The Newcomer. Margot Dalton

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СКАЧАТЬ strict,” he said. “Even more strict than when I moved here six years ago. Your mother brought you over to visit me, and then decided she wanted to stay. But the government still thinks you’re all just visiting.”

      Moira’s small face grew pale. “So Mummy and Robin and I will have to leave here and go back to Scotland?”

      “Not if we can help it,” Doug said. “I’m still trying to get things fixed up.”

      “I don’t want to go back there,” Moira said gloomily.

      Doug gave her a thoughtful glance. “But in Scotland you lived in a fine big house, and here your Mummy just has a little cottage.”

      “I hated that big house,” Moira said with passion. “Every one of us hated it. The bedrooms were cold all the time.”

      “I suppose they were.” Doug thought about the stately old home that his sister, Rose, had inherited from their mother. “A lovely place, that house, but not exactly cozy.”

      “So what do you like the best about Texas?” Moira asked.

      He thought it over. “The fact that Rory McLeod’s not here.” he said at last.

      “Do you hate him, Uncle Doug?”

      Doug shook his head, thinking about his mother’s second husband.

      Stephen Evans, his father, had been a cultured, soft-spoken man, and much loved. But Stephen had died when Doug was nine and Rose was little more than a baby, leaving their mother a valuable whiskey distillery in the Scottish Lowlands.

      A few years later she’d married McLeod, a hulking, overbearing foreman at the plant who’d soon insinuated himself into his wife’s inheritance. After college Doug had also gone to work in the family business, mostly to protect his mother’s property.

      But his stepfather had always been a hard man to endure…

      “No,” he said at last. “I don’t hate anybody, Pumpkin. But I’m just as happy to have an ocean between me and Rory McLeod.”

      In fact, Doug had come to Texas six years earlier to set up a distributorship in the Hill Country for the family business. But his heart had no longer been in the work. The spring before his trip to America, their gentle mother had succumbed to breast cancer, and except for Rose and the girls, Doug had nothing holding him to Scotland anymore.

      Something about the town of Crystal Creek had drawn him with passionate, irresistible force. Doug stayed a whole month longer than necessary, and afterward he went home only long enough to sell his share of the business, pack his belongings and begin the long battle to obtain a green card.

      Now Doug owned the Crystal Creek Hotel, was mayor of the town, ran the real estate office and served as a stockbroker for local investors. Sometimes he felt as if his roots had already grown deeper into Texas soil than they’d ever been in the home of his ancestors.

      “But why do you like it here so much?” Moira persisted with characteristic doggedness.

      “Texas is almost ten times bigger than Scotland.” Doug shifted the burden of the sleeping child in his arms. “But it has only twice the population. And the sunshine warms me clear to the bones, Moira. I love this place.”

      He gazed off at the rolling hills with their scattering of trees and rimrock outcroppings that sometimes reminded him of his homeland, especially on these blue, misty winter days.

      “You know Mr. Wall, in the drugstore?” Moira gave her uncle a worried glance. “Mr. Wall says Crystal Creek is dying.”

      “Does he now?” Doug said grimly.

      “Yesterday Robin and I were in the store buying Gummi Bears, and he said I should tell you that half the people in the town will pack up and leave this year if they can’t get their taxes lowered.”

      Doug, who was normally an easygoing man, felt a surge of real anger when he thought about the fat, gossipy druggist using children to carry his messages.

      “Well, if Mr. Wall says something like that to you in future,” he told the girl, trying to keep his voice casual, “maybe you could suggest, my darling, that he might want to bring his concerns to me instead of telling them to a nine-year-old child.”

      “I don’t like him.” Moira grimaced and scuffed her toe on the sidewalk. “Mr. Wall smiles all the time, but I think he’s mean.”

      “Never trust a man who smiles too much,” Doug said. “Often they’re—”

      He stopped abruptly, clutching Robin tightly in his arms.

      “What’s the matter?” Moira asked, squinting up at her uncle.

      Doug stared at the sandstone bulk of the Crystal Creek Hotel, a building on which he’d lavished a great deal of money and hard work since his arrival. The hotel’s facade glistened in the afternoon sunlight, its windows flaring gold against the darkening sky to the east. The freshly painted sign above the lobby entrance was as bright as a new coin, and all the windows shone.

      A sleek yellow Mercedes was parked on the street in front of the hotel.

      “Is it her?” Moira breathed, standing tensely at his side and staring along with him. “Do you think it’s the magic lady?”

      “I believe it is.” Doug knew the reaction was absurd, but he felt his heart beginning to pound with excitement against his rib cage. “You know, sweetie, I do believe it is.”

      “What does she want?”

      He began to walk again, forgetting all about adjusting his pace to Moira’s. She puffed along at his side, looking up at him anxiously.

      “Why is she here, Uncle Doug?”

      “We’ll soon know, won’t we, Pumpkin?” Doug mounted the wide brick steps of the hotel and entered the lobby with the little girls, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the lack of sunlight.

      Since her arrival the previous spring, Rose had worked along with Doug to redecorate the hotel’s interior. Now the old brasses shone, the woodwork gleamed with a satiny finish and chintz brightened the windows and the lobby furniture. The place had a rustic charm that drew guests from all over the Hill Country and beyond, making the Crystal Creek Hotel one of the few really thriving businesses in town.

      On the back of a chintz sofa near the window, a big tabby cat drowsed lazily in the sun. She belonged to Doug and was named Dundee. Though he’d acquired her from June Pollock just a few years earlier, this plump female continued a long line of “Dundees” that stretched all the way back to his boyhood in Scotland.

      But nothing in the lobby registered on its owner’s mind at this moment. Doug’s eyes were fixed on the scene at the reception desk, where Rose perched on a high stool behind the polished wooden counter, appearing so worried that Doug felt a stirring of protective concern.

      Rose looked exactly like their mother, and a lot like little Moira. His sister was a small, dainty woman with fine blond hair and big blue eyes that often seemed anxious and frightened. She wore a blue sweater over a plaid shirt, and chewed the end of a pencil, gazing in distraught fashion at the hotel register.

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