One True Thing. Marilyn Pappano

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the rear of the car, huddled in her coat and looking helplessly at the vehicle. Automatically he eased his foot off the gas and switched on his blinker to pull onto the shoulder.

      Deliberately he shut off the blinker and pressed the gas pedal down instead.

      He was out of the help-giving business.

      Forever.

      Chapter 1

      Slow as molasses in winter, the sun crept across the morning sky, bathing the landscape in bright light so harsh it leached the color from the day. Somewhere in the not-too-far distance, an overly excited canine burst into a frenzied fit of barking and…

      Oh, jeez, that sucked. Frowning, Cassidy McRae gazed at the scene in front of her and tried again.

      Fat clouds stirred overhead, casting lazy shadows over the forest. A hawk circled, its wings outstretched, its fingerlets rippling in the self-generated breeze, its eagle-eyed gaze searching…

      An eagle-eyed hawk? Sheesh.

      How about… In the distance, a buck appeared on the verdant lakeshore, its gaze alert and wary as he approached the water for a drink, his impressive antlers casting equally impressive shadows on the smooth glassy surface.

      She snorted in much the same way her imaginary buck might. There were many things she couldn’t do in life, and it looked as if turning an evocative phrase was one of them. Calling herself a writer couldn’t make it so, any more than claiming to be a Martian would make that true.

      For example, take the scene in front of her. A real writer would be able to describe it in such rich detail that her reader would feel the morning air, soft, still bearing the faint memory of the dawn coolness but growing heavy with the promise of heat. She would smell the clean fragrances of the woods, the lake, the wildflowers blooming in profusion in the tall grass, and she would hear the birdsong, the faint hum of insects and the gentle lapping of the water against the shore.

      She, not being a real writer by anyone’s definition, would say the scene was rustic. Very country. More accurately, very un-citylike.

      See? She couldn’t even decide for herself what it was.

      Besides safe.

      Buffalo Lake stretched out to the north and west, still and quiet in the morning. Trees lined the shore—blackjack oaks, cedars, an occasional maple and elm. A mimosa grew to one side, its leaves lacy, its blossoms about to burst into bloom.

      The centerpieces of the scene were the cabins, one on each side of the narrow inlet and connected by an aging wooden footbridge. One cottage stood front and center, the other a hundred feet to the south and west. She ignored that one. It was empty, the real-estate agent had told her, and virtually identical to the one in front of her—the one that was going to be her home for the next however many days.

      It had been used as a hunting cabin, the agent had told her on the drive out from Buffalo Plains the day before. Cassidy might not have the best imagination around, but she’d translated that into nothing fancy with her first look. Wide brown planks formed the siding, with a brown shingled roof. The window frames and door had once been painted turquoise, but had mercifully faded to a dull sky-bluish shade. There were two chairs on the deck that fronted the house—metal, with contoured seats and backs. At one time they had been a green as hideous as the turquoise, but years of relentless Oklahoma summers had left them dull and faded, too.

      This was it. Home—for as long as she felt safe. In the past three years that feeling of safety had proved elusive at best, but maybe this time it would last a whole month. It would be a first, but if there was one thing she’d learned, there was a first time for everything. Love, loss, betrayal, deception, treachery…

      The silence, heavy and complete, made her realize how long she’d been sitting in her car. With a fortifying breath, she pulled the keys from the ignition and climbed out.

      In the thirty minutes since she’d left the motel in Buffalo Plains, the June heat had become a palpable thing. It created a sheen of perspiration across her forehead and down her arms, and made her clothes cling uncomfortably. She would pretend not to notice, she decided as she unlocked the trunk. She’d been pretending a long time. She was good at it.

      Hands on her hips, she gazed into the trunk. Everything she owned was packed here. Her clothes. A laptop computer and printer. Linens and cookware. A few mementos. Every tiny thing that said Cassidy McRae existed, crammed into a space half the size of a small closet.

      It was pitifully little.

      She slung the laptop case over her shoulder, then hefted the largest of the suitcases before turning from the car. Immediately she froze and the suitcase slid from her fingers. When it landed on the uneven ground, it fell against her leg and leaned there.

      A man stood at the near end of the footbridge, his gaze on her. His feet were bare. Heavens, most of his body was bare, except for a pair of faded cutoffs that rode low on his hips.

      Mentally she clicked into author mode. The midday sun overhead gleamed on all that exposed skin, adding depth to the rich, warm brown and found highlights in the hair secured in a ponytail with a leather thong, despite the dull matte hue of the black. He looked hostile, she thought with a shiver of apprehension. Dangerous. Savage.

      A hot blush that could compete with the blazing sun for intensity warmed her face at that last thought. She couldn’t say for certain, but thought it was probably politically incorrect to describe a Native American as savage, even if it was dead-on accurate. Those flinty black orbs devoid of emotion, that long, hard, lean, muscular body poised to attack, the complete and utter lack of emotion on his ruggedly handsome face….

      She gave her head a shake to clear it. The physical description was accurate, if wordy, but the emotional part was way off. He didn’t look the least bit hostile, dangerous or savage. Truthfully he wasn’t so much standing there as lounging, not so much poised to attack as loose and relaxed, and his eyes, brown rather than black, showed a normal amount of friendly curiosity.

      His gaze moved over her, shifted to the car, then back. Leaning against the railing with a confidence she wouldn’t display around the silvered wood, he folded his arms across his chest. “It’s a sure bet you’re not one of Junior’s kin,” he said in the accent she was quickly coming to associate with Oklahoma. There had been a time when she’d thought all Okies spoke like Reba McEntire, but two hours in the state had convinced her otherwise. It wasn’t really a drawl, not a twang, not as readily identifiable as a Southern accent or a New Englander’s. It was pleasant, she decided, sounding of the heartland, of cowboys, ranchers, farmers and good-natured, small-town folks.

      “Who’s Junior, and how do you know I’m not related to him?”

      “Junior Davison. He owns that cabin.” He nodded toward the house behind her. “And I know you’re not related because all the Davison kin have an unfortunate tendency toward red hair, freckles and fat.” His gaze skimmed over her again. “You don’t.”

      No, her hair was blond—this week, at least—her skin was freckle-free and her metabolism made short work of the calories she took in. The rest of her life might have been shot to hell, but at least she had a few things to feel grateful for.

      Having a neighbor wasn’t one of them.

      She stooped to pick up the suitcase again. “No, I’m not related to Junior.”

СКАЧАТЬ