Forever Wife And Mother. Grace Green

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ and poured a tot of brandy into a glass before returning to the sofa. He tilted the stranger’s head, poured a little brandy into her mouth. She swallowed, coughed, choked and then with a sputter shook her head and slowly raised her eyelids.

      She looked at him. Her eyes were wide-spaced, long-lashed and smoky gray. They had a blank expression.

      “What happened?” she asked, her voice husky.

      “You passed out.”

      She blinked. “I did? Where?”

      “At the lodge’s front entrance.”

      She looked blank for a few seconds longer, and then she said, “Ah, I remember now.” Her lips twisted in a wry smile. “I guess I don’t react well to rejection!”

      “It’s to be hoped you aren’t faced with it too often,” he said dryly. “Falling down can be hazardous to your health.”

      “Thanks,” she said. “But I’m fine now.”

      She didn’t look fine. She looked all in. And not merely tired. There was a bone-deep weariness about her and an aching sadness in her eyes that—if she had been a part of his life—would have worried him. Well, she wasn’t a part of his life, so he needn’t spend one second fretting about her. In fact, the sooner he got rid of her the better.

      She struggled to a sitting position. “I’m sorry to be such a bother.” Dragging a hand through her hair, she dislodged one of the black feathers, and it clung to her knuckles. When she saw it, she flicked it off with a shocked sound. Horrified, she said, “Where did that come from?” It fluttered to the carpet.

      Gabe plucked it up and got to his feet. “From your hair. Don’t worry, the others are still there.”

      “The others?” Lurching off the sofa, she flicked her fingers frantically through her hair. He noticed the gleam of a gold wedding band on her ring finger. “Where?”

      “Stand still.” So the feathers weren’t a fashion statement. Then where the dickens had they come from? He picked out the remaining few feathers. “There.” He held them in his palm. “All present and accounted for.”

      She made a grimace of distaste.

      He strolled to the hearth and let the feathers drift into a trash can. As he brushed his fingers together, he heard her murmur something that sounded like, “Must have been a bird.”

      “Mmm?” He turned, eyebrows raised.

      “Oh, nothing. Thank you for the brandy, but I’d better be getting along now. Could you give me directions to Cedarville? And if you know the name of a motel there, perhaps you could let me use your phone so I can call ahead.”

      He opened his mouth to say, sure, she could use his phone. And then he shut it again. This woman was in no condition to drive. It would be on his head if he let her go and she passed out again and ended up in the river.

      He heaved out an I can’t believe I’m doing this sigh and said, “You can stay here tonight.”

      Her gray eyes widened, and she stared at him as if she couldn’t believe it, either. Then she smiled, a smile that lit up her grimy face and made her look like an apprentice chimney sweep who’d been given the day off. “Really? Oh, I do appreciate your kindness.” She offered her right hand and said, somewhat shyly, “I’m Caprice Kincaid.”

      “Gabe Ryland.” Her fingers were fine-boned, the skin incredibly smooth. “At your service. So, Mrs. Kincaid, do you have an overnight bag?”

      “Yes, it’s in the—oh!” She stopped short, looking embarrassed. “I, um, no, I have a case—it’s in the trunk. I’ll go out for it—”

      “I’ll get it.”

      “Oh. Thanks. You’ll find my key in the ignition. Could you bring in my purse, too, please? I left it on the passenger seat.”

      “Will do.”

      When he came back, she was looking at his wall of framed photos adjacent to the bar—photographs he’d taken over the years, candid shots of his well-heeled guests on the mountains, on the river, in the wilderness.

      She turned to him. “What kind of resort do you run? It’s obviously not geared to couch potatoes!”

      “I run a ski school in winter, and in summer I take parties white-water rafting, rock climbing, that sort of thing. Outward Bound,” he added with a sardonic smile, “meets ‘Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.”’

      “So you’re in-between times at present?”

      “Yeah. We open again in May.” He led her out of the lounge and to the stairs, where he paused. Indicating a passage to his left, he said, “Our private quarters are through there, but I’ll put you on the first floor. All the guest rooms have en suite bathrooms. You should find everything you need. If you don’t—” he shrugged and looked at her over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs ahead of her “—you’ll have to make do.” He yawned. “I’m going to bed myself now.”

      At the top of the stairs he turned right and opened the door to the first room he came to. It was Spartan, as all the guests’ rooms were, except for the bed, which was luxuriously comfortable.

      He laid her case on the luggage rack. And then crossed to the window. He paused, his long fingers curled around the edge of the heavy cotton drapes, and looked over the valley. The night was dark, but he could see dots of light marking the houses and farms farther up the river.

      His gaze hardened as he fixed it on the spot where he knew the Lockhart place to be. There he could see nothing. No pinpoint, no spark of light. But any day now, as sure as the sun would rise tomorrow morning, the first of Malcolm Lockhart’s charity cases would be turning up at Holly Cottage. Some woman from the city, who would spend a couple of weeks recuperating from whatever trauma had brought her there. As soon as she left, another would arrive. And so it would go on, till after the autumn leaves had turned and winter came again to the valley.

      If his gaze was hard, his heart was even harder. The Lockhart place should, by rights, belong to him. Just as it should have belonged to his father, and his father’s father before him. His father’s hatred of Malcolm Lockhart was matched only by his own. And it was a hatred that would stay with him till his dying day.

      “Mr. Ryland?”

      He closed the drapes brusquely before turning. Mrs. Kincaid was looking at him with a concerned expression.

      “Are you all right?” she asked. “I said your name several times and you…didn’t seem to hear.”

      “My mind drifted for a moment.” He strode to the bathroom door and swung it open. Everything was as it should be—spick-and-span, with fresh white towels, a basket of basic toiletries, clean glasses, a bottle of Evian.

      “Breakfast’s at seven. Sharp!” He started toward the bedroom door. “I hope you’ll find the room comfortable.”

      “It’s lovely,” she said. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. Oh, one thing before you go…”

      He turned at the door, his eyebrows СКАЧАТЬ