New Way to Fly (9 page)

Mary shifted restlessly in her chair. “I don't know,” she said at last, meeting the younger woman's eyes with a frank unhappy gaze. “I truly don't know. I guess you can't spend thirty-five years
with somebody and not have some feelings for him, no matter what. I know he did some awful things, and he hurt me real bad, but I still…”

She fell silent abruptly, gazing out the window, her eyes carefully averted.

“You still feel sorry for him,” Amanda concluded. “You think about him there in jail, with his freedom taken away, and it hurts you.”

“Yes,” Mary agreed simply. “It hurts me.”

“Does he get many visitors there?”

“I don't know. I guess a few of his friends visit sometimes, though it's an awful long way, and I know that Brock's still mad at him for…for what he did.”

Amanda was silent, gazing into the depths of her cup.

“And our daughter, Sara, she lives so far away and she's got the kids to look after, but she's hoping to come down at Christmastime and go see her daddy. He'll really like that, seeing Sara.”

“How about you? Will you ever go visit him, Mary?”

Mary shrugged. “I guess I'll have to go someday, just to discuss business. The ranch…”

She looked up at Amanda, then down at the table again, picking restlessly at the woven place mat while Amanda waited.

“The ranch isn't in real good shape,” Mary said finally. “The bank needs some money right away,
and some plans for the future, and I don't have either. I don't know what to do.”

Amanda was silent, fighting off the sudden panicky memory of a recent interview with her own banker, of his pursed lips and sober expression while he reviewed her account.

And, although she tried hard not to think about it, Amanda was about to sell Mary Gibson a selection of clothing for four hundred dollars that had cost her, personally, more than two thousand.

But that didn't matter, Amanda told herself firmly. This had nothing to do with business. In fact, the transaction wouldn't even appear in the company books. They were her own clothes, and she could certainly get along without them.

I've got lots of clothes,
she thought.
I can spare a few suits and slacks, if it's going to do this much good for somebody else.

And there was no doubt that the clothes, and the company, had done Mary Gibson a world of good. Her hazel eyes sparkled, her face was animated enough to look really pretty, and she smiled readily despite her obvious concern over finances.

“Nothing cheers up a woman like getting a new look,” Amanda said firmly. “It's certainly better than sitting around brooding and worrying. Now if you'll just do something about your hair…”

“Right away,” Mary promised. “I'll make an ap
pointment tomorrow. After all, I can't wear those beautiful new clothes with a hairdo like this, can I?”

“Just a light sunny auburn tint,” Amanda said, eyeing the other woman with professional interest. “And a soft layered cut, kind of windblown…”

The door opened suddenly. A tall young man entered the kitchen, setting a wire pan of brown eggs on the counter and turning to give Amanda a dark meaningful glance that made her cheeks grow suddenly warm.

“Amanda Walker, this is Luke Harte, who helps out around the ranch,” Mary said. “Amanda's brought me a whole lot of the most beautiful clothes, Luke,” she went on brightly. “I look like a real fashion plate in them, don't I, Amanda?”

“She certainly does,” Amanda said automatically, troubled by something in the young man's stance, by the smoldering depths of his dark eyes.

Mary chattered on, clearly nervous in his presence. “And she's planning to get me fixed up even more. I'm going to the hairdresser, and probably getting my face and nails done besides. Goodness, by the time Amanda's finished with me I'll be able to get a job in
Vogue
magazine.”

Luke Harte gave Amanda a cold level glance, his dark eyes unwavering though he addressed his words to Mary. “Well, now,” he said in a slow cowboy drawl, “all that stuff's hardly necessary, Mary. You look real good just the way you are. If Miss Walker
don't think so, maybe she's not the best person for you to be spendin' your time with.”

Amanda gaped at him, speechless with shock and indignation. But before she could form a response he was gone, striding out the door and across the veranda, his boots clattering in the afternoon stillness.

Mary turned to her guest with an awkward smile. “Don't mind Luke,” she said. “He's just being loyal and protective of me, that's all. He didn't mean anything by it.”

Amanda nodded and murmured something politely noncommittal. After a few minutes she said her farewells. She accepted Mary's check for the clothes, made arrangements to deliver a silk blouse that she'd forgotten to bring, then got into her car and drove away.

Mary Gibson stood on the veranda waving and smiling, her slim figure visible until Amanda rounded the stand of live oak trees and pulled out through the ranch gates and onto the highway.

Amanda waved back before she disappeared, smiling brightly, but she was still troubled by the brief encounter with Mary Gibson's hired man.

Who was he? And was his rudeness really prompted by loyalty and protectiveness toward his employer?

B
ROCK
M
UNROE STROLLED
along the outdoor concourse of the Arboretum, one of Austin's most elegant shopping malls. He smiled in the autumn sunlight, enjoying the pleasant European ambience of the place with its quaint green awnings and flagged walkways.

At last he reached the far end and paused, peering at the sign that adorned a shop window.

SPREE, the sign read, in delicate gold script. “Personal shopping by Amanda.”

He hesitated, frowning suddenly. Brock Munroe, despite his rugged cowboy appearance, was a man with a deep love for the written word, and for the nuances of language. Just now he was thinking about the meaning and implication of the word
spree,
the name Amanda Walker had chosen for her business.

A spree was any form of reckless abandonment to pleasure, an orgy of self-indulgence. The word denoted superficiality and wasteful extravagance, both concepts that were completely foreign to Brock's own careful and self-disciplined outlook.

He stared moodily at the elegant little sign, his resolve waning fast. In fact, he was about to turn away and walk back to his truck when he remembered the dark-haired woman's beautiful face and body, and the warm generous spontaneity of the hug she'd given Mary Gibson the previous day.

Finally he drew a deep breath, opened the narrow green-painted door and stepped inside.

Amanda Walker's business office was decorated in hunter-green and cream with touches of dusty-pink and gold. There were a couple of small consultation booths, a long table flanked by high stools and littered with catalogues, a green couch set against a wall covered with fabric samples, and a large desk.

Amanda herself stood at a filing cabinet with her back to him. She straightened and looked over her shoulder, her eyes widening when she recognized her visitor.

“Hello, Amanda,” Brock said.

She set a couple of file folders on her desk and came slowly toward him, still silent.

Brock grinned privately when he saw her outfit. She wore baggy gray pin-striped trousers and an oversize black blazer with white shirt and striped tie, a regular man's tie done up in a businesslike knot.

Several irreverent comments sprang to his lips but died instantly when he saw the tension in her lovely
face, and the cautious hesitant way she approached him.

And by the time she was near enough to touch, all thoughts of teasing her about the Charlie Chaplin look had vanished from Brock's mind completely. He gazed at her in silent awe, his mouth dry, his head reeling at her beauty.

“Hello, Brock,” she said finally, her composure apparently restored. “Are you here to work on your image?”

Brock smiled. “I really doubt that I could afford the amount of work we'd have to do to improve my image, Amanda.”

She smiled back, glancing at his clean faded-blue jeans, his white shirt and well-worn brown leather jacket.

“That's highly possible,” she agreed soberly.

“Actually, Amanda, I just came in here today to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“It occurs to me that maybe I was a little rude to you the other night at the wedding supper. Maybe I got overly personal when I had no right to, and if you took anything I said the wrong way, I'm truly sorry. I didn't mean to offend you.”

She was silent, gazing up at him with thoughtful blue eyes, obviously weighing his words. “I looked
up that poem,” she said at last, her cheeks tinted suddenly with pink as delicate as mother-of-pearl.

“Poem?”

“‘Andrea del Sarto,'” Amanda said. “The line from the Browning poem you quoted to me. I looked it up as soon as I got home.”

“And?”

“And you certainly weren't being very flattering,” she said, her blue eyes dark with emotion as she looked at him. “In fact, you made a pretty rapid and uncharitable assessment of my general character, didn't you?”

“You're right, Amanda,” he agreed calmly. “I think I probably did. That's why I came to apologize. Let's just forget that whole encounter and try again, okay? Let's see if we can do it better next time.”

“Next time?”

“Yeah,” Brock said, gazing down at her intently.

“Let me take you out to dinner some evening, and I promise I won't be rude anymore.”

She hesitated, standing there in her ridiculous outfit that somehow managed to be enormously flattering. The baggy clothing gave her a winsome, fragile appeal that Brock could hardly resist. He wanted to gather her up in his arms, carry her over to the green-striped couch right there beneath the fabric samples and make love to her for about ten hours.

“I really don't think that would be wise,” she said finally.

Brock stared at her, still caught up in his daydream.

“It wouldn't?” he asked blankly. “Why not?”

“Because we have nothing in common, Brock. Nothing at all. And I think that trying to spend an evening together would be an uncomfortable experience for both of us.”

Brock gathered his unruly thoughts. “Well, I think you're wrong,” he said calmly. “I think we have a lot in common.”

Amanda gave him another quick startled glance. “Really? Like what?”

He held up a brown callused hand, ticking items off on his fingers. “Number one, we know a lot of the same people. Two, we're both in business for ourselves, trying to make a go of it in a tough economy. And three, we read the same poetry.”

She smiled suddenly, a sweet shining smile that transformed her face and rendered him speechless once more.

Brock gazed at her, dry-mouthed and shaky with longing, his heart hammering noisily against his shirtfront.

“All right,” she said, still smiling. “You've convinced me, Brock. Is tonight okay for you? Let's go out to dinner just to show there's no hard feelings.”

“Great,” he said, trying to keep his voice casual. “You name the time and place.”

“All right,” Amanda said again, giving him a bemused glance, as if she couldn't believe she was actually doing this. “Is eight o'clock all right? I have an appointment here at seven, and you could pick me up afterward.”

Brock calculated rapidly. It was midafternoon now. To pick her up at eight, he'd have to drive home more than forty miles, rush through all the evening chores and feed Alvin, then change his clothes and drive forty miles back. And he'd have to remember to…

“Brock?”

“Sure,” he said hastily. “Sure, that's fine. Eight o'clock is great. I'll see you then.”

He took her proffered hand and held it for a moment longer than was absolutely necessary, drowning helplessly in the blue depths of her eyes. Finally he managed to extricate himself and hurried out, striding through the door and down the walkway, still feeling those beautiful eyes resting on him with a warmth more sweet and compelling than the sunny Texas sky.

 

A
MANDA SKIMMED
along the freeway in the waning afternoon light, glancing nervously at her watch. She frowned and switched lanes with automatic skill as
she juggled appointments in her head. There was just time to slip by her apartment, change her clothes and touch up her makeup before the last two appointments, but she was cutting it pretty fine.

Still, she wanted to wear something different for the evening ahead.

She frowned again, craning her neck to glance in the rearview mirror. Then she settled back into the driver's seat and drummed her fingers restlessly on the wheel.

She felt a growing uneasiness about the prospect of a date with Brock Munroe, and a bitter anger with herself for getting involved in something so ridiculous.

What on earth were they going to talk about for three hours? Despite his skillful protestations, what did they really have in common, the two of them? The man was just a crude outdoor type with callused hands and rough speech, a rancher who lived his life by the sun and seasons, and who knew nothing of the social niceties that governed Amanda's existence.

But, forcing herself to be honest, Amanda was able to admit to herself that his rugged exterior and lack of education weren't what really bothered her the most about Brock Munroe.

If the man would just acknowledge his own shortcomings and be properly respectful, show that he looked on Amanda with a kind of reverent and awed
worship for her grace and sophistication, she could probably forgive him his rough edges. The most irritating thing about Brock Munroe was the fact that, though he made it clear that he found Amanda physically attractive, he seemed to look at her with a kind of mocking judgment. His shrewd humorous appraisal always left her feeling defensive and angry.

These clothes, for instance. Amanda had actually felt quite jaunty and stylish when she dressed this morning. But when Brock Munroe looked at her outfit and she saw the merriment that sparkled in his dark eyes, she felt gauche and ridiculous, like a schoolgirl trying hard to be chic.

Still confronting her feelings with the honesty that was part of her makeup, Amanda found that she was disappointed in herself for her reaction to Brock Munroe.

If she didn't have the confidence to defend herself and her life-style against this man's mockery, then why was she living this way? And if she
did
believe in herself, then wasn't it cowardly to avoid the man just because he made her question her choices? Amanda Walker had no stomach for cowards.

So she'd accepted his invitation. And now what was she doing? Running home to change her outfit because she'd caught him looking amused at the clothes she wore.

Amanda shook her head as she turned off the high
way. She drove along the city streets to her apartment, pulled into her parking spot and hurried across the lobby to the bank of elevators.

Just one evening, she thought. She'd give him this one evening, dazzle him with her charm and graceful sophistication, and leave the poor man flattened and painfully aware that a woman like Amanda Walker was completely out of his league.

Then she'd never have to see him again.

But even as she framed this thought, she had a vivid memory of the man's muscular body filling her little office, his handsome face and appealing disheveled hair, his brilliant dark eyes. She saw his finely molded brown hands, and shivered at the thought of those hands touching her, stroking her hair and caressing her face….

“Oh, God,” Amanda muttered aloud, gazing with unseeing eyes at the brass panel of elevator buttons. “What a fool I am. What an absolute certifiable idiot.”

One of her neighbors, a tall military-looking gentleman with silver hair and mustache, glanced up in surprise when he heard her voice, then moved beside her into the elevator when the door opened. He stood calmly in the corner, holding a large potted plant while Amanda punched the button for their floor.

“Talking to yourself, Amanda?” he inquired politely. “Not a good sign, I'm afraid.”

Amanda smiled. “Sorry, Mr. Smithers. I've been a little preoccupied these days. There's a lot of pressure out there, you know.”

Robert Smithers shook his head sadly. “What a shame. Look at you. Young and lovely, a dear sweet girl with a good education and the world at your feet, and what do you do? You burden yourself with pressure. You should be dancing till dawn every night, drinking champagne from your slippers and having a wonderful life.”

Amanda gave her elderly neighbor a fond smile. “I'm afraid those days are gone forever, Mr. Smithers. But it does sound lovely.”

They got off the elevator together and parted at Amanda's door. She watched him proceed down the hall, shoulders erect, then she let herself into her foyer and shrugged off her topcoat.

The message light was blinking frantically on her machine. Amanda pressed the button and moved into the bedroom, stripping clothes off as she went, leaving the door open so she could hear the messages.

The bank manager wanted to see her again, but it didn't sound ominous, just some papers she'd forgotten to sign when she refinanced her business loan. A parcel was waiting for her at the post office, and another at the bus depot. Her mother wanted her to call Dallas, and Beverly reminded her that she, Beverly, was going to Houston for a few days with Con
nie, a mutual friend, to do some Christmas shopping and possibly meet Jeff on the weekend.

“Christmas shopping!” Amanda scoffed aloud, spraying her neck and breasts with cologne. “If Jeff's in Houston, I really doubt that Christmas shopping is Beverly's main concern. I think…”

“Hi, Angel,” a familiar voice said, shocking her into silence.

Amanda stood still for a moment, one hand covering her mouth, blue eyes wide. Then she dropped her blouse on the floor and came slowly out into the hallway, staring at the machine.

“It's Thursday afternoon, about two o'clock,” Edward went on, his flat New England vowels very pronounced, as they always were in a recording.