New Way to Fly (7 page)

“I heard about Bubba,” he'd drawled, “an' I figgered maybe you could use a little help around the place, Mary.”

“But…but I can't afford a salary for you, Luke. There's no—”

“I'm willin' to work for room an' board, an' a little spendin' money on weekends if you can spare it, Mary. Don't worry about it. I'd just welcome a place to live, an' some work to do.”

Mary nursed her warm coffee mug at the table, watching him fry the eggs, remembering her startled
gratitude and the appreciation she felt for the work he did without complaint.

Luke Harte was a tall, lean young cowboy, probably in his late twenties or early thirties, Mary calculated, with a handsome craggy face and smooth dark hair and moustache. He looked like a young Clark Gable.

People called Luke a drifter, said he'd been in some kind of trouble back in Wyoming, and that he'd already had run-ins with a couple of the local ranchers. Mary knew that he'd lost a job here and there, though she didn't pay much attention to the details.

A few of the neighbors, like Brock Munroe and J. T. McKinney, had even tried tactfully to suggest that maybe Mary should let Luke go, hire somebody else or ask the other ranchers to help out if she needed anything.

But Mary ignored their advice. She liked Luke, who was unfailingly cheerful, and didn't mind doing things like this…getting up early in the morning to make breakfast for both of them. He was a good worker, too, and he made Mary laugh.

She enjoyed mothering him, mending his clothes and fussing over his meals. He was, after all, about the age of her own daughter, Sara, who was married and lived in faraway Connecticut.

Hastily Mary smiled her thanks as Luke set a plate
of eggs and pan fries in front of her, then sat opposite and reached for the salt.

“If it stays fair, I might run them calves in from the upper forty an' check the ear tags,” he commented, “okay, Mary?”

“Okay,” Mary said automatically. “We need to do that before I can sell them, and I sure need to sell something. The bank says…”

She fell abruptly silent, conscious of Luke's dark eyes resting on her with sudden interest.

“What?” he asked. “What does the bank say?”

“Oh, just the same as always,” Mary said lightly, avoiding his eyes as she poured a careful dribble of ketchup over her fries. “Seems the bank always wants money, no matter what. So I guess I'd better sell the calves as soon as I can.”

He was silent, his dark eyes still resting on her thoughtfully.

“There's a lady coming to visit, probably on Wednesday,” Mary said abruptly, suddenly uncomfortable under his intent gaze.

“Yeah? One of the neighbors?”

“No, actually, it's a lady from the city who's a friend of Beverly Townsend,” Mary said carefully, conscious of his sudden tension. “She sells clothes,” Mary added, trying to keep her voice light.

“Door to door? Like a vacuum-cleaner salesman?”

“Oh, goodness, no. She's a New York fashion lady, and she helps people pick the right things to wear so they…look good, you know?” Mary concluded lamely, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“Well, that's just pure silly,” Luke drawled, his eyes resting on her admiringly. “No fancy New York lady could look any better than
you
do, Mary.”

Mary was pleased and flustered by the warmth in his eyes, but at the same time felt a surge of irritation at the blatant flattery. She gave a rueful glance at her faded jeans, her roughened hands with their uncared-for fingernails, and remembered her shapeless graying hair.

“Oh, I expect there's probably a
little
room for improvement,” she said dryly. “Anyhow,” she added, still flushing with discomfort as she got up abruptly to pour herself more coffee, “she wanted to come out and show me some clothes, and I couldn't see any reason not to look at them.”

Luke was silent, his dark handsome face unreadable as he wolfed his breakfast and sipped steadily at a mug of coffee.

“Luke…” Mary began.

“Yeah?”

“Did you ever see an ostrich? In real life, I mean?”

“Sure,” Luke said, wiping his mouth and holding
out his coffee mug to her for a refill. “A place I worked over in New Mexico, the neighbors raised 'em. Ranched 'em, just like horses. Ugly as sin, them big ol' suckers are. Mean, too. Just as soon kill you as look at you. They can tear a man's guts out with one kick.”

Mary remembered her dream, the same one that recurred at least two or three times a week. She recalled the gentle power and dignity of the big male ostrich, the regal grace of the females, the wondrous feeling of being invited to ride those warm feathers to a sun-spangled haven.

“Why?” Luke asked, gazing at her curiously.

“Now, what made you think about ostriches, for God's sake, on a nice fall morning?”

“Nothing,” Mary said briskly, beginning to clear the table. “Just something I saw on television a while ago, I guess.”

She ran a stream of hot water into the sink and sprayed detergent under it, watching the mounds of bubbles rise, conscious of his puzzled dark eyes resting on her rigid back.

Finally he muttered something vaguely polite, placed his cowboy hat on his head and ambled down the back steps and out into the sunshine.

B
ROCK
M
UNROE TIGHTENED
his pliers around a strand of barbed wire, then gripped and tugged powerfully, his big shoulders straining as he worked. When the wire was firm and singing with tension, he wrapped it swiftly around a corner post and braced a staple against the wood, pounding the staple in with two quick strokes to secure the taut strand.

Brock made his way back down the length of fence line, stapling the new wire to each post, sighting along the neat parallel rows to keep the strands level. Then he strolled back through the midday sunlight toward his truck, which was parked near the top of a rugged knoll behind a screen of dusty mesquite.

Alvin trotted at Brock's heels, sides heaving, tongue lolling. Occasionally he fell back onto his plump haunches and delivered a huge gusty sigh, full of weariness and self-pity.

Finally, when Alvin's discomfort grew too noisy to ignore, Brock looked down at the little dog with a cheerful grin.

“Now, just what's going on here, Alvin?” he asked, his brown eyes dancing with merriment. “You trying to tell me something, or what?”

Alvin gazed up at his master with a look of longing, while his tail thumped plaintively on the dusty ground.

“Okay,” Brock said, relenting. “Lunch time. C'mon, we don't have to go all the way back home. I brought a picnic.”

Alvin's eyes brightened. He brushed past his master, swaying importantly, and raced toward the truck, his ears slanted forward hopefully.

But his face fell when Brock hefted a small paper sack of dog food from the back of the truck and poured some onto a battered tin plate, then took out his own paper-wrapped stack of roast beef sandwiches.

Whistling, Brock strolled over and seated himself on a fallen log, unfolded the sheet of wax paper and began to eat.

Alvin, meanwhile, nosed glumly into the pile of dry dog food and then eyed Brock's sandwiches with a look of bitter reproach.

Brock chuckled. “Feeling cheated, are you, boy?” he asked companionably. “Gawd, Alvin, you're just the most spoiled, greedy little…”

But as he spoke he ambled back toward the truck, rummaged behind the seat for a greasy paper sack
and extracted a big meaty soup bone, which he tossed onto the grass at the dog's feet.

“There, you monster, let's see you complain about
that.
Nora saved it for you yesterday, down at the Longhorn. Not as if you'd ever deserve anybody being that nice to you.”

But Alvin was no longer paying the slightest attention. He fell on the soup bone with passionate excitement, tail wagging frantically, ears flopping in his haste.

Brock watched the dog for a moment, shaking his head ruefully, then returned to his sandwiches.

He smiled, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his shoulders, the crisp tang of autumn in the gentle breeze and the graceful soaring flight of a turkey vulture high above him. The huge bird was just a speck at this distance, circling slowly over the ranch yard off to the east.

Brock leaned forward and peered through the screen of mesquite that crowned the hilltop, gazing down at the same ranch yard. This remote outcrop of land was one that Brock Munroe seldom visited unless he was searching for lost stock or needed to repair the fence. It was also the highest point on his property, and the closest to any neighboring ranch buildings.

In fact, from his vantage point Brock could gaze right down into the Gibson ranch yard, see the house
and the comings and goings of its occupants. He watched from behind his bank of dusty greenery, feeling vaguely uneasy as Luke Harte strolled down the back steps and started off in the direction of the corrals, thumbs cocked into his belt loops, rolling cowboy walk clearly discernible even from this distance.

Mary appeared in the doorway and called something to the young man. He paused, turning to reply. Brock could see Luke's teeth flashing white in the sunlight against his sun-browned face and dark mustache, and hear Mary's gentle voice rising on the wind before she vanished back inside the house.

Thoughtfully, Brock settled back against the gnarled tree trunk behind him and munched on an apple, his face troubled.

He didn't like the idea of Luke Harte living down there at the Gibson place with Mary. Even worse, Brock hated the idea that a few local people were already beginning to whisper about the situation, speculating rudely and joking about what might be going on in Bubba's absence.

“Goddammit anyhow,” Brock muttered aloud to his dog, who had his nose buried deep in the recesses of the soup bone and was gnawing ecstatically. “People just plumb make you sick, don't they, Alvin? If they have half a chance they'll gossip about
anybody, and not even give a thought to how mean they're being.”

Brock watched his fat dog devouring the meat on the big bone. He shook his head, still thinking about Mary Gibson.

Mary had always been so kind to Brock Munroe, the closest to a mother that he'd had for most of his life. He could hardly bear the way she'd been suffering, first at Bubba's unfaithfulness, then his disgrace, and now the whispers and slurs from a few of their more uncharitable neighbors.

Of course Mary needed someone to help her run the ranch, Brock mused. She was a proud independent woman, but too gentle and unskilled to do it all alone. And she stubbornly refused to accept offers of ongoing help from the neighboring ranchers, knowing that they were all busy with their own places and her husband might not be coming home for a long, long time.

If ever, Brock thought, remembering the grim look on Mary's face last time she'd mentioned Bubba, or Al, as she always called him, refusing to accept his lifelong nickname. In fact, Mary was the only person Brock knew who called her husband by his given name.

Brock wondered if Mary would let Bubba come home again when he'd served his time, or if she'd
just give up on everything, sell the place and go live with her daughter in Connecticut.

Maybe she'd be forced to do that, he thought unhappily, remembering some whispers he'd heard about Bubba's debts, troubles with the bank and several defaulted loans.

“Poor Mary,” Brock muttered aloud. “
Damn,
I wish I could…”

But he never finished his thought. At that moment, a small bright red vehicle rounded the stand of live oak trees near the windmill and pulled up in front of Mary's house. Brock took one startled look at the little car and its driver. Then he dived into his truck, rummaging beneath the passenger seat for his hammer and pliers.

At last he found them, snatched them up and moved out into full view on the hilltop, pounding carefully on the stretch of fencing and glancing surreptitiously at the woman in the ranch yard far below, who was now leaning into the back seat of her little car and pulling out many pink-striped boxes and bags.

Brock stretched the wire and pounded staples automatically, gazing with hungry intensity at the view that was being offered him. He saw a pair of long graceful legs in white fitted slacks, delicate curving hips firmly outlined beneath the taut fabric, and a slim waist circled by a narrow gold belt.

Amanda Walker backed out of the car, struggling with another pile of boxes, hopping on one foot and reaching the other behind her with a charming awkward motion to kick the door shut.

She called something to Mary on the veranda and then turned to set her boxes on the hood of the car, laughing in the sunshine, glancing idly up at the hilltop where Brock was silhouetted against his bank of greenery.

When her delicate face turned up toward him, Brock's mouth went dry and his heart began to thunder against his worn denim shirtfront.

This woman, this Amanda Walker was without a doubt the most desirable woman he'd ever met.

And
the most shallow and selfish, he told himself grimly, remembering their brief conversation at the wedding.

“I dream about having lots and lots of money so I can own beautiful things…”

Brock waved casually at the women, then gripped a fresh strand of wire in his pliers and pulled on it with great deliberation.

“The one woman in all the world who's born to be my dream come true,” he told Alvin in disgust. “The only woman I've ever met who could make me feel that way, Alvin, turn me right inside out. And what kind of person is she? A cold self-centered
witch. Now, is that bad luck, or bad management, or what?”

Alvin looked up at his master with miserable dark eyes.

Brock returned the dog's gaze, laughing heartily in spite of himself. Alvin, in his greed, had somehow wedged his entire muzzle deep into the opening of the soup bone and was now trapped, unable to move his jaws. He pawed frantically at the confining circle of bone, struggling to pry it off.

Brock regarded the dog's contortions with scant sympathy. “Serves you right, you little glutton,” he muttered. “Maybe we'll just leave that thing right where it is for a week or so and see if you can lose some weight.”

Alvin began to run around in tight panicky circles, waving his head and making harsh guttural noises deep in his throat.

Brock grinned and glanced down at the mound of gaily-striped boxes and bags that Amanda Walker was preparing to carry into Mary's house.

“Oh,
great,
” he muttered to his unhappy dog, who was still pawing urgently at the trap on his nose.

“This is just great. Poor little Mary, in the clutches of a fancy woman like that. As if Mary Gibson can afford to buy a bunch of New York clothes.”

The bone popped suddenly free. Alvin heaved a sigh of relief, gave his master a bitter haughty glance
and began, more cautiously, to gnaw at the meaty center once more.

Brock turned aside to grin at his dog, then looked down again, watching tensely as Mary descended the steps and approached the smiling dark-haired woman.

Brock was concerned when he saw how ill-at-ease Mary seemed, but being human and a normal healthy male, he couldn't help giving another appreciative glance at Amanda's shapely curving figure in the trim slacks and shirt, the glow on her beautiful face and the way her bouncy dark hair glistened with natural iridescence, as bright as a raven's wing in the warm autumn sunlight.

Dear God, what a woman,
he told in himself in awe, pounding staples with a shaky hand.
What an incredible, unbelievable, beautiful woman. If only…

But his thought was lost suddenly, swallowed up in sympathy for Mary.

She was trying to get out of it, Brock realized, watching his neighbor's fine-drawn weathered face, her shy halting gestures and awkward movements as she spoke to her glamorous visitor, then turned to wave at Brock up by the fence line.

Dammit! Brock thought furiously. Why can't the damned fashion woman just go away and…

But his angry thought was cut off suddenly and he gaped in astonishment as Amanda Walker reached
out to enfold the other woman in a warm impulsive hug.

Brock continued to stare in amazement as Amanda held Mary for a long moment, patting her back and murmuring something. Then she turned away with a casual laughing gesture, piled some boxes in Mary's arms and took another heap herself, walking beside the other woman into the house.

Mary looked much more relaxed after the warmth of that hug. In fact, just before the door closed behind them, Brock was fairly certain that he saw her laugh.

Still shaking his head in wonder, he lowered his hammer and gazed at the lacy blue arch of sky framed among the shifting leaves overhead.

Who was she, this Amanda Walker? What was she really like?

She claimed to want nothing in life but money and luxury, yet she took the time to come and visit a woman like Mary Gibson who couldn't possibly be worth that much of her time. And there was no denying the warmth and spontaneity of that sudden embrace.

Brock frowned, got to his feet and threw his tools into the back of the truck. Finally, without ceremony, he gathered up Alvin, soup bone and all, and tossed him in along with the tools.

Alvin didn't miss a bite, just hit the straw-covered metal deck, skidded into a pile of burlap sacks, then
settled back comfortably with the bone still clutched in his jaws. Brock stood and regarded the dog in contemplative silence, fingering his tanned jaw. “Alvin,” he said at last, “I think maybe I'd better make a trip into Austin tomorrow. I think I have some business to tend to. Don't you?”

Alvin yawned, revealing the damp black interior of his mouth and an impressive set of shiny white teeth. Then he belched and returned to his careful demolition of the soup bone.

Brock climbed into the cab of the truck, backed around carefully and started down the hill toward his ranch, one denim-clad elbow resting casually on the window ledge.

 

A
MANDA SAT
in the comfortable living room of Mary Gibson's home, looking around with interest. The room was warm and casual, just what she'd expected in this big sprawling ranch house. But there were surprising touches here and there—a polished brass bowl filled with autumn flowers and grasses, several delicate watercolors, some exquisite little collector's items that added grace and balance to the decor.