Между двумя мирами. Школа выживания. Марина Ефиминюк

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      “Not everything.” His tone told her he believed all but the most outrageous stories. “But you’ve gotta admit you have one colorful image.”

      “Of course, I admit it,” she said calmly. “I’ve worked hard to build it.”

      He frowned as if he’d never entertained the idea a celebrity might deliberately develop a certain kind of image. “I only wanted to point out our differences. I didn’t mean to offend—”

      “Don’t apologize for being honest. There’s far too little honesty in this world. And since we’re being so honest, I have to say I’m terribly disappointed in you.”

      “Come on—”

      Hope slashed at the air like a conductor halting an orchestra. “Save it, McBride. I’ve clearly misjudged you.”

      Frowning, he asked warily, “What do you mean?”

      “I thought you were more than just a handsome face. Obviously, I was wrong.”

      “Wait a minute,” he protested.

      “You had your turn. Now it’s mine,” she retorted. “I may be a flaky California floozy, but you’re a shallow, narrow-minded idiot who can’t see past the end of your own nose.”

      “Hey—”

      Hope continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “You don’t have the faintest clue what you’re passing up, but someday you will. And when you do, you’re going to be one sad and sorry cowboy.”

      Before Jake could even begin to think up a reply, Hope stepped down from the fence and headed back toward the party. Holding herself straight and tall as a queen, she crossed the barnyard with a smooth, unhurried stride. He watched until she rounded the corner of the house, then returned his attention to the horses, feeling a mixture of relief and regret.

      He hadn’t meant to hurt her feelings, but she hadn’t been listening to him, just brushing aside his arguments as fast as he’d made them. After all of that, any man in his right mind would’ve gotten desperate, but he’d gone too far and said too much. He was sorry as hell about that. She’d gotten in some good licks of her own, though.

      He almost had to smile at the idea of Hope DuMaine calling him shallow. Brother. Talk about your pots and kettles.

      Still, he’d stop by the guesthouse tomorrow and apologize. He didn’t want to cause Dillon any problems with Blair’s family. He didn’t want to cause himself any problems with his own family, either. They all really liked Hope. When she wasn’t pestering the hell out of him, so did he.

      But dammit, tonight was all his fault. What had possessed him to kiss her like that? And why had he done it in front of everybody?

      He’d love to blame it on the alcohol he’d consumed, but he hadn’t had that much to drink. And he’d been tired, but not that tired. Well, it didn’t matter. It wouldn’t happen again because he wouldn’t let it. Even though he regretted hurting her feelings, he’d meant everything he’d said.

      He wondered if Hope had meant what she’d said. That part about him being a sad and sorry cowboy had almost sounded like a threat. Jake laughed and shook his head.

      “Yeah, right. I’m shakin’ in my boots. What could she possibly do to me?”

      Not a blessed thing. And with any luck, by this time next week, she’d go back to L.A. She’d be off the Flying M and out of his life, and he’d finally get a little peace and quiet. After all the craziness of the past twelve weeks, surely that wasn’t too much to ask for.

      Chapter Two

      Still fuming at dawn the next morning, Hope loaded her luggage into the rental car and wedged a thank-you note under the back door of the Flying M’s main house. She hated to leave like a thief in the night, but if she ran into Jake, she feared she would hit him. She’d mentally replayed their argument again and again during the night and couldn’t believe he’d actually said some of those things to her.

      Flaky little California floozy, indeed.

      Taking one last look around the ranch yard, she got into her car and drove down the long, winding lane. She turned right onto the graveled county road, intending to say goodbye to her good friend George Pierson at the Double Circle Ranch. Three miles later she rounded a familiar curve.

      On impulse, she pulled over and parked the car. She got out, put her hands on her hips and slowly turned in a complete circle. Yes, this was the right spot.

      No matter which way she faced, the scenery was breathtaking. Soaring, snow-capped mountains to the west, and to the north, south and east, the green of irrigated hay meadows, the long, tidy rows of fences and power lines beside the dusty road, the endless blue sky without even a wisp of a cloud in sight.

      It was so quiet. So peaceful. So private.

      There was room to breathe here. Really breathe. And there was a timelessness to this land that was evident in the rock outcroppings and gullies, in the subtle, shifting colors that stretched out to a horizon that went on forever. Nothing ever changed much in this country.

      No wonder Jake and his family worked so hard to keep their piece of it.

      What would it be like to belong here? To have a place of her own with some reasonable expectation of permanence? Where people stayed and businesses survived beyond the latest trends in entertainment, fashion and food.

      She turned around again, shading her eyes with one hand as she looked her fill of this incredible landscape. Her chest ached with the beauty of it. With the longing somehow to be a part of it. With something close to grief at the prospect of leaving it.

      But leave it, she must.

      Heaving a deep, regretful sigh, she slid back into her car and drove the rest of the way to George’s place. His gangly, rambunctious pup galloped out to greet her when she parked at the back door. A semi-ugly mixture of several large breeds, the dog’s name was Doofus. Unfortunately, the name seemed to fit the animal quite well, but at least he was friendly.

      Hope scratched his ears for a moment, then climbed the steps and waited for George to answer her knock. If his arthritis was acting up, it could take him a few minutes to get there. Somewhere around ninety and still blessed with an excellent memory, George had been telling her about the history of the area for the next book she wanted to write next.

      He was cantankerous, blunt, meddlesome, nosy, opinionated and terribly prone to gossip. The juicier the better. Hope adored him.

      George had outlived his friends, chased off most of his neighbors and infuriated his relatives to the point they barely tolerated him. But, to Sunshine Gap’s surprise, crusty old George Pierson appeared to adore Hope right back.

      Opening the door, he looked out, his rheumy gray eyes alight with pleasure when he recognized her. He wore faded baggy jeans held up with orange suspenders, a yellow Western shirt and a ratty pair of brown leather slippers.

      “Well, well, look who’s here,” he said. “Didn’t think you’d be out of bed much before noon after that shindig yesterday. СКАЧАТЬ