Kathryn Albright – Familiar Stranger In Clear Springs (страница 3)
Was he getting too slow for this kind of work? He wanted to squash that thought even as it sprang into his head—just as he had the past fifty times he had considered it. He knew plenty of men older than his thirty-one years who still handled fieldwork. To hear them talk they did all right. However, they weren’t crippled. It was his injury that ruined everything and made him a has-been.
But then he remembered Jeff Cranston. His own injury was nothing compared to what had happened to his partner, whose body now rested eternally. He swallowed hard.
Four years ago it had been Miss Elizabeth Morley and her brother. He’d never gotten along with her brother, but he sure remembered her. Prettiest deep brown eyes he’d ever seen along with her rich, coffee-colored hair. She was taller than most women, slender and graceful to a fault. The day he had walked into her store and first laid eyes on her he’d been hard-pressed to find an intelligent word to say. He had fallen under her spell even before they’d shared that kiss, but once that happened he knew she was the only one for him. He thought for sure she felt the same way.
Anyone worth his salt could see she was a catch back then. She could have had her pick of any of a dozen officers in the army. They all thought she was something special, yet they’d all given up the minute that dandy from the city started hanging around her doorstep. He’d been the fool to keep coming around. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t officer material—it took him longer than most men to admit defeat whether it was chasing down criminals or when it came to matters of the heart.
Guess in the end money talked louder than any feelings she had for him because he wasn’t gone four weeks before he heard she had up and married that rich fellow. Remembering the letter he’d posted was an embarrassment now. He had explained why his contingent had had to light out in the gray light of morning, but more than that, he’d gone on for an entire second page about making plans for when they’d see each other again. Likely by the time his letter made it here from Texas she was already set for her wedding. One thing was certain—she sure hadn’t bothered to send a reply.
Even thinking of it now set up a slow burn in his gut. He should listen to that and leave things alone. That chapter of his life had closed a long time ago. Over. Done. It was a frustration that the entire ride south from Sacramento he had been unable to avoid thinking about her. The closer he got to La Playa, the stronger the images of their time together returned. Likely because this was the first time in years he was back in this small town.
His stomach grumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten anything since two cold tortillas he’d saved from his breakfast at that cantina along the San Luis Rey River. He turned toward the hotel and then paused, looking once more down the main street of town toward the mercantile.
She wouldn’t be there. He knew that. Why did he feel this compulsion to see for himself? Was it for old times’ sake? Which was a maudlin emotion he should abandon right now. Or was it to torture himself over the fact that she was gone and married off? She was probably living in some big fancy stucco house in San Diego now with a passel of children.
“Aw...hell...”
He wouldn’t be satisfied until he saw for himself. She wouldn’t be there...but maybe whoever owned the place now would have word on what had happened to her.
The sun had set when Elizabeth descended the stairs to draw the shades and light the stove. At the base of the stairs, Patches rubbed against her skirt, butting his head against her ankle to remind her that it was suppertime. “Don’t you worry. I’ll find someone to take good care of you while I’m away.” A frisson of excitement raced through her as she thought about the look on Gemma’s face when she saw the supplies for her new school. Her friend would be overcome by the outpouring of generosity from the small community here.
Elizabeth moved to the stove and filled the kettle with water. Stuffing kindling and old brown wrapping paper into the stove, she struck a match to it. “Just to take the chill off.”
Bells tinkled as the front door opened.
“We’re closed for the day,” she called out absently without looking up. A body should know one didn’t do commerce so late in the day. Who would be wanting something at this hour?
“Ma’am?”
Odd how a voice could stay in a person’s memory forever. The deep tone sent tremors to the ends of her toes. She nearly dropped the kettle. As it was her hand shook violently. A vision flashed through her memory of the stranger she’d seen riding through town earlier. Now she could put a name to that form. Tom. Tom Barrington. Elizabeth stood frozen to the spot, unable to move for a moment. Then she glanced up.
Despite the thick dark mustache and scruffy beard hiding most of his face, she recognized him. It was his eyes. The blueness that had been so striking all those years ago was still there. His shoulders were broader than she remembered, and his frame taller, leaner, as though he’d lived hard without a lot of the finer comforts. That barely registered. She’d given up on ever seeing him again and now here he was standing before her. She could scarcely remember to breathe.
He stood in the doorway, black Stetson in hand, waiting for permission to enter the store farther. So clearly did the image come to her of the last day she had seen him standing there in his soldier blues that she drew in a shaky breath and set down the kettle. He wasn’t wearing a corporal’s uniform now, but a dark gray leather duster. His clothes had a layer of grit on them at least a half-inch thick. The wind off the ocean had tousled his dark brown, nearly black hair until it was completely lacking its parting on the side—or perhaps he no longer kept it as he once had when he was in the military. He looked surprised to see her—perhaps even shocked.
“Elizabeth?”
How many times had she hoped he’d walk back through that door over the past four years? One hundred? Two hundred? She’d imagined all sorts of scenarios. He’d rush in and sweep her off her feet. She’d run to him and throw her arms around him. Always, always, the dreams had ended in a deep kiss. Of course, that had been when she’d thought he’d return for her upon receiving her letter. That hope...that dream...had died years ago. And, unlike Lazarus, it would not be revived. Four years was too long to wait for anyone.
Oddly, the thought flashed through her mind that she was glad she hadn’t yet changed from her day dress as she so often did once she shut up the store for the night. Usually she anticipated the removal of her corset at the end of a long day much as she imagined a horse reveled in the loss of his cinch and saddle. For now, the laced binding under her dark plum-colored skirt and bodice held her upright and firm. Perhaps she had enough layers on to feel sufficiently armored against his charm now.
After all, he was the one who had left
Well, at least she’d learned a thing or two since then. She had grown stronger after the initial hurt when she’d found out he was gone and wasn’t coming back. And she was strong enough to face him now. More than strong enough, even if her knees did feel a bit wobbly.
She swallowed. “Mr. Barrington.” The sound of his name came firm and cool. “I assume it is...‘Mr.’ now by the way you are clothed. Not ‘Corporal.’ Not ‘Captain.’”
“‘Mr.’ is fine.” He ducked his head under the door frame and stepped farther into the store. The door swung shut behind him with a solid whump. He didn’t even jump at the sound. In fact, he appeared a bit dazed as he looked at her, almost as though he were seeing a ghost. “What are you doing here?”
His question baffled her. Where else would she be? “I’m not sure I follow...”
He huffed out a breath but still eyed her warily. “Same here.”
The timbre and cadence of his voice hadn’t changed and she recalled with a sharp pang how at one time she had loved its sound. He spun his hat slowly by the brim as the silence lengthened uncomfortably between them.
Her pulse picked up. “You’re looking well,” she managed to say. He did look well. She couldn’t quite get over how he’d filled out in the years since she’d seen him. Irritated at herself for feeling even the slightest twinge of physical reaction she rested her hands on the countertop and intertwined her fingers, glad to have the solid wood between them to steady her.