Janet Tronstad – Alaskan Sweethearts (страница 2)

Hunter voted for the threat. The blood slowly drained out of his face as he realized he had been mistaken about Scarlett. If this woman carried a clutch, it had a designer label. Even without seeing her face, he knew she was young, not old. And he was almost certain that her last name—Murphy—was the same as the business partner in Nome who had betrayed his grandfather years ago by stealing the woman he’d loved. The growing unease Hunter had about all of this deepened. The old man had been muttering about the meaning of life lately. Maybe it wasn’t past habits that had caused this latest bit of mischief. Maybe his grandfather wanted to settle a score and get some final revenge before he died.

Lord, help us all, Hunter thought in an absentminded prayer. If his grandfather was intent on vengeance, he could cause big trouble.

Hunter could only see the woman’s back, but the graceful set of her shoulders and the halo of fiery copper hair blowing lightly around her head made her look like a Botticelli angel out for an morning stroll. The charge in the air might not all be from the upcoming lightning, he thought as he swallowed. His grandfather had said the woman who broke his heart had been stunning. This one was certainly her equal. She wore a sleeveless white silk top. Her arms were well-defined and bronzed by the sun. She put a hand up to smooth down the wayward strands of her hair and he saw a silver bracelet on her wrist. She had muscles and was, at the same time, delicate and utterly feminine.

Hunter was taking a step down from the porch when the woman turned around. He faltered. She was even more beautiful than he’d feared. Something sparkled as she lifted a silver chain that was loose around her neck and slipped it into the front of her blouse. Her face was pale and brushed with the same bronze as her arms. He couldn’t fully see the color of her eyes from where he stood, but he could sense their intensity. As best he could tell they were hazel, gold mixed with green.

That’s when he realized he could feel the smoldering heat in her eyes because she was staring at him—and not in a good way.

He looked down at his shirt. He hadn’t changed after coming in from feeding the cattle and discovering the letter. Hunter tried to casually brush the fine hay dust off of his jeans without calling too much attention to it, but there was nothing he could do about the small red stain he’d gotten from putting iodine on the scrape he’d found along the back of the milk cow this morning. His boots were scuffed but clean.

He squared his shoulders. He shouldn’t have to apologize for wearing work clothes. He was a rancher and everyone knew it. The last woman he’d come anywhere close to settling down with had called him a dirt farmer and had walked away when he’d assured her that his ranch was not as prosperous as she’d hoped. He’d had no helicopter in the shop for repairs despite what his grandfather had told her. He’d had no tuxedo at the dry cleaner’s and likely never would. He wasn’t as poor as his date had thought based on her angry, parting words, but Hunter had decided then and there not to let a woman judge him by his wallet—or his wardrobe.

He finished walking down the porch steps and stood with his legs braced for trouble. This woman dressed expensively and that was never a good sign. He wondered what she had around her neck that she felt the need to hide from him.

“Scarlett Murphy?” he called to her.

He heard another rumble in the distance and the sky over the empty street turned darker. The woman was eyeing him now as though he’d challenged her to a gunfight on the streets of an Old West town.

He smiled.

She didn’t.

The cat suddenly appeared at his feet and meowed sharply. The woman glanced down at the feline, her face softening.

“Careful of the cat,” he cautioned softly.

The family of cats that guarded the Jacobson barn didn’t know any middle ground with strangers. People were enemies until they proved to be friends. The felines didn’t mind a fight, either. That’s why Hunter didn’t usually bring any of the cats into Dry Creek with him.

The woman nodded and lifted her eyes, looking at him from the far side of her car with increasing suspicion. “I’m here to see Mr. Colin Jacobson.”

“I know,” Hunter said, careful to keep his voice steady. He didn’t want to alarm the cat, but he needed Scarlett Murphy’s cooperation. “I’d advise you to leave town without talking to him.”

“What?” The woman sounded baffled. The touch of bronze had left her face, which had turned mostly white. She looked like a fine Italian statue. “I’ve just flown two thousand miles to see him. From Alaska.”

“I know,” he said. “And I’m sorry for that.”

“He has papers for me to sign.”

Hunter pulled his wallet from his shirt pocket and took out half a dozen fifty-dollar bills. “I’ll cover your travel costs.” He turned his wallet over and got more bills from the inside flap. “Just give me a minute. I’ll send a check for the rest.”

Paying her now would be cheaper than what his grandfather had in store. Hunter always paid back the victims even if his grandfather had already spent the money. With the drought, he couldn’t keep doing it, though. It was time to end his grandfather’s mischief before they went broke.

“You most certainly will not stop me,” she protested. “I came to see Colin Jacobson and that’s what I intend to do. I’m not returning to Alaska until Monday.”

It was Saturday now.

“I’m sorry, but he’s not available.”

At least he wouldn’t be in two minutes, Hunter told himself. He’d take his grandfather back to the ranch if he had to tie him up and put him in the pickup. Sheriff Carl Wall would come and help him if he needed to make it official. The sheriff had been a good friend to Hunter over the years and knew more than most about the trouble surrounding the Jacobson family.

“But it’s the fifteenth of August,” the woman insisted. “We have an appointment.”

The realization shot through Hunter like a bullet and left him just as dazed. For the first time in all these years, he’d forgotten. Today was the anniversary of the accident that had killed his parents. It all came back in a heartbeat. He had been ten years old and had been riding in the front seat with his father. His mother and two younger brothers, in the rear, had been thrown free of the vehicle when it turned over. His grandfather, although widowed and not in the best of health, had taken him and his brothers into his home. The old man hadn’t slept those first few nights, instead going from bedroom to bedroom keeping watch over them. Hunter still remembered the sound of his grandfather’s slippers shuffling across the floor. It had made him feel safe.

Hunter was speechless. No one in the family ever talked about that day. They couldn’t.

This time he glanced down at the cat almost involuntarily and she, perhaps sensing his mood, abandoned her battle stance and stared at him with calm sympathy. His grandfather had gone out to the barn the morning after the accident and brought the ancestor of this cat into the house. He and his brothers had been mute in their grief, hugging the poor mother cat until Hunter was surprised she hadn’t scratched them and demanded release. He’d never figured out how each generation of cats knew when they were needed, but they did.

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Scarlett Murphy demanded of him as she took a step forward. “Are you a real-estate agent?”

“Of course not.” Hunter came back from the past and protested automatically. He bent and scooped the cat up to his chest. This time she did not try to avoid it. He dragged his hand over her mottled orange fur to calm her. The feline was still tense, ready to bristle at the woman. No one needed to make this confrontation worse.

“Well, you’re not getting part of the property, no matter who you are.” She glared at him. “No commission. No finder’s fee. We Murphys don’t fool easy. So I’m asking again. What are you doing here?”

Hunter had his breathing under control and the cat was relaxing.

“I came to, uh, make sure no one takes advantage of you,” Hunter managed to say even though he knew it was stilted.

“You came to rescue me?” The woman focused on him even more intently. She made it sound as if he’d taken leave of his senses. “I’m not paying you for that, either.”

“Look, I don’t want any money from you,” Hunter said impatiently. “Not a dime. Just, whatever you do, don’t sign anything.”

The pink was returning to the woman’s face and with it some red. Her face was alive with indignation. She pressed her hands down on the front fender of her car and studied him as she leaned forward. “Who are you, anyway?”

“The man’s grandson.”

His full name was Colin Hunter Jacobson, but he sure didn’t want to hang that first name around his neck. Not with his grandfather’s reputation. He’d changed to using his middle name when he was eighteen. His grandfather had accepted the change without asking for an explanation.

Hunter started to turn away. It was time he called the sheriff.

But the woman wasn’t through.