Summertime Dreams. Debbie Macomber

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      “...about ten miles,” he finished.

      “Ten miles?” Rorie leaned her weight against the side of the car. This was the last time she’d ever take the scenic route and the last time she’d ever let Dan talk her into borrowing his car!

      “Don’t worry, you won’t have to walk. Venture can handle both of us. You don’t look like you weigh much.”

      “Venture?” Rorie was beginning to feel like an echo.

      “My horse.”

      Rorie’s gaze shifted to the stallion, who had lowered his head to sample the tall hillside grass. Now that she had a chance to study him, she realized what an extraordinarily large animal he was. Rorie hadn’t been on the back of a horse since she was a child. Somehow, the experience of riding a pony in a slow circle with a bunch of other six-year-olds didn’t lend her much confidence now.

      “You...you want me to ride double with you?” She was wearing a summer dress and mounting a horse might prove...interesting. She eyed the stallion, wondering how she could manage to climb into the saddle and still maintain her dignity.

      “You wearing a dress and all could make that difficult.” The boy rubbed the side of his jaw, frowning doubtfully.

      “I could wait here until someone else comes along,” she offered.

      He used his index finger to set his snap-brim hat further back on his head. “You might do that,” he drawled, “but it could be another day or so—if you’re lucky.”

      “Oh, dear!”

      “I suppose I could head back to the house and grab the pickup,” he suggested.

      It sounded like a stroke of genius to Rorie. “Would you? Listen, I’d be more than happy to pay you for your time.”

      He gave her an odd look. “Why would you want to do that? I’m only doing the neighborly thing.”

      Rorie smiled at him. She’d lived in San Francisco most of her life. She loved everything about the City by the Bay, but she couldn’t have named the couple in the apartment next door had her life depended on it. People in the city kept to themselves.

      “By the way,” he said, wiping his hands with the bright blue handkerchief, “the name’s Skip. Skip Franklin.”

      Rorie eagerly shook his hand, overwhelmingly grateful that he’d happened along when he did. “Rorie Campbell.”

      “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

      “Me too, Skip.”

      The teenager grinned. “Now you stay right here and I’ll be back before you know it.” He paused, apparently considering something else. “You’ll be all right by yourself, won’t you?”

      “Oh, sure, don’t worry about me.” She braced her feet wide apart and held up her hands in the classic karate position. “I can take care of myself. I’ve had three self-defence lessons.”

      Skip chuckled, ambled toward Venture and swung up into the saddle. Within minutes he’d disappeared over the ridge.

      Rorie watched him until he was out of sight, then walked over to the grassy hillside and sat down, arranging her dress carefully around her knees. The cow she’d been conversing with earlier glanced in her direction and Rorie felt obliged to explain. “He’s gone for help,” she called out. “Said it was the neighborly thing to do.”

      The animal mooed loudly.

      Rorie smiled. “I thought so, too.”

      An hour passed, and it seemed the longest of Rorie’s life. With the sun out in full force now, she felt as if she was wilting more by the minute. Just when she began to suspect that Skip Franklin had been a figment of her overwrought imagination, she heard a loud chugging sound. She leaped to her feet and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked down the road. It was Skip, sitting on a huge piece of farm equipment, heading straight toward her.

      Rorie gulped. Her gallant rescuer had come to get her on a tractor!

      Skip removed his hat and waved it. Even from this distance, she could see his grin.

      Rorie feebly returned the gesture, but her smile felt brittle. Of the two modes of transportation, she would have preferred the stallion. Good grief, there was only one seat on the tractor. Where exactly did Skip plan for her to sit? On the engine?

      Once he’d reached the car, he parked the tractor directly in front of it. “Clay said we should tow the car to our place instead of leaving it on the road. You don’t mind, do you?”

      “Whatever he thinks is best.”

      “He’ll be along any minute,” Skip explained, jumping down from his perch. He used a hook and chain to connect the sports car to the tractor. “Clay had a couple of things he needed to do first.”

      Rorie nodded, grateful her options weren’t so limited, after all.

      A few minutes later, she heard the sound of another vehicle. This time it was a late-model truck in critical need of a paint job. Rust showed through on the left front fender, which had been badly dented.

      “That’s Clay now,” Skip announced, nodding toward the winding road.

      Rorie busied herself brushing bits of grass from the skirt of her dress. When she’d finished, she looked up to see a tall muscular man sliding from the driver’s side of the pickup. He was dressed in jeans and a denim shirt, and his hat was pulled low over his forehead, shading his eyes. Rorie’s breath caught in her throat as she noticed his grace of movement—a thoroughly masculine grace. Something about Clay Franklin grabbed her imagination. He embodied everything she’d ever linked with the idea of an outdoorsman, a man’s man. She could imagine him taming a wilderness or forging an empire. In his clearly defined features she sensed a strength that reminded her of the land itself. The spellbinding quality of his steel-gray eyes drew her own and held them for a long moment. His nose had a slight curve, as though it had been broken once. He smiled, and a tingling sensation Rorie couldn’t explain skittered down her spine.

      His eyes still looked straight into hers and his hands rested on his lean hips. “Looks as if you’ve got yourself into a predicament here.” His voice was low, husky—and slightly amused.

      His words seemed to wrap themselves around Rorie’s throat, choking off any intelligent reply. Her lips parted, but to her embarrassment nothing came out.

      Clay smiled and the fine lines that fanned out from the corners of his eyes crinkled appealingly.

      “Skip thinks it might be the water pump,” she said, pointing at the MGB. The words came out weak and rusty and Rorie felt even more foolish. She’d never had a man affect her this way. He wasn’t really even handsome. Not like Dan Rogers. No, Clay wasn’t the least bit like Dan, who was urbane and polished—and very proud of his little MGB.

      “From the sounds of it, Skip’s probably right.” Clay walked over to the car, which his brother had connected to the tractor. He twisted the same black СКАЧАТЬ