Always Dakota. Debbie Macomber

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СКАЧАТЬ The idea of marrying Margaret Clemens—or any woman—for money was repugnant to him. Sheryl tried to make it sound as though he’d be doing the poor girl a favor, but Matt wasn’t naive enough to swallow that. He did, however, feel almost sorry for Margaret. She wasn’t outright homely, but she wasn’t pretty, either. Tall and skinny, she didn’t have much of a shape. She was definitely lacking in charm and in social skills, and she seemed rather lonely.

      Sheryl argued that Margaret was ripe for the picking and if Matt didn’t marry her, then someone less scrupulous would. Of all the arguments she’d put forth, that one struck him as true.

      Snow had fallen the week before, and his tires crunched on the gravel drive as he pulled to a stop in the Clemens yard. No one came out to greet him, so he moved onto the back porch and with his hat in his hand, waited for someone to answer his knock.

      The housekeeper appeared. Her name was Sadie, he recalled from that first and only visit. It suited her—a plain, old-fashioned name. “You’re here to see Margaret?” she asked, her gruff tone devoid of welcome.

      “I’d like to pay my respects.”

      “Seems to me you’re about three weeks late.”

      Matt let the comment slide. He knew one thing for sure: if he did marry Margaret, the first thing he’d do was hire a different housekeeper. The thought pulled him up short. Sheryl was getting to him. He wasn’t going to marry Margaret, no matter how many arguments Sheryl advanced.

      He remembered reading advice from Ann Landers years ago, in a newspaper he’d found in a doctor’s waiting room. She’d said something to the effect that the people who worked hardest for their money were those who married for it. Matt wasn’t in the habit of shying away from real work, and he didn’t intend to live off anyone else. When he was able to buy the Stockert ranch, it would be with money he’d earned himself.

      “Margaret’s in the barn,” the housekeeper told him. Her gaze narrowed as if she were Bernard Clemens himself warning Matt to tread lightly around his daughter.

      “How is she?”

      Sadie paused. “She has good days and she has bad days.”

      “She was close to her father, wasn’t she?”

      The housekeeper nodded. “Mr. Clemens was a good man. Margaret is a good person, too.” With that, she slammed the door, leaving him to make his own way to the barn. Not that Matt needed anyone to draw him a map, but he would have appreciated at least the pretense of welcome.

      He found Margaret inside the huge structure that put his own barn to shame. She was dressed in a heavy coat and thick boots; a knit cap covered her head. Her hair, which she’d grown over the past year, was pulled away from her face and tied at the base of her neck. He could see she’d had it curled. Working at a fast and furious pace, she pitched hay into an empty stall, her back toward him. Matt breathed in the satisfying scents of horses, straw and well-oiled leather.

      “Margaret,” Matt called softly, not wanting to frighten her.

      She whirled around and when she saw him, she stood transfixed, as if she’d been waiting for exactly this moment for a very long time. “Matt!”

      “I wanted to stop by and tell you how sorry I am about your father.”

      She stared at him with wide, adoring eyes, then raised her sleeve to her red nose, cheeks ruddy with exertion. So it was true, what Bernard had said—she was in love with him. But despite Sheryl’s urging, he refused to do anything about it. He wouldn’t lead Margaret to believe he reciprocated her feelings—or that they had any kind of future.

      “I knew you’d come,” she whispered.

      He looked away, embarrassed that it’d taken him three weeks to make an appearance. “I meant to get here before this.”

      Her timid smile forgave him and he wanted to kick himself. Sheryl was right, even if her reasons were wrong; he should have come earlier.

      “Your father was highly thought of around here.”

      Margaret nodded, and he could see by the way her lip trembled that she was fighting back emotion. “I miss him something fierce.”

      “I know you do.” Matt remembered when his own father died. He’d been fifteen, an age when it was difficult to express grief. He’d feared that if other kids saw him cry, they’d call him a sissy, so he’d lashed out at his mother. Why, he didn’t know. Probably because his parents had divorced and he’d blamed her, always blamed her. She never knew—or perhaps she did—that he’d been the person who’d slashed her tires. He’d done it in a fit of rage, and that had been the beginning of trouble for him. Before he was out of his teen years, he’d had more than one scrape with the law.

      Now his mother, too, was dead, and he carried a double load of grief—and guilt. He didn’t think about his parents much, not anymore, but the memories never quite left him.

      “Would you like to come inside?”

      Her eyes were hopeful, and Matt didn’t have the heart to disappoint her.

      “I’d offer you a beer, but Maddy told me—” She closed her mouth abruptly and blushed. “Sadie keeps a pot of coffee on all day.”

      “Coffee would be fine. I can’t stay long.” Especially if Sadie was going to be giving him the evil eye. What had Maddy told her? he wondered next. That he drank too much? That he couldn’t be trusted? Obviously, his reputation had preceded him.

      Margaret led the way into the house, stopping just inside the heated porch to remove her jacket and boots; he did the same. She opened the kitchen door and they were greeted by an array of warm, inviting smells. Matt glanced around, relieved that Sadie was nowhere in sight.

      Matt noted the coveralls Margaret wore. They were shapeless and about the most unflattering piece of clothing she could have chosen. Yet when she stood on tiptoe to reach for a cup in the top cupboard, he was stunned to see that she had a halfway decent body.

      Scolding himself, Matt forced his gaze elsewhere.

      “Sadie bakes the most delicious cookies,” she told him as she opened the cookie jar and placed a dozen or so on a china plate. “I’d suggest we sit in the den, but neither of us is dressed for it.”

      Margaret slowly approached the table, carrying a serving tray with two small china cups, sugar, cream and the plate of chocolate chip cookies.

      “I’ll pour,” she announced grandly, as if this feat required unusual skill. She left and returned with the coffeepot and filled each floral-patterned cup to the brim, then smiled hesitantly, apparently awaiting his approval.

      “Thank you,” he mumbled, uncertain what was expected of him. He felt nervous even touching the dainty porcelain cup, afraid he might snap off the delicate handle.

      “This set belonged to my mother,” Margaret explained as she sat across the table from him.

      “It’s very nice.”

      “It’s all I have of her, except for the jewelry my father gave her, but I’ve never worn any of that.”

      Rather than risk breaking the cup, Matt gingerly СКАЧАТЬ