Never Tell. Karen Young
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Название: Never Tell
Автор: Karen Young
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Исторические приключения
Серия: MIRA
isbn: 9781474024020
isbn:
“Actually, I think she’s quite reclusive.” The moment the words were out, she wished she’d kept quiet. This was a subject that, by tacit agreement, both avoided.
He looked up with a sharp frown. “How do you know that?”
She sighed. “I hear things, Morton. I attend an art class. I sponsor young artists. They talk.”
He held her gaze for another long moment, then disappeared once more behind the newspaper, this time with the sports section. “If she’s all that solitary, her success strikes me as even more unlikely. It takes capital to set up a business and make a go of it. I bet if we knew more about her we’d find she has a sugar daddy somewhere. Artists do that kind of thing.”
But Lillian did know about her. She knew everything there was to know about Erica Stewart, but she’d never tell Morton that. She could not remember a time when Erica hadn’t been a presence in her life even though they’d never met. It had been out of desperation that she’d found ways to be helpful to Erica without her ever knowing it. And, in doing so, had helped ease the pain of her conscience. But it had taken years. This feature article in the Chronicle was just one of several times when Lillian had been in a position to boost Erica’s career and she’d acted to do just that. Of course, it helped that the young woman was a wonderfully creative artist. And when she’d opened the shop in the Village with her friend Jason Rowland, between the two of them—Erica’s talent and Jason’s gift for sales and promotion—they’d really needed no help from anyone. Getting the article on Erica was one of those moments when Lillian had been in a position to help. She’d learned from a contact at the paper that a feature article about the Village was in the works, and she’d suggested Erica and her shop as a good example of the kind of thing that was proving so successful in the Village. Simple, really.
“She has a business partner,” Lillian said, continuing the conversation and giving in to some perverse urge that pushed her on when the prudent thing would have been to drop the matter before Morton lost his temper.
He lowered the paper to look at her. “Don’t tell me, the partner’s silent and well heeled.”
“I don’t know how silent he is or what his financial situation might be.” An outright lie, but with the bit in her teeth, she seemed bent on a headlong dash to the finish. But something—Morton’s arrogant announcement to pull up stakes and leave—drove her on. “It’s Jason Rowland,” she said.
Morton put the newspaper down slowly. “Jason Rowland? Not Bob Rowland’s son?” Now it was his turn to gaze out the window with a puzzled expression. “The one who’s an artist, right?”
“I believe so.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Yes.”
He was busy mulling it over and missed the irony in her voice. “Well, I was right about one thing. He’s probably the one bankrolling the shop in the Village, but I guess that shoots my theory about her sleeping her way to success.”
Lillian sighed. “Please, Morton.”
“At least, not with Jason,” he said, smirking. “The boy’s gay, isn’t he?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lillian said stiffly. “And he’s hardly a boy. He’s almost as old as Hunter.”
“Well, he is gay. Everybody knows it. Not that Bob’s ever mentioned it. And I see him at the club frequently. As a matter of fact, we played golf last week. Naturally, he doesn’t mention Jason much, but—”
Lillian rose abruptly. “I need to talk to Maria about lunch,” she said. Not waiting to hear him out, she left the room.
Two
To Hunter McCabe, a week when he didn’t make it to his ranch was a week that sucked. For the past seven days, he’d divided his time driving on Houston’s clogged freeways between two construction projects forty minutes apart where everything that could go wrong had. He needed to breathe something besides exhaust fumes and city smog. So it was barely daylight when he left the parking garage at his high-rise condominium and headed west out of the city. Making good time, he’d be at the ranch just as Theresa was dishing up breakfast.
It was a few minutes past seven when he finally turned off a state road onto the ranch—two hundred and eighty acres of prime Texas land. As he drove beneath an iron arch with McCabe-Colson forged in large letters, his mood improved. The ranch was a legacy from his father and one that Hunter cherished. Bart McCabe had purchased it thirty-five years ago with his business partner, Hank Colson. According to Hank, they’d bought it mostly as a tax write-off, but with hopes of raising cattle on a large scale in the future. But those plans had died when Bart went down in the crash of a small plane, leaving Hunter fatherless at age two and his mother a widow. Driving past grassy pasture now, he blessed the impulse that had moved Hank and his dad to purchase the land, whatever their motivation.
Once out of the car, Hunter breathed deeply, taking in the smells of the ranch—fresh-cut grass, wood smoke and horses. In the south pasture, a young mare stood cropping winter rye while her foal nursed vigorously. A prize Appaloosa in the pasture opposite spotted Hunter and whinnied, but he resisted the temptation to head that way. There were a couple of things that needed tending before he could escape to the stables. A weather front had brought rain yesterday and the cold, crisp day was perfect for what he had in mind.
He braced for the wild welcome from the chocolate Lab who rushed toward him, barking joyously. Charlie was aging, but somehow in greeting Hunter, who’d raised him from a puppy, he seemed to forget his aching joints. Laughing, Hunter dodged the dog’s tongue and enthusiasm, and only after he’d given him a good rub did Charlie fall in beside him, tongue lolling happily. He was up the steps onto the porch in two strides, pausing to stamp the dampness from his boots on the welcome mat at the front door before going inside.
The man who met him before he cleared the threshold might have stepped right out of a Remington sculpture. “Thought I heard you drive up,” Hank said, handing over a steaming mug of coffee. “If you’d headed to the barn first, I was coming after you and I wouldn’t be offering coffee.”
“I missed you, too.” Hunter took the coffee, knowing it would be hot and strong, and inhaled deeply.
Tall and whipcord lean, Hank was on the downhill side of sixty but still as fit as a man in his forties. He had a face made of sharp angles and shadowy planes and a generous mustache as gray now as his eyes. And in spite of the fact that he always wore a hat, his skin was still richly tanned and weathered.
Hunter tossed his hat at the rack by the door, ringing it squarely. “Before you light into me, hear me out. I plan to look over that lease agreement you’ve been nagging about right away. Not that I need to. If you’re satisfied, I’ll sign it and we’ll be done with it.”
“This is a partnership, Hunt. I’m not signing anything that ties us to a contract for five years without you blessing it.”
Hunter tasted the coffee with caution. “I know as much about growing pecans as you do about building a high-rise,” he said, wincing over his blistered tongue.
“It’s not about growing pecans. It’s about your land and—”
“Our land, Hank. We’re СКАЧАТЬ