For His Daughter. Ann Evans

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СКАЧАТЬ in an alley sounded better, but nobody threw us off the stage. You get a few drinks in a bunch of guys, tell a few war stories, and everyone gets mellow.”

      “I’ve never seen him pick up a musical instrument.”

      “He quit fooling around with it once you kids came along, and things got cranking up there at the lodge. Way too busy to devote the time. Kinda went by the wayside, the way lots of things do once you start a family and you realize what’s important.”

      What’s important. For a moment Rafe could envision his father making that conscious decision, putting aside the idle playthings of his younger years and taking on the responsibility of home and family.

      Sam had always been able to focus on what needed to get done. He was a practical, goal-oriented man who had never understood the desire to see over to the other side of the mountain when you had what you needed right in your own backyard. It must have been particularly galling to him that his youngest son had refused to toe the line.

      “I’ll give you a discount, you being Sam’s son and all.” Leo Waxman cut into Rafe’s thoughts.

      “Thanks. I’ll look forward to working with you.”

      “You’re not afraid of this place?”

      “You mean the rumors that it’s haunted? No.”

      In his youth, Rafe had explored the building by popping a broken board off a back window. The place had been deserted for years. He had been fascinated, and the teenage girls he’d brought here had found his arms just the right protection against the whispery night shadows of abandoned rooms. Depending on who you talked to in town, the Three Bs was either haunted or hiding a secret treasure, or both.

      “Probably kept the price down,” Leo speculated.

      That was true. When Rafe had decided to bring Frannie home to the family, he couldn’t resist seeing if the old place was still up for sale. He had big plans for it, and he couldn’t wait to move himself and Frannie into the place he’d already decided would make a suitable home for them both.

      He knew Frannie was benefiting by spending so much time with his family, but he was eager to get out of the lodge, where Frannie must feel confused by all the hustle and bustle that came with running a thriving business. Where the air around his father was thick with tension.

      The foreman of the construction site waved at Rafe, and seeing the opportunity to break away from Leo, he shook hands one last time with the man, clapped him on the shoulder and left him at the curb. They were tearing down walls in the club’s front room today, and he was eager to see what kind of workmanship lay behind the flocked, garish wallpaper that the Culpeppers had thought so attractive.

      Once Rafe was satisfied the work was progressing well, he could move on to his next mission—getting one newspaperwoman to buy into the idea that the second Broken Yoke summer festival wasn’t geared strictly to make money for its citizens. Downtown revitalization, worthwhile causes, civic pride rebuilt. Could he persuade her that there was good to be done?

      Maybe he was worrying too much. After four years of working for Wendall Crews and his far- flung empire, Rafe had honed the art of gentle, and not-so-gentle, persuasion. He had the talent to spin the festival any way the town wanted it. And just how bright a journalist could this Danielle Bridgeton be if the paper had stuck her out here in no- man’s-land?

      Besides, big brother Nick had been right. Rafe still had the D’Angelo charm, and though he liked to think he’d changed, that he wasn’t prone to the old ways anymore, he hadn’t forgotten any of the old tricks.

      If all else failed, he’d lay it on thick and deep. He’d make Ms. Bridgeton feel as though she were the center of his universe. He’d have her eating out of his hand.

      By the time he was finished with her, she’d give them more newspaper coverage than the winter Olympics.

      MAYNE SHE WASN’T the world’s best journalist, but Dani thought she could recognize a losing proposition when she saw one. She regarded the three stories spread out on the desk in front of her.

      It would be hard to say which would be more exciting. Or which one was more likely to put Gary to sleep when he read it.

      She began to feel helplessly angry again at the fates that had dropped her into the dullest news corridor of Colorado. This certainly wasn’t the future her mother had scrimped and saved for her daughter to have.

      If Wanda Bridgeton could have seen her now, how disappointed would she be?

      Not wanting to give in to another fit of useless emotion, Dani decided that maybe a second opinion was called for. After all, she was biased about what interested people in this neck of the woods.

      “Cissy,” she called out the open office door. “Could you come in here a moment?”

      Although she was several years younger, Cissy had become Dani’s closest friend here in Broken Yoke. She was a savvy saleswoman when it came to selling advertising for the paper, and she and Dani had discovered a mutual interest in making a name for themselves.

      Cissy sauntered in and perched on the side of one of the office chairs expectantly.

      Dani picked up the first story. “Tell me which of these pieces would interest you the most if you picked up the Sunday paper.” She expelled a resigned breath. “The new forklift that Silver Ridge paid a fortune for this past winter is out of commission because the idiot driving it ran into a ravine.”

      “Was the idiot killed?”

      “No.”

      “Then who cares?”

      Dani picked up the second story. “A guy down at Berthold Pass has grown a squash that has markings like Abraham Lincoln.”

      “Oh, please,” Cissy said, rolling her eyes.

      “I’ve seen the picture the stringer took,” Dani said, referring to the photographer she sometimes used. “It really does look like Honest Abe, stovepipe hat and all.”

      “And that would matter to whom?”

      “True.” Dani slipped it to the bottom of the stack. She lifted her last and best. “A wolf got into a chicken coop and created havoc for some farmer in Manitou. Killed three of his prize Rhode Island Reds before he chased it off.”

      “A dozen would be better. More dramatic.”

      “Just three, I’m afraid. But Farmer Jenkins said his coop is so secure that the wolf had to be the canine equivalent of James Bond to break into it.”

      Cissy lifted an elegantly shaped brow. “Are you making that up?”

      “I swear, that’s what he said.”

      The younger woman pursed her lips, tapping her bottom lip with her finger. “I’d go with that one.”

      “Why?”

      “Death. Destruction. Secret-agent wildlife. Definitely better than an Abe Lincoln rutabaga.”

      “Squash.” СКАЧАТЬ