New Way to Fly
Margot Dalton
NEW LOOK–TEXAS STYLE!Crystal Creek…where power and influence live in the land, and in the hands of one family determined to nourish old Texas fortunes and forge new Texas futures.APPEARANCES CAN BE DECEIVINGRancher Brock Munroe is smitten with Amanda Walker. But he hates what she does for a living. Amanda is a personal shopper. To Brock it's a ridiculous career. Still, Brock can't quite figure this lady out. It seems that with Amanda what you see is much less than what you get.
“You’re accusing me of hypocrisy?”
Amanda was so angry she could hardly control the shaking in her voice. “You think I’m just trying to impress other people.”
Brock’s dark eyes were calm as he looked around the cold, abstract apartment she called home. “Yeah,” he drawled. “I think you’ve decorated this place for effect. I can’t believe it’s your own taste.”
“Oh, really. We exchanged a few words at a party and that makes you an expert on me?”
“No, it doesn’t,” Brock said quietly. “But the minute I met you, I thought you were the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I also thought there was more to you than a few inches of style and glamour. After all, how could I have been wrong for all those years?”
“What do you mean, ‘all those years’?”
“Forget it,” Brock said abruptly. He drained his glass. “I meant something else. Thanks for a nice evening. I won’t be bothering you again.”
New Way to Fly
Margot Dalton
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Margot Dalton for her contribution to the Crystal Creek series.
Special thanks and acknowledgment to Sutton Press Inc. for its contribution to the concept for the Crystal Creek series.
Dear Reader,
“Harlequin’s new special series called Crystal Creek wonderfully evokes the hot days and steamy nights of a small Texas community…impossible to put down until the last page is turned.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews
By now, romance readers across North America have come to know and love the inhabitants of Crystal Creek. At the Double C, we’ve witnessed joy and sorrow and Texas grit. At the Hole in the Wall, ingenuity and surprising reunions. At the Flying Horse, there’ve been hard times and desperate measures. In this volume, come on out to the Double Bar, where rancher Brock Munroe is holding body and soul together…with the help of the unforgettable Alvin. Amanda Walker, shopper extraordinaire, is the last person you’d expect to transform Brock’s life…or Mary Gibson’s, for that matter. But Margot Dalton weaves these characters’ lives together with a deft touch that will charm you, just as she did in Cowboys and Cabernet and Even the Nights Are Better.
And have you heard the news? Many readers have written to tell us that, once immersed in Crystal Creek, it’s hard to leave. Well, now you don’t have to! The terrific popularity of this series has prompted us to bring twelve new Crystal Creek titles your way! The series will continue with more wonderful romance created by the authors who first brought Crystal Creek to life, and Penny Richards and Sandy Steen will also be contributing new novels and characters to the continuing saga of Crystal Creek. Watch for them every month, wherever Harlequin books are sold.
Stick around in Crystal Creek—home of sultry Texas drawls, smooth Texas charm and tall, sexy Texans!
Marsha Zinberg
Executive Editor, Crystal Creek
A Note from the Author
One of the most appealing things about Texas people is their deep love for their animals, all the way from horses to house pets. I even noticed that sentiment creeping into my books on a number of occasions, including some where the animals almost take over the story (in much the same way that Texas animals rule the hearts and households of their owners). And for those of you who may wonder after reading this book, Alvin isn’t my dog. He’s actually a composite of many, many dogs I’ve met in my life. In fact, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you see a bit of your dog in him!
Margot Dalton
Cast of Characters
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER ONE
RICH AUTUMN SUNLIGHT spilled over the hills and valleys of Central Texas, dancing on the slow-moving river and touching the rolling acres with gentle fingers of gold. The noonday sky was high and endless, the air as crisp and clear as champagne. Far overhead, a red-tailed hawk rode the soft wind currents, rising and wheeling with effortless grace.
In a small corral pen of weathered split logs, a man straightened, wiped his hot face with his forearm and glanced up at the circling hawk.
“See that?” he muttered to the animal that lay trussed and heaving on the ground in front of him. “They’re lookin’ for you, pal. Another few days and you’d have been breakfast for those guys.”
The calf rolled his eyes and bellowed in agony. He was a large Brangus bull calf, destined someday to be a heavy thundering monster of an animal. At present, though, he was still plump and blocky, with an appealing baby look to his big dark eyes and a short blunt nose that bristled cruelly with porcupine quills.
The black-tipped quills protruded at all angles, giving the calf’s head the comical appearance of a big furry pincushion. But there was nothing funny about the anguish in his dark liquid eyes, or the strangled bellows of pain that issued regularly from his mouth.
“Pore little fella,” Brock Munroe muttered, gazing down at the calf, pliers dangling from his hand. He squinted up at the hawk again, then leaned against the corral rail to rest for a moment before returning to his unpleasant task.
He was a tall broad-shouldered man in his mid-thirties with a lean hard-muscled body, a handsome tanned face and a head of crisp springing dark hair that glinted warmly in the midday sunlight. A worn plaid work shirt rested easily on his wide shoulders, the seams bleached almost white by the sunlight, and faded jeans fitted snugly over his lean hips and long muscular legs.
Brock dropped to one knee beside the trembling calf to check a half hitch in the twine that held the little animal’s legs knotted in position. Then, frowning with grim concentration, he clamped the pliers onto another quill.
“This won’t take long now, pal,” he murmured to the calf. “I already got all the bad ones. These others are loose already, an’ they’ll just come out like butter. See?” he added, holding a quill aloft in the metal jaws of the pliers and brandishing it before the calf’s rolling dark eyes.
Brock worked doggedly, his big callused hands surprisingly gentle as he labored to extract the barbs from the calf’s soft nose.
“Next time,” he muttered, “you better listen to your mama, okay? I bet she told you not to mess with those porcupines. But did you listen? Oh, no. Just like all kids, had to learn the hard way, didn’t you?”
His deep gentle voice seemed to have a soothing effect on the animal. Gradually the calf’s trembling and straining lessened until he lay still on the dusty ground, his damp sides heaving, his neck outstretched in weary resignation.
“Now, that’s the way to do it,” Brock praised him, gently working out the last of the quills.
“That’s a real good boy. You just lie still a minute longer, an’ we’ll…”
He paused, reaching behind him for a bottle of yellow liquid disinfectant, which he uncapped and poured liberally over the animal’s swollen bleeding nose. The calf bleated loudly in surprise and outrage, gave the big man a wild reproachful look and tried frantically to struggle to his feet.
Brock chuckled at the animal’s look of pain and indignation. “That stuff smarts a bit, don’t it?” he said cheerfully. “I guess I shoulda warned you.”
With effortless ease, he wrestled the animal back to the ground, knelt on the calf’s flank and untied the rope binding the legs. The calf kicked and rolled free, then heaved himself upright and faltered away to the other side of the corral.
Brock watched as the little animal shook his head dazedly a few times, then appeared to realize that the dreadful pain was over and the torturing barbs had vanished miraculously from his nose. Finally the calf lifted his head, bellowed joyously and trotted out through a partly open gate to the larger pen where his mother waited, lowing to her overgrown baby in soft anxious tones.
Brock grinned as he watched the reunion. His dog, Alvin, appeared at the gate and sat gazing up at the big man, tongue lolling hopefully.
“Hi, Alvin,” Brock said. “You look hungry. Lunch time already?”
Alvin regarded his master with concentrated attention, one ear drooping. He was a small, engagingly ugly dog, mostly Australian blue heeler with a liberal dash of something else, possibly Scotch terrier, that gave his mottled blue-gray hide a disreputable shaggy look. Alvin’s eyes were dark and perennially sad, as if the world was just a little too much for him but he was prepared to struggle bravely on.
In actual fact Alvin was a coward, especially terrified of cats and thunderstorms. He was also a lazy hedonist, dedicated to little more than his single-minded pursuit of something to eat and somewhere to sleep. He lifted his head now and looked at Brock in mournful silence, sighing heavily.
“All right, all right,” Brock said, chuckling. “Just give me a minute, okay? I’ll put this stuff away in the barn an’ be right with you.”
Apparently mollified, Alvin fell in step beside his master, plump sides twitching as he trotted along at the big man’s feet.
“Pore little bull calf. He was sure hurtin’ some, Alvin. Likely hasn’t eaten anything for a couple days, either,” Brock said to the dog, with the companionable ease of a man who spent much of his time with animals.
In fact, Brock often conversed with animals more easily than people.
Brock Munroe’s values were basic and straightforward. He believed in hard work, fair play, being loyal in friendship and honest in business. He liked thick steaks, cuddly puppies and starlit nights, watercolor sunrises and gentle quiet women.
But he loved nothing in all the world as much as these five thousand rolling acres of trees and hay meadows, scrub brush and cactus, that spread out around him in the bright October afternoon sun.
The Double Bar ranch had been in the family for generations, like so many others in the Hill Country, but had fallen on hard times in recent years. Brock’s father, Dave Munroe, had been a carefree, hardliving man, entirely capable of leaving his ranch at the height of calving season and driving off to some poker game he’d heard of in the next county, often straggling home days later, bedraggled and broke.
Brock’s mother died when he was just twelve, leaving the boy alone with his unreliable father. And, as so often happens in such cases, Brock had grown up with a sense of responsibility far beyond his years. By the time he was sixteen he was running the big tumbledown ranch almost single-handed, and covering for his father so well that most of the neighbors didn’t even suspect what was going on.
This was partly because young Brock never complained about his situation to anybody, not even his closest friends. He saw no need to complain, or to make any attempt to change his life. Brock Munroe loved his father and he loved his home. From earliest boyhood, nothing mattered to him as much as keeping the ranch together, striving against all odds to make it viable.
Old Dave Munroe had finally driven his truck off the edge of the river road one stormy night a few years ago, and after that Brock’s life was lonelier but a lot less complicated.
“Yeah, he was a real ol’ hummer, Dad was,” Brock said to his dog, remembering how hard he’d had to struggle to pay off his father’s debts. “But he sure enjoyed life while it lasted, you gotta say that much for him.”
Alvin sighed in polite agreement and lingered impatiently on the doorstep, looking up with hopeful eyes at the big man beside him.
Brock grinned. “You don’t give a damn about life an’ death an’ ultimate fulfillment, do you, Alvin? You just wanna know where your next meal’s comin’ from. An’ more important, when it’s comin’. Right?”
Alvin gave his master a disdainful look and pushed in front to enter the house first, his plump body swaying as he made his way through a welter of scattered paint cans, old rags, bits of sandpaper and discarded pieces of plywood.
“Gawd, what a mess,” Brock muttered aloud.
“Alvin, when’s the work gonna settle down around here enough for me to finish all this, d’you think?”
Alvin made no reply, except to pause by his dish and squat. He stared up at Brock with passionate concentrated attention, his mouth partly open, his tail thumping gently on the worn linoleum.
Brock upended the paper sack of dog food, tipped a liberal amount into Alvin’s bowl and then washed his hands thoroughly at the sink. He wandered across the room, towel in hand, to give the contents of his fridge a gloomy inspection.
“What I need,” he told Alvin with a wistful note in his voice, “is a wife. You know that, Alvin? A wife would be so nice to have around.”
Alvin glanced up briefly, jaws moving with rhythmic speed, dark eyes half-closed in bliss. Then he dropped his head and buried his nose once more in his dish.
Brock watched the dog for a moment, a little sadly. At last he turned, took a few slices of bread, a chunk of salami and an apple from the fridge and wandered into the living room, which was also cluttered with renovation materials.
Brock had begun the improvements to the old house earlier in the year, when he realized that, for the first time in living memory, he was actually going to have some extra money.
Still, he was doing all the work himself, learning as he went along from manuals and how-to books. Like everything Brock did, his carpentry was neat, precise and destined to last a lifetime. But the work was time-consuming and there never seemed to be enough hours in the day to complete the tasks.
Another, more serious problem was the fact that he needed advice on things like planning and color selection. For instance, Brock wasn’t at all sure how to make his kitchen convenient to work in, or which colors to choose, or where to place windows to get the most light.
Sometimes Brock toyed with the idea of asking advice of a longtime friend like Lynn McKinney or Carolyn Townsend, somebody who could give him a woman’s point of view. But he always shied away from the prospect, and he wasn’t even sure why.
Of course he told himself it was just because the place was such a mess that he didn’t want anybody to see it. But he suspected that his reluctance went deeper than that. After all, people like Lynn and Carolyn and Mary Gibson were all good friends, nice women, neighbors he’d known all his life.
The problem was, they just weren’t her.
Brock frowned and lowered himself into his sagging old cut-velvet armchair, thinking about the shadowy woman who lived at the back of his mind.
She’d been his fantasy as long as he could remember, this lovely fragrant delicate woman with the shining dark hair and vivid blue eyes, the dainty curved body and regal lift to her head. More times than he could count, he’d seen her smiling though the clouds when he rode out to bring in the cattle before a storm, heard her laughter drifting on the autumn wind, felt the soft caress of her lips in the gentle rains of spring.
Sometimes Brock Munroe ached for his imaginary woman with an urgent desire that left him limp and breathless with longing, and a savage need that other women’s bodies could never quench for long. There was just something about her that was so…
Brock shook his head restlessly.
He’d always considered this fantasy a little crazy but essentially harmless; the kind of thing that would vanish as soon as a real flesh-and-blood woman entered his life. In fact, during the years when his father had been getting harder and harder to handle, and even more recently when Brock had been struggling all alone to save the ranch from ruin, he hadn’t given the matter much thought at all.
But he was thirty-five now, and he was beginning to worry sometimes, in the lonesome darkness of the night, that maybe he was never going to find a woman to satisfy him.
There was no shortage of applicants, it seemed. Any evening that he bothered to clean up and drive into town, there were plenty of women around who appeared eager to dance with Brock Munroe, to accept a drink or dinner or whatever he was in the mood to offer. But they all fell short of his elusive ideal.
Brock had begun to grow increasingly impatient with himself. He tried to accept the fact that his dream woman was a fantasy and nothing more, and that he should let her go and find somebody real to settle down with. It was time to build a life, have a couple of kids and make the old ranch a busy happy place again.
In fact, he’d almost succeeded in convincing himself that this was the wisest course of action. And then, one night just a couple of weeks ago, he’d seen her.
Not in person, of course. After all, women like that didn’t tend to turn up in Claro County. He’d seen her on television, one night when a driving autumn thunderstorm was throwing noisy buckets of rain against the blackened windows, and the wind sighed mournfully around the eaves of the creaking old house.
Brock had been lounging in his sagging armchair with a book in his hands, pleasantly weary after a long day, almost nodding off with Alvin curled snugly at his stockinged feet. At first he thought the woman on the television screen was just another fantasy, a kind of half-waking dream. But when he sat up and looked more closely, he saw that it was really her, and he began to tremble wildly with excitement.
Then she was gone, vanishing as suddenly as she’d appeared, replaced by a lot of people talking about how well their new cars handled. Brock could still remember the searing disappointment, the way his hands shook and his heart pounded while he sat staring blankly at the television screen.
But she’d reappeared in the next hour, and several times after that.
Brock grinned, recalling as well how unnerved he’d felt when she came back on the screen. He’d been trembling like a puppy, almost too excited to get the segment recorded on tape. Now, remembering, he picked up the remote control for his VCR, flicked the buttons and activated a tape already on the machine. Then he took out his jackknife, settling back to cut pieces of salami and wedge them between slices of bread, chewing thoughtfully on his rough sandwiches as he gazed at the television.
There was a rush of noise, a flicker of snow and ragged colored bands, and then the image of a woman sitting quietly with folded hands in a soft velvet chair before a dark backdrop.
Although he’d watched the commercial dozens of times, Brock still caught his breath when he saw the woman. He sat and stared at her with rapt attention, his lunch forgotten in his hands.
She was so exquisite, lovely and desirable, so exactly the woman he’d visualized all these long lonely years. Her dress was plain, dark and beautifully fitted on a dainty curved body. She had wide blue eyes, an oval face with high cheekbones and a lovely warm mouth, and her skin was cream, almost translucent, in breathtaking contrast with her shining black hair.
Brock continued to gaze at the woman, studying every nuance of her voice and gestures. She had the calm assured manner and the elegant, high-born Spanish look that ran through so many prominent Texas families. In fact, Brock had always visualized his woman in white lace with that dark hair pulled straight back from her face and gathered low on the nape of her neck, and jewels in her dainty ears.
But this woman wore her hair in a short bouncy style, the kind of casual sophisticated haircut that looked simple but probably cost enough to stagger any poor working rancher. Brock didn’t know if he liked the hairstyle or not, but there was still no denying that this was his dream woman, the exact face and form that had haunted him throughout his life.
Her name was Amanda Walker, she told the camera with a calm gentle smile. She was a native of Dallas, but had worked in the retail industry in New York for a number of years, and she wanted to let the world know that she had just opened her own business, a personal shopping service in Austin, Texas.
Brock settled back in his chair, wondering for the hundredth time just what a personal shopping service was. He frowned when Beverly Townsend appeared on the screen and pirouetted slowly, while his dream woman talked to the camera about the outfit that Beverly was wearing.
Brock didn’t like to see his dream woman in the same setting as Beverly. In fact, he’d never had a lot of admiration for the beauty-queen looks of Beverly Townsend, although his friend Vernon Trent, who was engaged to Beverly’s mother, assured him that Beverly was a much different girl these days. Apparently she’d fallen in love with a nice basic kind of guy, and set aside a lot of her airs and pretensions. Still, Beverly represented the jet-set life-style to Brock Munroe, a type of glamour and idle sophistication that he had scant respect for.
“Notice how versatile the blazer can be,” the dark-haired woman said in her sweet musical voice. “It works well with a slim skirt for the office, and equally well with chinos for the weekend, so it’s really a dual-purpose investment. And the blouse, although it’s quite expensive, can also be…”
Brock watched Beverly’s lovely body turn slowly in front of him, but he was unmoved by her golden beauty. He had eyes only for the slim quiet woman in the chair, who was now discussing what she called “the art of accessorizing.”
“A lot of women will choose a tasteful expensive outfit, and then go out and buy big plastic earrings that exactly match the color of their blouse,” Amanda was saying. “That’s a fatal error. Now, these small gold hoops are…”
Alvin wandered into the room, looking sated, and fell with a heavy thud onto the floor at Brock’s feet, resting his chin mournfully on his front paws.
“Hey, Alvin,” Brock said, waving the heel of the salami roll, “did you know that it’s a fatal error to buy plastic earrings that are the exact color of your blouse?”
Alvin lifted his head and stared blankly at his master, then caught sight of the unfinished chunk of salami and gazed at it with sudden attention, his ears alert.
“You glutton,” Brock said in disbelief. “You’re stuffed, Alvin. You couldn’t possibly want to steal the last morsel from a poor starving man.”
Alvin half rose, his tail beginning to wag slowly as he continued to stare at the small piece of meat with fierce concentration.
“All right, all right,” Brock muttered. “Here, let me have one last bite an’ then you can take the rest.”
He tossed the meat to the plump dog, who caught it in midair and chewed it with pleasure, sinking down again to worry the last mouthful in his teeth while Brock watched him gloomily.
“If you had plastic earrings that exactly matched your blouse, you’d never get to wear ’em anyhow, Alvin. You’d eat the damn things,” Brock said, nudging the dog with his foot.
His brief interaction with his dog had caused him to miss the end of the television commercial. Brock reached for the control to rewind the tape, and was about to settle back for another viewing when his telephone rang.
“Hello?” Brock said, lifting the receiver and glaring at Alvin, who had finished the salami and was now giving speculative attention to Brock’s uneaten apple on the coffee table.
“Hello to you. Is this my best man?”
“Vern!” Brock said, grinning cheerfully. “Hey, it’s almost time, ol’ buddy. Did the condemned man eat a hearty meal?”
“Look, Brock, I’m not getting executed, I’m getting married. I think there’s some difference, you know.”
“That,” Brock said, “depends entirely on your point of view. What’s up?”
“Just checking,” Vernon said, sounding almost too happy to contain himself. “Making sure you’re going to remember to bring the ring, and all that.”
“Look, Vern, I like you some, but if you bother me one more time about that damn ring, the wedding’s off. I won’t come.”
Vernon chuckled. “Come on, have a heart. It’s a big day for me, Brock. I’ve waited forty years for this woman, you know, and I want everything to be just perfect.”
“Well, you sure do sound a whole lot happier than any man has a right to be,” Brock said, feeling suddenly wistful. “An’ you don’t have to worry, Vern. I’ll bring the ring, unless Alvin eats it before I can get it to you.”
“If he eats it,” Vernon said in the dark tone of one who was well acquainted with Alvin’s habits, “then Manny will just have to do a little emergency surgery this afternoon. You tell Alvin that, Brock.”
Brock chuckled. “I’ll tell him,” he said, looking down at Alvin, who seemed to understand the conversation, and was eyeing his master with sudden deep apprehension.
“So, it’s three o’clock at the courthouse, okay? Second floor?”
“Yeah, Vern. As if you haven’t told me that about a thousand times already. I’ll be there.”
“Are you dressed yet?”
Brock laughed. “No, Vern, I’m not dressed yet. I just finished pulling a couple dozen porcupine quills outa one of my little Brangus bull calves, an’ now I’m having my lunch.”
“But…shouldn’t you be getting ready by now? It’s past one o’clock,” the other man said.
“Vern, settle down,” Brock told him gently. “Everything’s gonna be just fine. There’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be there before three, an’ I’ll have the ring, an’ you an’ Carolyn will get married, an’ then we’ll all go out to the Double C for a nice big party. Nothing will go wrong. Relax, okay?”
“I guess you’re right,” Vernon said. “I just can’t believe it’s really happening, Brock. I’m so damned happy.”
“Well, you deserve it, fella,” Brock said gently. “An’ I’m happy for both of you. I truly do wish you all the best, Vern. Now, go have a stiff drink or something, an’ try to pull yourself together, an’ I’ll see you in a little while.”
They said their goodbyes and hung up. Brock sat staring at the telephone for a long time. At last he levered himself upright, dislodging Alvin, who had fallen asleep on his master’s stocking feet. He walked to his bedroom.
Unlike the rest of the house, this room was tidy, with a bright woven rag rug on the hardwood floor, a clean faded spread covering the neatly made bed and a bank of worn colorful books in handmade shelves along one wall.
Brock gazed wistfully at the books. Normally, he allowed himself a half hour or so of reading in the middle of the day, a treat that he looked forward to all morning.
But then he recalled the panicky tone in Vernon Trent’s voice and shook his head.
“Poor ol’ Vern,” he said to Alvin, who had followed him into the room and was trying to scramble up onto the bed. “I guess I should try to be early if I can, just so he doesn’t fall apart before the ceremony gets under way. Alvin, you’re such a mess,” he added, watching the fat dog struggle in vain to scale the high old-fashioned bed. Alvin fell back heavily onto the rug.
Brock scooped up the dog and tossed him onto the bed, grinning as Alvin gathered his dignity with an injured air, turned around briskly a few times and sank into a ragged ball in the center of the mattress, ears drooping contentedly, eyes already falling shut.
“Gawd, what a life,” Brock commented enviously, watching the sleepy dog for a moment. Finally he turned, stripped off his shirt, jeans and socks, and padded down the hall to the bathroom, his hard-muscled body gleaming like fine marble in the shaded midday light.
He showered energetically, singing country songs aloud in a pleasant deep baritone, toweled himself off and then examined his face in the mirror, fingering his firm jaw.
“Better shave again,” he muttered aloud. “There’ll likely be somebody taking pictures, an’ Carolyn’s not gonna like it much if I’m showing a five-o’clock shadow in every photograph.”
He lathered his face and began to shave carefully, thinking about the strange twist of fate that had brought his dream woman to appear to him on the same television screen with Beverly Townsend, the daughter of the woman that his friend Vernon Trent was marrying today.
Because, of course, Brock was fully aware that if he decided to make use of this connection, he could learn more about the mysterious woman, maybe even get to meet her.
He paused, razor in his hand, and gazed into his own dark eyes, wondering if he really wanted to meet Amanda Walker. After all, there was a certain risk to having dreams come true. The woman in his fantasies had warmed and sustained him through a lot of hard lonely years, but would the reality of her be as satisfying as his dreams?
Brock frowned, thinking about the woman in the velvet chair, recalling her air of sophisticated grace and calm elegance. That hadn’t really disturbed him, because he’d always pictured his woman as being quiet, gracious and serenely poised. What did bother him was the kind of superficial ambience the television commercial exuded, the popular idea that “image was everything.” And despite her serenity the woman on the television screen seemed ambitious, almost a little hard-edged.
Brock shook his head, still gazing thoughtfully at his reflection. The misted glass of the mirror shimmered before his eyes and he saw her face again, that lovely pure oval with the warm sapphire eyes and a mouth made for kissing. She was gazing at him, inviting him, lips softly parted, blue eyes full of tenderness and an alluring elusive promise so wild and sweet that his knees went weak and his body began to tremble with longing.
Then, abruptly, she vanished and Brock was staring into his own brown troubled eyes again, feeling strangely bereft.
“You’re such a fool,” he told himself, gripping the handle of his razor in a shaking hand. “You’re such a goddamn fool.”
Grimly he returned to his task, forcing himself to concentrate on the day ahead. But then he remembered the joyous tone in Vernon Trent’s voice and his friend’s unashamed declaration of happiness, and he felt lonelier than ever.
At last he finished shaving, rinsed off his razor and cleaned the sink mechanically, then wandered back into his bedroom to dress.
He paused in front of his closet, gazing in brooding silence at the few clothes that hung there, mostly Western-style shirts and clean folded jeans.
When Vernon had asked Brock Munroe to be his best man, he’d questioned Brock tactfully about suitable clothing for the occasion, and Brock had assured his friend that of course he had a dark suit.
And he did, but it was the same suit he’d worn to his high school graduation, almost twenty years ago. Brock lifted the suit bag from its hanger and unzipped it, examining the garment inside and wishing that he’d taken the time to buy something new for the wedding.
Brock frowned, holding the plain black suit aloft in his brown callused hands and gazing at it. He’d tried it on recently, and it still fitted reasonably well. How could anybody possibly tell that it wasn’t brand-new?
“After all, I only wore the damn thing a couple times in my whole life,” he said defensively to Alvin, who was watching him with sleepy detachment. “It’s just like new. Why should I spend all that money on another one, just for one day?”
He thought again of Amanda Walker’s television commercial, and remembered her sweet voice commenting that image perfection consisted of tiny intangibles that added up to a total look.
“Tiny intangibles!” Brock scoffed aloud to his dog, trying hard to feel as confident as he sounded.
“Like what? Clean socks? No soup stains on your tie? Well, I can look after stuff like that as well as the next guy, Alvin. I’m not worried.”
He dressed rapidly in the dark suit and a crisp white shirt that he’d spent almost half an hour ironing the day before. Finally he slipped on black socks and sturdy polished brogues, knotted his dark maroon tie and glanced at his watch in sudden panic.
“Look after things, okay, Alvin?” he said, heading for the door, rushing out through his cluttered kitchen and down the walk to his truck. A minute later he was back in the room.
“Forgot the damn ring,” Brock said to Alvin with an abashed grin. He rummaged in a bureau drawer for a small velvet case, which he slipped into his suit pocket.
Alvin coughed and gnawed rudely on one of his hind paws.
Brock gave the ugly little dog a cold glance. “Alvin,” he said, “you’re a real hard dog to love, you know that?”
Then he was gone, running lightly out through the house and down to his truck.
Alvin waited a moment, listening to the fading hum of the vehicle motor down the long winding road. Then he stood, yawned and scrambled off the bed. He paused to scratch himself with great energy, then wandered out into the messy living room, checking wistfully to see if any surviving bits of the salami had somehow lodged under the chair or coffee table.
CHAPTER TWO
THE NOISY WEDDING celebration swirled through the entire lower floor of the big Double C ranch house, occasionally spilling out onto the veranda and patio. Lettie Mae Reese and Virginia Parks, cook and housekeeper respectively at the Double C, circulated among the laughing crowd carrying heaped trays of food, exchanging news and jokes with people they seemed to have known all their lives.
In fact, Amanda Walker thought wistfully, everybody here seemed to have known everybody else since birth. The merry gathering exuded family warmth and intimacy. It made her feel lonely and out of place.
Amanda knew hardly any of the people at this party except for the bride, Carolyn Townsend, her new husband, Vernon Trent, and Carolyn’s daughter, Beverly, whom Amanda had met years ago at college. And of course she knew her host and hostess, J.T. and Cynthia McKinney, as well as J.T.’s adult children.
But all these other people were strangers to her, loud-talking sun-browned people with drinks in hand, laughing uproariously and hugging each other and shouting ribald jokes at the smiling couple seated near the fireplace.
Amanda stood quietly beside a curtained alcove, gazing at Vernon and Carolyn, her blue eyes misty with affection. They both looked warmly contented and so deeply in love that when they smiled at each other they seemed to have no connection to the rest of the world. They were alone in their quiet circle of tenderness.
Amanda hadn’t attended the actual wedding ceremony, fearing that her presence might be an intrusion, though Beverly had pressed her to come to the courthouse with the rest of them. Now she wished she’d gone, just so she’d have a memory of these two people exchanging their vows. Vernon Trent and his new wife both seemed so completely happy, so perfect for each other.
Amanda noted as well, with a practiced professional eye, that the bride was dressed beautifully. She wore a trim silk suit of pale smoky mauve that looked wonderful with her fine tanned skin and golden coloring.
From long habit, Amanda glanced around the crowded rooms, playing the familiar game of trying to pick out the best and worst-dressed women guests at the party.
With no hesitation at all she awarded the best-dressed accolade to Cynthia McKinney, even though the woman was very pregnant. Cynthia, who had been one of Amanda’s very first clients, wore a flowing, deceptively simple top of pale glimmering silver that swirled over slim black silk trousers, and she looked graceful and glamorous despite her impressive bulk.
Worst dressed was harder to decide on, Amanda told herself with a wry private smile, because there were some truly atrocious outfits scattered throughout the big room. Bulging velour jumpsuits, low-cut sweaters with rhinestone appliqués, a tight leather miniskirt and patterned panty hose…
Suddenly Amanda’s critical eye fell on the worst mistake of all, a sagging polyester pantsuit of the kind she fervently wished would vanish from the face of the earth. This one was a faded rusty color with shapeless jacket, plastic buttons and a tacky fringed scarf that did nothing at all to improve the look.
The woman, whoever she was, stood sideways with her face turned away from Amanda, and her figure didn’t seem nearly as terrible as her outfit. She appeared to be in her late forties or early fifties, with carelessly styled graying auburn hair and weathered skin.
Amanda was eyeing the woman with pained attention, picturing how a soft windblown haircut and some clothes that suited her wholesome fine-boned look would transform this woman. Possibly a rough slub-linen jacket in a raw oatmeal shade, and a longer soft wool skirt with a…
Just then the object of her attention turned to look past Amanda at somebody across the room. Amanda gazed at the older woman’s face, stunned by the expression she saw there. Amanda forgot her criticism of the woman’s clothes, speculations about image improvement, everything but a wrenching sympathy and a passionate desire to help.
“Having a good time all alone in the corner, Amanda? Come on, why aren’t you socializing and getting to know people?”
Amanda turned to smile at her friend Beverly Townsend, who was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful and well-dressed women in the room. Beverly’s blue eyes shone with excitement, and her lovely golden face was glowing.
Amanda suspected that at least part of Beverly’s glow was due to the young man behind her. Jeff Harris had paused to joke with a group on the other side of the archway while Beverly tugged impatiently at Amanda’s sleeve, trying to draw her friend out into the room.
Amanda shook her head. “Beverly Townsend,” she teased, “this isn’t a college dorm party, you know. We’re both twenty-five years old. Don’t you think it’s about time you quit trying to line me up with eligible men?”
“Oh, pooh, I’m not talking about men,” Beverly protested, though the mischievous sparkle in her eyes somewhat belied her injured tone. “I’m talking about potential customers. Come on, Mandy,” she whispered, leaning closer to her friend, “look at the clothes some of these women are wearing. Now, could they or could they not use some professional help with their image?”
Amanda nodded. “Maybe,” she said, her eyes falling involuntarily on the tight leather miniskirt and black-spangled panty hose that swayed past Beverly at that moment.
“Oh, her,” Beverly said with scorn, following Amanda’s gaze. “That’s Billie Jo Dumont. Forget it, Mandy, she’s hopeless. She doesn’t have the sense God gave a chicken, or she wouldn’t have come here at all today. It’s hardly even decent,” Beverly added, her blue eyes suddenly fierce.
“Why not?” Amanda asked, bewildered. “I mean, it’s a truly tacky outfit, but you can’t really call it indecent, Bev.”
“No, no, I was talking about her gall, coming to this party.” Beverly leaned closer to her friend. “See the woman by the archway, that nice little lady in the awful polyester pantsuit?”
Amanda nodded, trying not to gaze conspicuously at the woman Beverly indicated.
“Well, that’s Mary Gibson.” Beverly paused for dramatic effect, giving Amanda a pointed significant glance.
Amanda looked at the other woman in puzzled silence. “The name kind of rings a bell,” she said at last, “but I…”
“Bubba’s wife,” Beverly whispered. “Bubba Gibson.”
Amanda’s eyes widened. “The one who’s in jail? He killed somebody, didn’t he?”
“He killed some of his horses for the insurance. If it had just been people he killed,” Beverly added, “folks around here would probably be able to forgive him. But horses, that’s something else altogether. Far, far more serious.”
Amanda gazed at her friend, startled and appalled. “You’re kidding. Aren’t you, Bev?”
Beverly considered. “Maybe a little,” she conceded, “but not much.”
“And the girl in the leather skirt, where does she come into it?” Amanda asked.
Beverly eyed her beautiful dark-haired friend with scant patience. “Come on, Amanda,” she said, sighing. “You’ve been living in Austin for months, and visiting out here all the time, and it’s all anybody’s been talking about. How can you not know what’s going on?”
Amanda shrugged. “I don’t pay much attention to gossip,” she said. “You know that, Bev. I’m just not that interested in dishing the dirt.”
“Well, it’s dirty, all right. The girl in the miniskirt, she was Bubba’s mid-life folly long before the mess with the horses. That little affair went on for ages, right under Mary’s nose, and everybody knew it. They were just awful, the pair of them.”
Amanda’s blue eyes widened. She gazed surreptitiously at the gorgeous young woman with her pouting red lips and sumptuous figure, and then at the stiff middle-aged woman in the dowdy suit who stood near the archway.
“The poor woman, Bev. How can she stand it?”
“It can’t be easy,” Beverly agreed with a flash of the generous compassion that often surprised people who didn’t know her well. “And the worst part of it is that Mary’s such a darling. She truly is, Mandy. Everybody loves her. And she’s never said one word against Bubba, not once during this whole mess. If she has opinions, she keeps them to herself.”
She keeps her agony to herself, too, Amanda thought. And it’s probably going to kill her, the poor woman.
“Come with Jeff and me,” Beverly was urging in an obvious attempt to change the subject. “There’s lots of people I want you to meet. You can’t hide here in the shadows all evening, girl.”
“Hmm?” Amanda asked, giving her friend a distracted glance.
“I said, I want you to come with me and…”
“Oh, right. Sure, Bev, in a minute, okay? I just have to…to find a powder room, and then I’ll come right out. Where will you be?”
“On the patio. Just through that door over there,” Beverly said, pointing with a graceful scarlet-tipped finger. “Don’t get lost.”
“I won’t,” Amanda promised. “I’ll be out right away.”
She stood watching with an automatic smile as Beverly took Jeff’s hand, paused to give him a quick kiss and headed for the patio, dragging the handsome young man laughing behind her.
After they were gone, Amanda took a fresh drink from one of the serving girls, exchanged a few cheerful remarks with the youngster and then edged toward the woman by the archway, who was gripping her elbows in white-knuckled hands and staring at the swirling crowd with a blank unseeing stare.
“Hello,” Amanda said in her quiet musical voice.
“My name’s Amanda Walker.”
The older woman turned to look at her with a dismal expression. Then she smiled and her face was transformed. Mary Gibson had a luminous, childlike smile that lit her weathered features and shone warmly in her hazel eyes. Amanda swallowed hard and smiled back.
“I’m Mary Gibson,” the woman said, extending a slim brown hand. “And I know who you are.”
“You do?”
“I saw you on TV. I think you’re just beautiful.”
“Oh.” Amanda’s cheeks tinted a delicate pink when she thought how trivial her show about correct accessorizing must seem to Mary Gibson.
But Mary didn’t seem at all troubled by the superficial glamour of Amanda’s presence or position.
“That one outfit,” she said wistfully, “the one Beverly wore, you know, that was all white with a little trimming around the edges?”
Amanda nodded, gripping the stem of her glass and smiling absently as a couple brushed past her, shouting loudly to someone across the room.
“Well, I thought that was just the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” Mary said shyly. “And when you showed how the silver earrings highlighted it and brought out the turquoise tones, I could see exactly what you meant.”
Amanda felt a quick rush of pleasure, and a surprising desire to hug the woman.
“You know, I’m so glad to hear you say that. I wasn’t convinced that the image would translate all that well onto the television screen,” she said.
“Watching those commercials of yours, it always makes me wish I was thirty years younger,” Mary went on in the same wistful tone. “It must feel so wonderful to wear clothes like that, and look pretty in them.”
“Why would you have to be younger?” Amanda asked. “You’d look beautiful in clothes like that right now, Mary.”
The other woman gave her a quick wary glance, as if fearful that she was being made fun of. But Amanda returned Mary Gibson’s gaze quietly, her lovely face calm, her eyes warm and sincere.
At last Mary shrugged awkwardly and looked away into the crowd. “That’s just plain silly,” she said in a flat miserable voice. “I couldn’t wear clothes like that. I wouldn’t know the first thing about buying them, and even if I did, I couldn’t afford them.”
“Buying clothes for people is my job, Mary,” Amanda said. “That’s what I do for a living. It’s what the television commercials are all about. And as for the prices, well, it just so happens…”
She paused and set her wineglass on the tray of a passing server, then folded her hands behind her back and crossed her fingers childishly. Amanda always hated telling lies, even tiny little white ones, and she was about to come up with a real whopper.
But she thought about Mary Gibson’s sad defeated look and the sudden childlike wonder of that glowing smile, and steeled herself to plunge on.
“It just so happens,” Amanda said, “that I’ve had a bit of bad luck this past month, Mary. I bought quite a lot of things on spec for a woman who…who got sick, and has to spend a few months in therapy, and she doesn’t feel like buying anything new just now. So I’m stuck with them. And the odd thing is, this woman is just about your size and coloring. I think some of them would be perfect for you.”
Amanda paused for breath and found Mary Gibson staring at her with that same wary cautious look. But there was something else in the woman’s eyes, too, a glint of hope and longing that nerved Amanda to continue with her story.
Not that all of it was a complete lie. The clothes she was talking about did exist, all right. But they were Amanda’s own clothes, hanging in the bedroom closet of her apartment back in Austin.
Amanda allowed herself a brief flash of private humor, thinking how aghast her New York friends would be if they knew that Amanda was proposing, quite literally, to give this virtual stranger the clothes off her back.
But, Amanda told herself, they hadn’t heard Mary Gibson’s story. And they hadn’t seen that small shining smile of yearning. Besides, Amanda wasn’t being completely selfless. There was a plan forming at the back of her mind, a way that she might turn this generous impulse to her business advantage.
“I couldn’t afford clothes like that,” Mary said finally, with a brief hopeless shrug. “They’d be far too expensive for my budget. Things are real tight around my place these days.”
“You might be surprised,” Amanda said. “You see, I’m just starting out in business, Mary, and things are awfully tight for me, too.”
At least that statement was the absolute truth, Amanda told herself grimly, pausing to take a praline from a tray carried by Virginia Parks.
“So, what I’d be willing to do,” she went on, chewing the small sugary confection, almost overwhelmed by the delicious flavor, “is sell you a few of the outfits at cost, just to get them off my hands.”
Mary hesitated. “How much would ‘cost’ be?” she asked after a moment.
“Well, it varies, of course. One of the outfits I’m thinking of particularly is a two-piece suit, kind of a longer Chanel style, in a really soft wool that would be just lovely on you.”
Amanda paused, feeling a tug of regret at the thought of parting with this particular suit, one of her personal favorites.
“And how much would it be?” Mary asked.
“Let me see…” Amanda pretended to calculate.
“My cost, plus shipping expenses, less dealer tax…I could probably let you have it for around a hundred, if you decided you liked it.”
Mary’s weathered face brightened. “Really? That’s a pretty good deal, isn’t it?”
Damn right it is, Amanda thought gloomily. Especially since I paid more than nine hundred for it at Saks just a couple of months ago….
But her face betrayed none of these thoughts. “I think it’s a pretty good deal,” she agreed quietly. “And if you liked, I could bring a few of the other pieces, too, sweaters and blouses and slacks, and you could try them on in private at home before you made a choice.”
“Oh,” Mary sighed. “Oh, my, that’d be so nice. You know,” she added impulsively, gazing at the younger woman, “I think I really need something like this, Miss Walker. My life’s been…”
She paused and flushed awkwardly, then continued. “The way things have been happening, my life hasn’t been all that good lately. And I could really use a little lift like that. Something to make me feel…better about myself, you know?”
“I know,” Amanda murmured. “I know you could, Mary. Everybody needs a lift now and then. When would you like me to bring the things over for you to try on?”
“Oh, any time, I guess. Would it be…would you be coming fairly soon?” Mary asked wistfully.
Amanda nodded, considering the week ahead, reorganizing her schedule rapidly to accommodate another trip to Crystal Creek. If she could bring out the new winter outfits for Lynn McKinney on Wednesday, then she’d be able to…
“Miss Walker?”
Amanda smiled. “You’d better call me Amanda, if we’re going to be doing business together. I was just thinking about my week, Mary. Would Wednesday be good for you? Say about two o’clock?”
Mary nodded, rummaging in her handbag. “That’d be real nice. Just let me find a pen, and I’ll draw a map so you can find my place.”
“No problem,” Amanda said, waving her hand in dismissal. “I’ll be stopping off here and over at the Circle T. Someone can give me directions when I get there.”
“Oh, it’s real easy,” Mary said. “I’m just a few miles out on the other side of town, bordering Brock Munroe’s place.”
“What’s this?” A cheerful male voice came from the other side of the archway, beyond Amanda’s line of vision. “Mary Gibson, are you talking about me behind my back?”
Mary smiled and turned away to peer at the newcomer, who was still hidden from Amanda. “Hi, Brock,” she said. “My, don’t you look spiffy, all dressed up in a suit and tie.”
“I feel like a trained monkey in this rig,” the man with the deep voice said, reflecting such rueful distaste that Amanda smiled and leaned around the archway to see what he looked like.
At the same moment he stepped forward to allow a server past him, and faced Amanda head on. His mouth dropped open, his dark eyes widened, and he stood rooted to the spot, staring at her with such obvious amazement that her pale cheeks became a delicate pink.
But she collected herself almost at once, gave the man a polite smile and calmly returned his gaze.
He was certainly an arresting physical specimen, several inches taller than six feet with a rangy muscular look and an impressive breadth of chest and shoulders to balance his height. His face was tanned and clean-cut, his dark hair disheveled, his eyes warm and alert as he continued to stare at Amanda. When she smiled, he grinned back automatically, one side of his wide mouth lifting in an engaging lopsided grin that showed a flash of beautiful white teeth.
Amanda always noticed people’s hands. This man’s hands were hard and brown, probably as callused on the palms as old leather, but they were beautifully shaped, with fine square palms and long fingers.
Amanda looked back to the man’s shining dark eyes. She was beginning to feel uneasy. Apparently Mary Gibson was also becoming uncomfortable at the intensity with which the man was staring at Amanda.
“Brock, this is Amanda Walker,” Mary said finally. “Amanda, Brock Munroe, my nearest neighbor. He has a ranch right next to mine.”
The tall man broke his gaze with a visible effort and extended his hand. Amanda took it almost reluctantly and felt her own hand swallowed in his firm grip. Brock Munroe’s hand was just as steel-hard and strong as she’d expected. And she was distressed by the sudden tingle of sexual excitement that shivered through her at his touch.
“Amanda does clothes buying and TV commercials, things like that,” Mary explained.
“I know,” the man said abruptly. “I’ve seen her on television.”
He was staring again, as if trying to memorize every line and detail of Amanda’s face.
Or, Amanda thought in warm confusion, as if they were already well-known to each other, lovers meeting again after a long, long separation…
Mary smiled at them and began to edge away, murmuring something about helping Virginia with the buffet, but Brock and Amanda were so absorbed in their sudden and surprising contact that they hardly noticed her departure.
“So,” Brock said with that same abrupt tone, “what exactly is a personal shopping service, Amanda? What is it that you do for a living?”
“I dress people,” Amanda said automatically. “I help them to select a balanced complementary wardrobe, and the proper accessories to achieve a total look. And then I price-shop the stores for them, over as wide an area as I’m able, as well as the catalogues from the better houses.”
The man beside her nodded thoughtfully. Amanda looked up at him with a cautious critical eye, noticing for the first time that his suit had to be fifteen years old, at least, with its old-fashioned lapels and the awkward dated cut of the trousers. And that tie…
Amanda couldn’t help thinking what a shame it was to see a man like Brock Munroe dressed this way. With his beautifully-formed body, he’d look just wonderful in a really well-cut suit.
She stole another glance at his lapels.
“Eighteen years,” he told her quietly.
Amanda looked up at his face, startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“This suit. I bought it eighteen years ago for my high school graduation. That’s what you’re thinking, right? That I look real tacky and out-of-date?”
Amanda flushed and then realized with annoyance that this reaction had been as much of a giveaway as her earlier expression of distaste. “Clothes are my business,” she told the man stiffly. “I can’t help but notice cut and style. It’s my job.”
“And you think I’ve failed to deal with all those tiny intangibles that add up to a total look?”
Amanda glanced up at him sharply again, recognizing her own words in his deep teasing voice. Was she being gently ridiculed by this handsome rustic?
“I wasn’t really thinking about your appearance at all,” she lied, trying to keep her voice cool. “I’m just enjoying the party, and I was looking for my friends, actually. I think they’re out on the patio.”
She began to edge away but the man put his big hand on her arm, just below her elbow. To her horror and growing annoyance, Amanda found herself thrilling once again at the warmth and intimacy of that touch.
She jerked her arm and Brock released it instantly. He reached to lift a glass of white wine from a passing tray and handed it to Amanda.
“Thank you,” she said, pausing to sip from the crystal goblet, while struggling to compose herself.
“How do you know Mary?”
The question came as a surprise. Amanda hesitated. “Actually, I don’t,” she said. “We just met today. I have some clothes she’s interested in seeing.”
The man turned to stare at her. “Mary?” he asked in disbelief. “Mary Gibson is hiring a personal shopping service? A professional image-maker?”
Amanda felt another surge of irritation. “Look, Mr. Munroe,” she began, “you’re certainly free to have any opinion you like about my job. But that doesn’t mean that I—”
“What do you like to do?” he asked, ignoring her cool tone. “I mean, when you’re away from the job? What kind of person are you, Amanda? You know, I’ve always thought…” He paused suddenly, looking embarrassed.
“What? What have you always thought?” Amanda asked, intrigued by his sudden discomfort.
“Nothing,” the big man said with a casual shrug. “I’ve always liked to find out what interests people, that’s what I was going to say.”
“You want to know what interests me?”
“Yeah. I want to know what you’re like. I mean, do you spend all your time getting your hair done and reading fashion magazines, or do like to jet-set around the world, or what? When you’re all alone, what do you dream about?”
Amanda bit her lip and stared at him in silence, thinking about his question.
What did she like to do?
The tall man watched her calmly, apparently prepared to wait all day for her response. But Amanda was slowly realizing, to her growing discomfort, that she had no answer to give him.
She didn’t know what she liked to do. The truth was, Amanda Walker hardly knew who she was anymore.
There’d been a time, years ago, when she’d been far more definite about her likes and dislikes. She could remember herself at twenty-one, telling Edward with girlish happiness that she loved running barefoot on the beach, waking early to watch the sunrise across the lake, walking in the woods at twilight and listening to the hushed music of the night birds.
And he’d laughed, gazing at her with raised eyebrows and that wry sardonic grin that had always made her heart turn over.
“My, my,” he’d said with the flat New England twang that sounded so sophisticated to her Texas ear. “What an intriguing little savage we have here. The face of an angel and the soul of a hillbilly.”
Amanda had flushed with embarrassment at her own naiveté. Instantly she’d resolved to be more the kind of woman Edward admired, more cultured and intelligent and in tune with the nuances and realities of his New York life-style.
And she’d certainly succeeded. During the years that she’d been in New York, Amanda Walker had become the toast of their small exclusive circle, a graceful arbiter of fashion, gifted with a sure knowledge of what was correct for every occasion. She was at ease in any group, comfortable with the casual witty patter that was so much in vogue, secure in the knowledge that she was the most elegant woman in any gathering.
But did she like that life?
And if she did, why had she decided to come back to Texas, left Edward behind along with all their friends and embarked alone on this terrifying project?
And it really was terrifying—throwing aside the security of Edward’s arms as well as a large salary and expense account, for the dangers and uncertainties of opening her own business.
“I like to succeed,” she told the man in front of her with a quick defiant lift of her head. “I like the idea of making my own way in the world, taking on something that’s really difficult and making it into a viable and lucrative operation.”
She saw something in Brock Munroe’s face, a flicker of some emotion that looked almost like disappointment.
“And is that all you dream about, Amanda? Being a big success? Is that your whole happiness in life?”
Amanda met his eyes. Then she flushed and looked away, buffeted by a sudden paralyzing wave of yearning when she remembered her dream.
The dream haunted her all the time these days. She saw herself on a grassy hillside, laughing in the sunlight with a baby in her arms. That was the whole dream, just herself and the midday warmth and the comfortable weight of the drowsy infant in her arms. And somehow there was also the knowledge that a man stood nearby, unseen but deeply loved.
The image was always brief, usually invading her sleep in the misty hours just before dawn, and it filled Amanda with a happiness so exquisite that waking to cold reality sometimes seemed like an anguish too great to be endured.
She glanced helplessly toward the patio door and saw Beverly emerge, mouthing something and waving across the crowded noisy room.
“I—I have to go,” Amanda told the dark man in his poorly fitting suit. “My friends are looking for me.”
“In a minute, Amanda,” Brock Munroe said gently, holding her with his eyes. “First, you were going to tell me what you dream about.”
“I dream about clothes,” Amanda told him abruptly, wincing at the harsh arrogant note in her own voice. “And real jewelry and expensive cars. I dream about having lots and lots of money so I can own beautiful things, Mr. Munroe.”
When Amanda saw the disappointment that flickered across Brock’s face, she was tempted to grab his arm and apologize for her lies. She wanted to say, No, no, it’s not true, none of it’s true, that’s not what I’m like at all….
But maybe it was, she told herself defiantly.
Maybe they were all true, the things she’d just told him. Why was she so driven by her need to succeed in business, if not for the pleasures that came along with financial success? And why had she left behind everything she’d once valued, if not to attain a new goal that meant even more to her?
Brock waited politely, but his handsome face was no longer warm with interest. Amanda wanted to say something—anything to dispel the sudden chill that had come between them.
“Mr. Munroe…Brock, look, I just wanted to…” She began with uncharacteristic awkwardness.
But Beverly reappeared at that moment, waving frantically over the heads of people nearby, trying to catch Amanda’s eye.
Conscious of her friend, Amanda paused nervously. Brock smiled down at her with that same distant look of sadness.
“‘Again, the Cousin’s whistle,’” he quoted softly. “‘Go, my Love.’”
Amanda nodded automatically, then turned and stared up him.
“That’s from a Robert Browning poem, isn’t it?”
Brock Munroe nodded, looking down at her intently. “The poem’s called ‘Andrea del Sarto,’” he said. “It’s always been one of my favorites.”
“But…” Amanda’s astonishment was evident. “But how…”
“I may be a big simple cowboy in a bad suit, Miss Walker,” Brock said quietly. “That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy poetry.”
She was silent, still searching for words to express her surprise.
“All you glamorous people don’t own the world, Amanda,” Brock told her quietly, his hard sculpted face empty of emotion. “You don’t have a corner on everything that’s beautiful and worthwhile. The rest of us may be peasants, but we have eyes and hearts and souls just like you do.”
Amanda felt an urgent desire to explain herself, to apologize and show him she wasn’t what he considered her to be. But this emotion was soon overridden by a slow burning outrage.
How dared he be so superior and judgmental, this “simple cowboy in the bad suit,” as he called himself? What gave him the right to express opinions about Amanda Walker, to look at her with such evident disappointment and give the clear impression that she’d been weighed in the balance and found wanting?
“I suppose that’s true,” she told him coldly. “I really wouldn’t know, and I’m not all that interested in finding out, to tell you the truth.”
He nodded, accepting her words as a dismissal.
“Goodbye, Amanda,” he murmured.
“Goodbye,” Amanda said with a small sardonic lift of her beautiful mouth. “It’s certainly been interesting talking to you.”
Then she was gone, moving gracefully off through the laughing throng, conscious of his dark eyes resting on her as she walked away.
CHAPTER THREE
RAIN POUNDED against the windshield and streamed over the surface of Amanda’s small car, whipping past in gusty sprays to pool on the highway and in the ditches. Amanda gripped the wheel, frowning and squinting into the darkness, struggling to see ahead each time the wipers gave her a brief field of vision.
“Damned lousy rain,” Beverly Townsend muttered, lounging beside Amanda in the passenger seat and glaring out the window. “It’s probably fixing to flood again, like it did in the spring. Everything will be a great big ol’ mess, all over again. I hate it, Mandy. I just hate it.”
Amanda grinned at her friend’s fretful tone, distracted for a moment from the strain of driving in the storm.
“Well, I declare, Beverly Townsend,” she said in a cheerful imitation of Beverly’s warm Texas drawl, “you certainly aren’t your usual chipper self tonight, are you? Now, why on earth could that be, I wonder?”
Beverly had the grace to smile back, her teeth flashing white in the darkness. “Well, what do you expect? Here I am, a poor helpless waif thrown out of my own home, forced to thrust myself on the hospitality of a friend who doesn’t even like me enough to show the least little bit of sympathy.”
Amanda chuckled. She was always charmed by Beverly’s witty good humor, and by the warmth and sweetness that were so startling to all those people who looked on Beverly Townsend as little more than a self-absorbed beauty queen.
“Nobody’s throwing you out of your home,” Amanda pointed out reasonably. “This was entirely your own choice, Bev, coming to Austin to stay with me for a week or so to give Carolyn and Vern some time alone together.”
Beverly shrugged. “Well, sure, but really, what choice did I have, Mandy? It’s their honeymoon, for God’s sake. And since Mama absolutely refuses to go away anywhere while Cynthia’s so close to her due date, I could hardly hang around the house and make it a cozy threesome, could I, now?”
“What about Lori? Isn’t she going to be around? She lives there, too, doesn’t she?”
Beverly glanced over at her friend with the look of weary but resigned tolerance that she reserved for Amanda.
“I told you,” she began, “about twelve hundred times, Mandy, that Lori’s been renovating the old garage next to the tennis court to make a gorgeous little studio apartment for herself. It’s not quite finished but she moved in a couple days ago anyhow, just to give the newlyweds some privacy.”
“Did you tell me that?” Amanda asked blankly.
Beverly laughed, then sobered and gazed moodily out at the rain once more.
Amanda stole a sidelong glance at her friend’s discontented profile. “You know what I think? I think this mood of yours has nothing at all to do with the weather or where you’re going to be living for the next week, Bev.”
Beverly turned to glance at her quickly, then sank low in the seat and braced her blue-jeaned knees against the dashboard, hugging them gloomily.
“I know,” she said at last. “But, Mandy, it’s so strange, somehow. All those years I had so much fun playing the field, picking up guys and dropping them just for the hell of it, never really giving any of them much thought. Now, I hate to admit it, but Jeff goes away for a week on business and I can hardly stand it. A week, it seems like eternity, you know what I mean? I don’t know if I can bear to be away from the man for a whole entire week.”
Amanda gave her friend a disbelieving look. “Not even for the chance to spend a week in the city, attend two fashion shows and a gallery opening, meet some really important people and do a whole lot of early Christmas shopping?”
Beverly shook her head morosely. “Nope. Not even for that.”
“My goodness,” Amanda said seriously, although her mouth was twitching with amusement. “I guess it must be love, all right.”
Beverly glared at the other woman and punched her arm lightly. “If you’d ever been really, really in love,” she complained, “you wouldn’t laugh at my misery. You’d show a little more compassion, you coldhearted witch.”
Amanda’s face tightened briefly and she stared ahead into the driving rain.
Beverly caught the look and laid a gentle hand on Amanda’s suede coat sleeve. “Sorry, kid,” she murmured. “I guess you’ve been through it, too, haven’t you? You spent a lot of years with Edward, after all.”
“Four,” Amanda said, trying to smile. “Four years. And you don’t need to treat me like a poor girl with a broken heart, Bev. It was my idea to leave, after all.”
“I keep wondering about that, but I never wanted to pry. So there was no big fight or dustup, nothing like that? You just decided to move back to Texas and open your own business, and Edward let you go, just like that?”
“Just like that,” Amanda agreed with a sad smile. “All very civilized. He’d just bought his own store in New York, and sunk all the money he inherited into it, and he certainly wasn’t about to toss all that aside and follow me, no matter how much he cared about the relationship.”
She fell silent, gripping the wheel in gloved hands and gazing bleakly at the black flowing rain.
“And you?” Beverly prodded delicately. “Didn’t it hurt to leave him behind after all those years? Did you really want to be on your own enough to give up such a long-term relationship?”
Amanda frowned. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I thought I did, Bev. I was getting so restless, so stale and tired of everything, and I really thought I needed a change of scene, some kind of fresh challenge.”
Beverly nodded. “Absolutely. That’s the way I felt before I got really involved with my hospital work. And Jeff, of course,” she added with a faraway smile.
“Of course,” Amanda agreed dryly.
“So how do you feel about it all now? Do you wish you were back in New York, working for Edward again and socializing with all your friends?”
“Sometimes…well, I guess I do,” Amanda said, surprising herself with her response. “Sometimes I feel so lonely and out of place, and so terribly scared that my business will fail and I’ll be…”
She was silent again, regretting the sudden intimacy of the conversation. Beverly Townsend was a good friend, probably Amanda’s closest friend at the moment. But there were things about herself, fears and dreams and longings, that Amanda Walker never admitted to another soul.
Beverly didn’t notice the sudden silence. She was still much more interested in the details of her friend’s relationship. “So, do you hear from him at all?” she asked.
Amanda shook her head again. “Not often. He said that if we were going to make a break, it might as well be a clean break, but that any time I wanted to come back, he’d be waiting.”
“Well, that was real sweet,” Beverly ventured cautiously. “Wasn’t it?”
“Oh, sure,” Amanda said. “Edward always does and says exactly the right thing. Then, about a month later, a mutual friend told me he was dating one of the top models from a big-name agency.”
She swerved to avoid the lashing spray of a passing semitrailer, then pulled her little car back into the driving lane.
“It bothered you, right?” Beverly said, glancing at her friend’s still face. “Hearing he was with somebody else, it really got to you, didn’t it?”
“A little,” Amanda said, not willing to discuss the unexpected pain she’d felt when she heard about the glamourous new woman in Edward’s life.
“Maybe you’re still in love with him,” Beverly suggested comfortably. “Maybe you should go back to New York and check it out.”
“And give up everything I’m beginning to achieve here? Just admit that it was all a big mistake and go running home saying, ‘please look after me, I’m so sorry, I’ll never do it again?’”
“Yeah, I see the problem,” Beverly said slowly. “Especially since he’s not likely to move to where you are, right?”
“Not likely,” Amanda agreed bitterly. “He spent years clawing his way up through the retail garment industry in New York to the point where he could manage his own store and draw a handpicked clientele. Believe me, Edward Price is not about to throw all that away for a woman, Bev. Any woman.”
Beverly was silent a moment, her face thoughtful. “What does he look like?” she asked finally. “You know, I never did meet him, Mandy. Every time I came to New York, he was off on a buying trip to Paris or Bangkok or somewhere.”
“I know.” Amanda frowned, clutching the wheel and trying to visualize Edward, startled again by the pain it caused her. “He’s about five-eleven,” she said at last, “thirty-five years old, very handsome and sophisticated. He has hazel eyes and auburn hair that he wears parted on the side and flowing over like this, you know…” She made a quick gesture with her gloved hand against her own dark head, indicating a graceful fall of hair.
Beverly nodded with complete understanding. “Very trendy,” she said. “Like the guys in the suit ads in magazines, right? I wish I could talk Jeff into getting his hair cut that way. He always looks like his barber lives in the back of a saloon somewhere.”
Amanda chuckled, but Beverly’s words stirred a chord of memory in the depths of her mind, a thought that had been nagging at her ever since they’d left the wedding party at the Double C and started the forty-mile journey back to Austin.
“Bev,” she began slowly, “do you remember that English literature class we took in our sophomore year? I think it was called Late Victorian Poetry, something like that?”
Beverly didn’t appear to hear the question. She was gazing out the side window at the neon signs and lighted storefronts that lined the highway for miles on the way into Austin.
“Bev?” Amanda repeated, wondering why this whole question suddenly seemed so important.
“Hmm?” Beverly asked, turning to look over at her friend. “What were you saying, Mandy? Something about college?”
“Our sophomore-year English class,” Amanda repeated patiently. “Do you remember it?”
Beverly chuckled. “Who could forget? Old Professor Starcross, with all that awful hair in his ears and the same mustard stain on his tie for the entire term—what a scream.”
“Do you remember any of the poetry we studied?”
Beverly opened the glove compartment, rummaging idly for a pack of mints. “I certainly remember the Brownings,” she said, popping a mint into her mouth and passing another to her friend. “Robert and Elizabeth, who could ever forget them? Wasn’t that just the most romantic thing you ever heard of, Mandy, the way they fell in love just by writing letters to each other and then he went sweeping into her house, gathered her into his arms and carried her away, right under the nose of her awful old father?”
Beverly sighed, lost in the pleasure of the story.
Amanda grinned fondly. “Beverly Townsend, you’re an incurable romantic, you know that? As a matter of fact,” she added more seriously, “I was interested in one of Browning’s poems, not his personal life. I wondered if you might recall it, Bev. It’s called ‘Andrea del Sarto.’”
Beverly frowned, searching her memory while she munched thoughtfully on the mint. Despite her flippant manner, Beverly had a quick mind and an impressive memory. Amanda was confident she would be able to recall at least something of the poem in question.
“I’ve got it,” Beverly announced finally. “Actually there’s two poems, kind of similar, and I always get them mixed up. The other one’s called ‘My Last Duchess.’ But the Del Sarto one, it’s about an artist, talking to his wife.”
“And it ends with the line, ‘Again the Cousin’s whistle. Go, my Love.’ Right?”
“Right,” Beverly agreed. “I always thought that was just about the saddest line in the English language. Tore my heart out, every time I read it.”
Amanda felt a brief chill that touched her body with icy fingers, almost making her shiver. “Why?” she asked, keeping her voice light. “You know, I don’t really recall the poem at all, except for the title and that one line.”
“Well, it’s this artist talking to his wife,” Beverly began cozily, resting against the door and turning to look at her friend, her blue eyes alight with interest. “She’s a whole lot younger than he is, you see, and she’s really beautiful and shallow. Completely selfish. He only married her because he was obsessed by her looks, and both of them know it. And in the poem, he’s begging her to just sit with him for a while and watch the sunset, but she can’t wait to be off with her friends or a boyfriend or whatever.”
“Doesn’t she love him?”
“Not a bit. She’s probably not even capable of love. That’s what he’s saying in the poem, ever so gently. He’s not really complaining about her, just saying how different their lives could have been, what a great painter he could have been and how much happiness they could have had if only she’d had enough depth to care for him a little and give him even the tiniest bit of support.”
“But she’s just too shallow and superficial,” Amanda said grimly. “Too interested in herself and her own looks and nothing else.”
“Absolutely,” Beverly agreed, missing the sudden edge in her friend’s voice. “Mostly, she’s just wishing the boring old guy will quit talking so she can take off and do what she wants.”
Amanda nodded thoughtfully.
“And the last line,” Beverly went on, “is because she’s itching to get away from him, you know, and be off about her own entertainment, leaving him sitting all alone in the sunset. Just to keep the peace, they’re pretending she’s going out with her cousin, but both of them know it’s not true. So he talks a little more about how he feels, all that he’s given up for her and how he feels it’s been worth it, just to have the privilege of looking on her beauty sometimes, even though most of his life is terribly sad and lonely. And then, finally, he sees that she’s anxious to be gone so he just says that line, ever so gently, the one about her cousin, and lets her go.”
Amanda shivered again. Was that the opinion Brock had formed of her after just a few minutes’ conversation? Did he really see her as a woman who was all show and no substance? A woman so shallow and self-absorbed that she would give a man a life of lonely pain and emptiness?
Her hands tightened on the wheel and she negotiated a corner a little too fast, slamming on the brakes and sending a sheet of water slashing past the roof of the car. She righted the vehicle just in time to merge unsteadily back into the flow of traffic.
“Wow!” Beverly commented admiringly. “Not bad, Mandy. Since when did you get so reckless?”
Amanda ignored the question, still absorbing the subtle insult of Brock Munroe’s final words to her.
“Bev, what do you know about Brock Munroe?” she asked abruptly. “The tall dark-haired man who was Vernon’s best man at the wedding?”
Beverly chuckled. “You don’t have to describe Brock to me, Mandy. I’ve known him all my life. In fact,” she added cheerfully, “when I was about six and he was sixteen, he rescued me from drowning when we were at a community swimming party down at the river. Actually jumped into a whirlpool, dragged me out coughing and spitting like a drowned rat. Afterward, my parents found out he couldn’t swim a stroke himself, he just sort of acted on instinct. I had a terrible crush on him for about five years after that.”
“But what’s he like, Bev? What kind of family does he have?”
“Poor Brock, he doesn’t have a family. Never did, not to speak of. His mama died when he was just young, and his daddy was such a bad apple that Brock did most of the parenting. When he was just a teenager he worked like a man, ran the whole ranch, they say, while his daddy was off drinking and playing cards.”
Amanda thought again of the clear steady dark eyes, the quiet uncompromising look of the man.
“So,” she began slowly, “he has no formal education at all?”
“No,” Beverly said cheerfully. “A high school diploma, I guess, and that’s about it. Poor Brock, he’s always just been a hardworking rancher, as long as I can remember.”
“Is he married?”
Beverly shook her head. “Never has been. Women chase after him all the time, and he sure doesn’t mind their company, but Brock Munroe just doesn’t seem to be the marryin’ kind, if you know what I mean. As far as I can recall, he’s never even gotten really serious about anyone.”
“But when he does get serious about someone, what will she be like, do you think?”
Beverly shrugged. “Who knows? Likely she’ll be some nice wholesome ranch girl who can brand a steer and string a fence line, and raise him up a whole brood of curly-haired little kids.”
Amanda was silent, absorbing this image, wondering at her sudden wistfulness and the new thrust of pain that stabbed at her. It was, in fact, quite similar to the pain she experienced when she thought of Edward with his young model. And yet this pain had a different quality about it, something more subtle and hurtful….
“Why?” Beverly asked, rummaging busily in the glove compartment again. “You know, I thought I had some peanuts in here,” she complained. “I’m sure I…oh, good, here they are. Why all the interest in Brock Munroe?” she added casually, opening the plastic container and pouring a mound of salty nuts onto her palm. “Care for some nuts, Mandy?”
Amanda shook her head in disbelief. “Beverly Townsend, I swear I don’t know why you don’t weigh two hundred pounds. I’m not interested in Brock Munroe,” she added just as casually. “We just got involved in kind of a weird conversation, that’s all, and I was really grateful when you rescued me. Guess who else I talked to?” she added brightly, changing her mind and taking several peanuts from Beverly’s outstretched hand.
“Who? I thought you didn’t talk to anybody. I was sure you just stood alone in that damned corner all night long.”
“I talked to Mary Gibson. And guess what, Bev? She wants to look at some clothes!”
“That’s great,” Beverly said, “but I don’t think Mary can afford designer clothes.”
“She can’t,” Amanda said, and launched into her fabrication about the ill client.
For the rest of the trip, missing boyfriends, disturbing poetry, fears and loneliness were all forgotten as the two young women planned the transformation of Mary Gibson.
THEY WERE so beautiful, the ostriches in Mary Gibson’s dream. There were always three of them, two females and a big arrogant male, their huge obsidian eyes wise and gentle, their iridescent feathers glittering like rainbows in the hot desert sun. The birds ran and circled Mary, who sat mesmerized by their lofty grace. Then, gradually, the big male began to drift closer and closer to her, his powerful legs churning slowly, his long neck outstretched in invitation.
In the wondering, slow motion of dreams, he finally knelt and allowed Mary to climb on his back, and then they were off, skimming over the desert sands while she clung to his warm feathers, riding the wind and feeling the sun-warmed sand go flashing past in dizzying cartwheels of light. She was so happy in the dream, free of pain and loneliness, free of everything in the world, ears singing, heart pounding with a wild fierce exultation….
Gradually consciousness replaced the dream. Pain flowed in, the old dull ache that was now so much a part of Mary Gibson’s life. The ostriches faded, pushed aside by memories of the party at the Double C.
Mary moaned and rolled over in bed, pulling the pillow over her head, trying to shut out the images of her neighbors’ pitying faces and tactfully averted glances, of Billie Jo Dumont’s smug grin and lush swaying hips. Worst of all was the memory of Mary herself, actually agreeing to look at clothes with that glamorous television lady…
“God help me, I must be crazy,” Mary whispered aloud into the muffling depths of the pillow. “What on earth could I have been thinking about? What do I need stylish clothes for?”
She rolled over again, and lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about Amanda Walker’s dark classic beauty and her calm sweet air.
Mary admired women who managed to look perfect on all occasions. Mary herself always felt, even when she did dress up, that there was something not quite right, something hanging or bunching or fitted wrong, something smeared or rumpled or clashing with something else.
Of course, she thought, moving restlessly in the wide lonely bed and gazing up at the ceiling, she’d never had much chance to learn how to dress and make herself up. She’d been married at nineteen, and life had been such a struggle in those early years that there was no money for a young ranch wife to think about getting herself rigged up fashionably.
Still, she and Al had been so happy in those days. They spent their time working and building, laughing together in the sunshine, playing with their little girl….
Tears stung in Mary’s eyes and burned hotly against her cheeks. She snatched a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at her face impatiently, disgusted with herself. “I’ve done enough crying,” she muttered aloud, a habit she’d acquired since the dreadful day when they’d taken Al away. “I’m not going to cry anymore, dammit.”
But it was hard not to cry when she remembered all the pain and confusion. Thirty-five years of marriage, Mary thought bleakly. All those years of planning and building and loving and caring, washed away in a single moment by a car swallowed up in the dust.
She hadn’t been to the jail to visit him, and she didn’t know if she ever wanted to, though she’d gotten a couple of letters from him begging her to come, telling her that they needed to discuss urgent business about the ranch.
“Can you imagine Bubba Gibson sitting in prison?” the neighbors were whispering to one another. “Bubba Gibson, locked away in some little ol’ jail cell, with nothing to look at but four walls?”
And Mary tried sometimes, but she just couldn’t. When she pictured her husband he was always outdoors somewhere, striding across the sun-warmed grass in big booted feet or riding out among his cattle herd, casting a fishing line into the river or standing on a hillside in the sunset with the autumn wind riffling his hair.
He deserves every single thing that’s happened to him, Mary thought defensively. He brought it all on himself, and now he’s paying, just like he should.
At least he recognized that, she reflected morosely. He’d refused J.T.’s offer to bail him out, saying he deserved his punishment and he’d take it like a man. Or so J.T. had told her later. But Martin had insisted on ensuring he’d gotten a speedy trial, with the eligibility of parole for good behaviour, especially in light of the fact he’d testified against that horrible man who actually made it his business to murder innocent animals.
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