Juliet—or rather some other woman—was having his baby, he’d want to know about it. And he’d want to know where she and his child lived. “Don’t you think you should tell him? In case he needs to see the baby or send money?”

She thought for a moment, as if trying to find the words to defend her move out of state. Or maybe she was trying to decide whether Mark had been right, whether she ought to let the baby’s father know where she was residing.

After studying the pattern on her cereal bowl, she caught his gaze. The bubbly smile that had seemed permanently fixed moments ago had drifted. “I grew up in the barrios of San Diego. But I was raised in a loving home, and we were happy.”

He didn’t know what that had to do with anything, but he’d been curious about her past. So he shifted in his seat, facing her, letting her know he was interested in what she had to say.

“I never knew my mother. She left home when I was just a baby. But my grandmother moved in to help raise my brother and me.”

Mark wasn’t sure where she was going with this. Why was she skirting his question?

“My father worked at a neighborhood tortilleria to support the family. It was a small, family-owned business that didn’t provide health insurance for the employees. And even though my dad insisted Manny and I visit the doctor whenever we were sick, he didn’t like spending the money for himself.” She paused for a moment, her gaze drifting back to the pink carnation trim on her bowl. “When I was fourteen, he died of cancer. It had been a treatable case that went undetected until it was too late.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Me, too. But Papa was a man of great faith. And I know he’s in Heaven.” She offered him a sincere smile, one that held feeling, conviction and victory over grief. “It was tough back then, but Manny and I did all right. We took care of each other. And we held on to the values we’d been taught.”

Manny was her older brother, Mark realized. The young man who’d died in an industrial accident. Without meaning to, Mark glanced at the bookshelf, at the silver frame that held a smiling boy in a red baseball uniform.

“About four years ago, after I graduated from high school, I got a job waiting tables in a San Diego suburb at a small Mexican restaurant called La Cocina. And Manny took a night job as a stock clerk in a discount superstore. We pooled our resources and moved out of the barrio, where we could create a home together and start a new life. We’d dreamed of buying a house. It had been a dream of our father’s, then it was ours. Now it’s mine.”

Juliet, he realized, was made of sturdier stuff than she seemed.

She leaned back into the sofa. “Manny’s death was a real blow.”

And not just because of his youth, Mark realized. They’d been close. And her brother had been the last family member she had.

Mark struggled not to take her hand, to pull her into his arms. To provide a hug. Something. But he’d never been a touchy-feely kind of guy.

“One of the regulars who frequented the restaurant where I worked, an older guy who was a lawyer, volunteered to help me. To take care of the legalities resulting from my brother’s estate and the workman’s comp lawsuit that’s still pending.”

A nice guy? Mark wondered. Or an attorney looking for a cut of a settlement she was bound to get?

Juliet ran a hand over her belly. Over her child. “I needed a friend. Someone to talk to. Someone who cared. And Erik Kramer was a charmer who promised to be there for me. I believed him, and before long, we became lovers.” At that point, she looked up, caught Mark’s eye. “He was my first.”

If the attorney had been in the room, Mark might have considered punching him. Charming a young virgin when she was grieving smacked of unethical behavior. And since she’d already mentioned that the baby’s father hadn’t wanted the child—or her—it made Kramer seem like more of a jerk.

There was a certain responsibility a man ought to have after taking a woman’s virginity, especially when she was vulnerable, as Juliet had been. And the man should have been there for her when the chips were down. Like he’d promised.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I broke the news to him. I knew he’d be surprised. Like I was. But I assumed we’d make the most of it.” She offered Mark a wistful smile. “You know. That we’d get married and live happily ever after.”

Mark could guess the end of the story. “Apparently, Kramer wasn’t into marriage.”

“Oh, but he was.” Juliet smiled wryly. “He and his wife of fifteen years were planning a Mediterranean cruise to celebrate their wedding anniversary.”

Mark might be hell-bent on remaining single after his disappointing divorce, but that didn’t mean he approved of married men having affairs. A commitment—if a man or woman were inclined to make one—ought to mean something.

Juliet peered at him with misty eyes. “If Erik would have been honest with me, if I’d known he had a wife, I never would have slept with him. He gave me every reason to believe that he was free to pursue a relationship. That he loved me.”

“He lied to you. The guy’s a bastard, Juliet.” Mark wished Kramer was standing before him so he could knock his lights out. “I hope he’s agreed to pay you child support.”

“He gave me nearly a thousand dollars in cash, telling me to get rid of the ‘problem.’ Then he encouraged me to get a little something for myself with what was left over.”

Mark reached out, took her hand and gave it a squeeze. But it didn’t seem to be enough.

“The pregnancy had come as a surprise to me, too,” Juliet said, caressing her womb again. “But there was no way I’d consider aborting my baby. He or she is the only family I have left.”

“So you left San Diego. But what about the lawsuit?”

“For that reason, I’ll eventually call and give his law firm my address. But I wanted to put some distance between us. Emotionally, as well as physically.”

It made sense, he supposed.

“I didn’t want the baby to find out that its father didn’t want him or her, that he had another family that didn’t include us. So I pocketed the money he’d given me, gave notice at La Cocina, had a garage sale, packed my belongings into Manny’s truck and headed north. I wasn’t sure where I was going, but I was eager to create a family of my own.”

“And you ended up in Thunder Canyon.”

“I wanted to find a small town where people knew their neighbors, where there were no secrets, no one who could betray my trust.”

Mark wasn’t so sure she’d found that here, but he wasn’t about to splash a wave of cynicism on a young woman struggling to embrace a buoy of hope.

“That’s probably way more than you wanted to know,” she said. “But I didn’t want you to think I’d intentionally hook up with a married man. That I’d normally be that stupid. That my father and the church hadn’t taught me better than that.”

Mark flicked a strand of hair away from her cheek, and cupped her jaw. His thumb made a slow, gentle stroke of her skin. “You’re a special lady, Juliet. And someday, a lucky man is going to figure that out. And then you’ll have a family again, the family you deserve.”

Funny thing was, Mark the cynic actually believed that to be true.

For her.

But unlike pretty Juliet, a family wasn’t in his cards. He’d tried to recreate his broken family once, but his ex had doused that dream years ago.

Not about to go another round with the kitchen or the stove for at least another day, Mark ordered two take-out dinners from The Hitching Post. He hoped Juliet would be pleased with his choice—pork chops, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans and lemon meringue pie.

He carried the cartons of food upstairs and, while Juliet turned off the television, set the dinette table. The doctor had said she could get up to use the bathroom, so Mark figured it wouldn’t hurt to sit for a couple of minutes.

As he poured them two glasses of milk, she crossed her arms over her belly and arched a brow. “What? No bourbon?”

“Not tonight.”

It’s not as though Mark was a lush, even though he could understand why she might think so. She’d seen him having nightly cocktails ever since he’d arrived in town. But that was liquid courage to face the memories he couldn’t seem to shake while in Thunder Canyon.

And this evening, he had an intriguing young woman to keep his thoughts off his past. Off the rebellion that had led to his sister’s death.

Juliet reached for a butter horn roll, tore off a piece and popped it in her mouth. When she swallowed, she placed her elbows on the table and leaned forward. “So, tell me about the assignment that’s going to write itself.”

“Actually, it’s going to be a big spread. A Sunday paper special.”

“Impressive.” She smiled, and he felt a surge of pride, of pleasure. “What kind of spread? What will be the focus?”

“I’m going to write about the gold rushes, past and present. The willingness of naive miners to pursue a hopeless dream.”

“Why not focus on the positive, on the excitement, the thrill of striking it rich?”

Maybe because Mark’s hopes and dreams had died in Thunder Canyon, and he’d had to move away to get his life back. To make a future for himself.

“Do you realize how many miners actually hit pay dirt?” he asked.

“Some do. That’s what makes it so exciting, so interesting.”

“Come on, Juliet. You really don’t believe anyone is going to find any significant amount of gold in Thunder Canyon, do you? By the early 1900s, the mines in the area had played out.”

She took a bite of the crab apple garnish. “There could be another vein of gold. And someone might find it.”

“Do those rose-colored glasses ever fog up?”

A grin tugged at her lips, creating a dimple on one cheek. “I choose to look on the bright side of life.”

That was growing more and more apparent. “The chance of a big strike is pretty slim. Ever since the 1860s, when the first gold rush started in this area, miners swept the hills, finding nuggets here and there. And yes, some people did get rich. But there weren’t too many big fortunes made for the little guys. And most people were disappointed, if not devastated after gambling their savings on lady luck.”

“You’re more pessimistic than most of the people around here.”

She wasn’t the first woman to point out his cynicism. But he liked to think of himself as realistic.

“When I was in high school, I wrote a paper on Fourteen Mile City, a stretch of settlements amidst the gold fields.” Mark had received an A+ on that report, along with a budding interest in journalism. “My history teacher praised me for pointing out the downside of mining and exposing what greed did to people. Back then, gullible investors bought stock in fraudulent ventures, sometimes bankrupting themselves. And I won’t even go into what the gold rush cost the Indians and the Chinese.”

“I can see that there’s a downside. But I think most people would rather read about dreams, possibilities, hopes.”

“The best I can do is write realistically. But it should make you feel better to know that I’m going to also include the history and the legends of Thunder Canyon.” He stole a glance at her.

A growing fascination lit her face. “What kind of legends?”

“Supposedly, this canyon was sacred to the Indians, although I’ll have to research that for accuracy. And there’s also that story about Amos Douglas winning the Queen of Hearts gold mine in a poker game.”

Juliet turned toward him, brushing her knees against his thigh, shooting a tingle of warmth and awareness through his blood. The way she looked at him, her eyes wide, hanging on his every word, made him puff up like a toad that thought he was king of the pond.

“Was Amos related to Jason and Caleb Douglas?” she asked.

“Yeah. Amos was the original Douglas settler in Thunder Canyon.”

“And what’s the story about the poker game? Who did Amos win it from?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a prospector with a drinking and gambling problem. It’s hard to say. When I get some time, I’m going to head over to the museum and see if they’ve got more information.”

She sobered. “I’m sorry, Mark.”

“About what?”

“Keeping you from your research.”

“Don’t worry about it. I can place a few calls, if necessary, and can research the Internet. Maybe by the time I get back to my interviews, Caleb will have found the deed.” His explanation seemed to appease her, and he was glad, although not entirely sure why.

She placed a finger to her lips and clamped down on a nail, puzzled by something. “If the Douglas family owned the gold mine property, what do you think happened to the deed?”

Mark shrugged. “Who knows? It’s been over a hundred years. Maybe Amos or one of his descendents misplaced it. They probably thought the land wasn’t worth anything.”

“Not even in sentimental value?”

He reached up, stroked a silky strand of her raven-black hair and gave it a gentle tug. “Most people see land for what it is. Real estate. Money in the pocket.”

“I’m not most people.”

“So I’m learning.” For a moment, something passed between them. Something tender and intimate. Something that ought to scare the hell out of him. Something that did. He dropped his hand and studied his empty plate.

“Well,” she began, “from what I’ve gathered from mealtime chitchat at The Hitching Post, Caleb seems more focused on finding that deed than in the groundbreaking of the ski resort he’s developing.”

“He’s probably no different than the others. Each time another gold nugget is found, folks want to believe there’s an untapped vein out there. The idea of sudden riches stirs the blood of some people.”

“But not yours?”

“No.”

“What stirs your blood?”

He looked at her, caught the gold flecks in her eyes that glimmered in the lamplight when she teased him, spotted the cute nose that turned up slightly. Noticed the fullness of her bottom lip, the softness that begged to be kissed.

His blood was moving along at a pretty good clip now, but he’d be damned if he’d let her know that.

Damn. He definitely needed to get laid. How long had it been? Surely not long enough for his libido to contemplate putting the moves on an expectant mother, for cripes sake.

“You really are a stick in the mud.” She patted his thigh in a gentle, we’re-good-friends way. But it didn’t seem to matter to the rush of his bloodstream. “You have no imagination, Mark. Can’t you tap into your heart?”

His heart had fizzled out a long time ago. After his sister had died. And whatever had been left shriveled up when his wife filed for divorce and moved out of their apartment while he was away on an assignment.

Juliet tugged on the sleeve of his shirt again, which seemed to be her habit. Her way of touching him without actually doing so.

“Can’t you let go once in a while?” she asked.

Let what go?

His past? His guilt? His pessimism?

“What do you mean? I know how to have fun.” At least, he used to. It had been a while—about as long as it had been since he’d had a wild passionate, no-strings-attached night.

“Close your eyes,” she said.

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

For some dumb reason, he did. “Okay, now what?”

“Think about The Hitching Post. About a building that’s been around for ages. Can’t you almost hear the plunking sound of a piano? The voices of people who once lived and played here?”

He squinted, opening one eye and then the other. “I’m not sure we ought to be listening to those voices. This floor was a brothel, remember?” He chuckled. “Did you still want me to imagine the tales these walls could tell?”

Her face flushed, although the Pollyanna glimmer remained in those mahogany eyes. And she shrugged. “It might be interesting.”

“Interesting?”

“I thought most women in the olden days didn’t particularly like sex.”

“I’m sure plenty of them did.” He grinned. “What makes you think they didn’t?”

“Well, once when I was in the fourth grade, I overheard my abuelita and an older neighbor lady talking about sex.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“My grandmother said she wouldn’t walk across the room for it.”

“That’s too bad. It sounds as though your grandfather didn’t know how to pleasure her.”

Juliet didn’t respond. But then, what was there to say?

Mark wondered whether Kramer had been good to her, whether he’d given her the kind of first-time experience she should have had. “Tell me, Juliet. Would you walk across the room for it?”

“Probably. If there wasn’t anything good on television.” Her eyes glimmered, and he couldn’t tell if she was serious or pulling his leg.

“Then Kramer wasn’t any better at pleasing a lady than your grandfather was,” Mark said, taking a guess.

Her eyes widened, as if he’d hit the G-spot and set off her first orgasm.

Sexual awareness filled the room, settling over him. Over her, too, he suspected.

Her lips parted in an enticing way, almost as if inviting him to close in on her, to give her the kind of kiss that made blood pound, race, demand.

What was happening to him?

He ought to pull away. Let it go. Laugh it off, like a guy with any sense would.

But Mark had never been very heroic.

And when Juliet ran the tip of her tongue along her lips, he was lost.