Meagan McKinney – The Cowboy Meets His Match (страница 2)

Joe and Gina had hurt her at the very core of her being, had shaken not only her world but her very soul. And the only way Jacquelyn knew how to deal with such trauma was to cover it over with a layer of frost—numbing it, yes, but also leaving it fully intact. That’s precisely how Stephanie Rousseaux had taught her daughter to cope—as she herself endured a loveless marriage to Jacquelyn’s cruel, critical father.

So even as her heart secretly responded to Bonnie’s warmth, Jacquelyn knew her survival reflexes would chill the woman out.

“Thanks, Bonnie, but I’d better not. If I’m going to make the Wednesday deadline with this next installment, I’d better get to work.”

“Okay, busy lady. But the offer’s open.”

Bonnie watched her from concerned eyes. Then she added, “You know what else? When he was young, my grandpa rode for Jake McCallum on the Lazy M spread. Every man who rode for Jake could quote the old man’s favorite saying. ‘The best way to cure a boil is to lance it.”’

“All right, then, A.J.,” Hazel confirmed, “I’ll see you around, say, two o’clock this afternoon at my place? Good. I can always count on you Clayburn men, can’t I? It shouldn’t take too long.”

Hazel still used the stodgy, old black phones from the fifties. She hung the handset back in its cradle, a determined smile smoothing out the lines around her mouth.

She strolled, still lost in thought, toward a big bay window in the parlor’s north wall. At seventy-five, she considered herself still young. Every morning she arose, twisted her long, white hair into the ever-present chignon at the back of her neck and got going, running the enormous ranch from her cell phone and Jake’s original rolltop desk. She was still quite active, too, though a long succession of cattle-country winters had left her “a little rusted in the hinges,” as she often said, dismissing the arthritis in her joints.

There was still a lot of life in her that she meant to live.

But…

Halting in the window bay, she parted the curtains and the lace liners with both hands to gaze outside. Beyond the hay-raked pastures of the Lazy M, ragged tatters of cloud drifted across a late-morning sky the pure blue color of a gas flame. The lower slopes of the mountains surrounding Mystery Valley bristled with conifers and white sycamores. Higher up, the slopes were wooded only in the gulches, rising in ascending folds to granite points draped in white ermine.

Looking at the familiar yet still-stunning view made Hazel think about Jacquelyn Rousseaux and the conversation they’d had during her interview.

The girl had admitted being hurt, betrayed, deeply disillusioned. She honestly believed that love had given her the permanent go-by. Hazel had seen all that when Jacquelyn opened up to her last week. But Hazel also recognized how deeply, how desperately the young woman wanted to believe again in the old dreams, the “corny” ideals about love, men and life.

Toward that very end, among others, Hazel had a plan. She wanted, more than anything else, to see Mystery go on being the kind of town it was always meant to be. Rodeo star and dear family friend, A. J. Clayburn, fit the bill exactly; he’d been out to stud for too many years without marrying and settling down. Hazel knew full well why the cowboy’s heart was frozen, but when Jacquelyn Rousseaux began to open up to her in the interview, Hazel realized it was time the cowboy’s heart got to melting. And she’d sat looking at the cool, platinum-haired beauty who was just the one to do it.

The time was right. Hazel wasn’t getting any younger or more energetic. And she had to face the hard facts: she was the last McCallum, and she would leave no line behind her. Only one thing could keep Mystery from obliteration under an influx of careless investors and outsiders like Jacquelyn’s father, the developer Eric Rousseaux: new blood had to be carefully, passionately mixed with old. She meant to create new families from the ones already committed to the town.

Simply put, she had made a list of good folks in Mystery who needed hitching up. Despite being long past retirement age, Hazel, matriarch of all the land as far as the eye could see, was now taking on a second career—matchmaking. And one of her first clients was none other than the troubled beauty who wrote for the town newspaper.

Still, Hazel fretted about the prospects for success in Jacquelyn’s case. If someone wanted to know how a young woman might likely turn out in life, they had only to look at her mother. And Hazel had seen the abject hopelessness in the eyes of Stephanie Rousseaux, who summered in Mystery with Jacquelyn. Not exactly the ideal role model for a daughter reeling from emotional disaster.

But the plan was much bigger than Jacquelyn Rousseaux, even though it began with her. Hazel’s fires might be banked, but not her big ambition. Her idea, in fact, was literally as big as an entire town.

Again her Prussian-blue eyes sought those majestic white peaks on the horizon. For her plan to work, Hazel needed women to match those mountains. Strong, beautiful, proud, enduring women. Women just like Jacquelyn Rousseaux, broken heart, Southern drawl, disillusionment and all.

Or am I wrong this time, Hazel wondered. Mistaking hope for reality, a plow horse for a racer?

She would find out in about three hours, when Jacquelyn finally understood what the older woman expected her to do.

Two

“Jake wasn’t an educated man,” Hazel confided to Jacquelyn. “Swore like a trooper, when he thought there were no women or children nearby to hear him. Used to joke that he spoke only two languages—American and cussing. But he sure did have what they call money smarts.”

The two women sat near each other in the parlor’s nineteenth-century gilt chairs. Jacquelyn’s microcassette recorder included a tiny but powerful high-ambience remote microphone, so she could tape Hazel without rudely shoving anything into her face.

“Before he died,” Hazel resumed, “Jake even became part owner in the Comstock Lode. That was a rich deposit of silver and gold ore discovered by his old partner, Henry T. P. Comstock, near Virginia City, Nevada. Jake’s side ventures eventually allowed my grandpa to be the first cattleman in these northern ranges to develop Shorthorn and Hereford breeds. Better meat than the Longhorn stock from the Texas ranges. Sold higher, too.”

While Hazel spoke, Jacquelyn again admired Mystery Valley’s oldest and still finest ranch house. Built in the 1880s, it had replaced the original settlers’ cabin.

Its hand-hewn hemlock beams had been transported cross-country by cumbersome freight wagons. Other materials, too, had been selected to reflect success, not frontier frugality: a carved cherrywood staircase, hard-maple flooring, fireplaces manteled with blood onyx, marble and slate. On the wall behind Hazel, bright buffalo-hide shields flanked a beautiful wash drawing in a gold scrollwork frame. It depicted a small herd of Shorthorns splashing across a river, whipping the water to spray.

“Jake was a tough man,” Hazel reminisced in her deep, still-vibrant voice. “He insisted that all his children be educated, even his daughters, which was unusual in his day. That included my grandma, his daughter Mystery.”

Hazel fell silent, thoughtfully studying her young interviewer.

Jacquelyn felt as if she towered over the petite older woman, even seated, though she was only five-four. She waited for the next goldmine of information and was embarrassed to find the conversation again focused on her.

“You know I don’t cotton to short hair on women, but I think I like yours. In my day we’d call your hair color platinum. Marilyn-Monroe platinum. Quite glamorous. And I do believe your eyes are sea-green, aren’t they?”

Puzzled at the inspection, Jacquelyn quickly thumbed off the recorder. Something in the old girl’s determined visage signaled that the interview part of the visit was over. She supposed they were going to get around to the “slightly unusual request.”

“You know, Jacquelyn, at my age a woman can’t help warming her hands at the fire of the past. But while we should always recall our dead, this world belongs to the living.”

Jacquelyn raised an interrogatory eyebrow, waiting for more. “Yes?” she encouraged.

But Hazel kept her waiting, as if she was mulling possible explanations for the old matriarch’s secret.

Finally she said, “You told me last time that you want to capture the true feel of Jake’s pioneer experience, remember?”

“Of course. I hoped my articles were doing that.”

“Your articles are wonderful, dear. Quite honestly, I expected the usual twaddle and bunkum about grizzled pioneers. But you’ve captured the essence of Jake McCallum better than any other writer who’s tried. And many have.”

Hazel snatched up a copy of last week’s Mystery Gazette from a pedestal stand beside her chair.

“‘Jake McCallum,”’ she read out loud, “‘was a man who went a great distance while others were still debating whether to leave today or tomorrow.”’

The corners of her eyes crinkled deeply when Hazel laughed. “Jacquelyn, you do understand that old rascal’s basic nature. But for your own sake I want you to go that great distance, too. Or at least part of it. The important part.”