Heather Graham (8 page)

Martine sighed and sipped her drink. It was good, and it was relaxing. She crossed her feet up on the lounge and leaned back. “Joe, I don’t know what’s going on here, but if you say I haven’t anything to lose, I’ll accept it.”

“Good,” Joe said simply.

“How’s the clean air bill going?” she asked.

He gave her a rundown on the session he had just attended, then asked after Sonia, Bill, and Jim and told her he had just been to the hospital to see Ed Rice.

“Oh, God!” she groaned. “I have to get back in to see Ed. I haven’t been there in a week.”

“I’m sure he understands,” Joe said.

Martine stayed a little longer while Joe told her how Bart was doing with his legal practice in Tucson.

She decided then that she’d better get going since she was the cook these days for four hungry workers.

“Joe …” she said at the door.

“Martine, would I hurt you?” he asked quietly.

“Not purposely, no,” she told him. Then she sighed, gave him a kiss good-bye.

“How about that dinner a week from this Friday? Dress up, too, honey, we’ll make a night of it.”

“Sure,” she replied.

Back at the ranch she mixed up a huge pot of stew. At eight o’clock the hands started returning. Jim and Bill were in good moods since every last fence on the place was solid again, the stream was high, and the weather people were forecasting more rain.

“Things are looking up, yes, sirree!” Bill said, pinching Martine’s cheek. “That man you found, lady, is one hell of a rancher!”

“That man” had obviously been in the shower. Martine jumped slightly when he suddenly appeared in the kitchen, his still-damp hair slicked back, his jeans as worn as the ones he had been wearing earlier but very clean, his shirt tonight a white cotton with rolled-up sleeves that emphasized the delineations in the muscles of his bronzed arms.

“Pot’s on the stove,” she told them all cheerfully. “If everyone’s in, I’ll run out and feed the horses.”

“They’ve already been fed,” Kane said, moving into the kitchen. He barely glanced her way.

Jim told him that he was pretty sure they had a puma down from the mountains since they were missing a few calves. “Want me to take a look around the cliffs tomorrow?”

Kane had reached into the refrigerator for a beer. He drank a long sip, then shook his head. “No, I’ll go out first thing. I hate like hell to have to kill the damn things, but when they come down after the calves …”

When his voice trailed away, Martie gnawed lightly at her lower lip while she stirred the stew in the pot. There was a real regret in his voice when he talked about stalking down the wildcat. It was much the same way she felt; she knew that mountain lions were growing few and far between, yet what else could be done when they were killing cattle?

“Maybe we could trap it,” she murmured.

“What?” Kane asked.

She realized she had interrupted a new conversation, that they had moved on to the need to buy more hay tomorrow.

“The cat. Maybe we could trap it instead of trying to kill it.”

Kane shrugged. “We can try. I’ll set some traps tomorrow.”

She nodded, then said, “Well, this is it, soup’s on. We’re in the dining room tonight.”

Conversation was subdued; it seemed that everyone was tired. Kane excused himself early, and Martie heard the door to the office close. Right after coffee and dessert the others filed out. They all looked tired but happy.

Sonia gave her a big kiss before leaving again. “Honey, I think we’re really going to make it this time!”

Martie smiled. When they were gone, she cleaned up the kitchen and pulled bacon out of the freezer for the morning. A few moments later she heard hoof beats outside. Frowning, she hurried into the living room and looked out the bay window.

Kane was riding away on the big bay called Thor.

She stared out the window for a while, annoyed that she was wondering where he was going. It was none of her business.

Or was it? There still seemed to be some secret about him, and she wasn’t sure just how it involved her, only that it did.

Determined to get a decent night’s sleep, she went to bed. But she didn’t fall asleep, she just tossed and turned until she heard the hoof beats again at midnight, and she knew Kane had returned.

By the time he appeared in the kitchen in the morning, she had a huge breakfast of pancakes, eggs, and bacon ready. He came in and helped himself at the coffeepot with a brief “good morning,” then stared at the single plate on the table.

“You’re not eating?”

“I already did,” she said, lying. Smiling sweetly, she handed him his plate and pulled her shoulder bag off the peg by the door. “I’m going to Holliman’s for the hay. See you later,” she said cheerfully, then left.

She made a point of spending the day out. While Ted Holliman’s sons loaded her truck with hay, she took a walk with Ted to admire his yearling Arabian foal. She had coffee with his wife, then drove into town to visit a notary with the note Kane had typed out—in triplicate, she discovered when she and the young woman at the bank went through the papers. Martine had been expecting the young woman to say something about Kane, but she didn’t. Apparently his funds weren’t coming from anywhere in town.

She went grocery shopping next, determined to thrill them all with her prowess at an Italian meal. She bought the ingredients for chicken marsala and linguine with clam sauce, and she even decided to splurge on oysters Rockefeller.

But when everyone else came into the kitchen that night, Kane was not with them.

Martie listened to Jim’s enthusiastic oohs and aahs and Sonia’s assertion that meals had never looked so good. She smiled vaguely, thanked them both, and asked, “What happened to our foreman?”

“Kane?” Bill said, helping himself to a soda. “He said something about having dinner plans tonight.”

“Now that’s not what he said at all!” Sonia affectionately chastised her husband. “He said to apologize to Martie for such late notice, but that he had some business to take care of at dinnertime!”

“Thanks, Sonia,” Martine said, trying to keep smiling. Her whole dinner and all the effort seemed such a waste. It was a horrible attitude, she knew, because the others really did enjoy everything. Jim said it was the best meal he’d ever had.

“I swear, Martie, I don’t remember your being this fine a cook before!” Bill proclaimed.

They all stayed around late that night, chatting over the Italian ices she had bought. Martie tried to keep up with the conversation, but she just felt lethargic.

“I’ll do the dishes, Martie,” Sonia told her. That woke her up.

“Don’t be crazy, Sonia, you’ve been out working all day!”

“Martie, I’ll tell you, in all these years of doing a bit of everything, I’ve learned that raising kids and keeping house is the hardest job in the world.”

“I haven’t got any kids.” Martie reminded her with a smile.

“Yes, but you went out and bought the hay and did the shopping and the cooking, the setting up, and all the cleaning that went with it. You—” She broke off at Martie’s look of dismay. “What’s the matter.”

“The hay! I forgot to unload the hay. Oh, damn! And it’s so late now.”

“Hay’s in,” Bill said calmly, lighting up his old pipe and easing back in his chair. “Kane saw it when we came and said he’d take care of it since he wasn’t staying for dinner.”

“Oh,” she murmured, trying to give Bill a smile. It came off weakly, she was certain. Damn Kane! Didn’t he ever mess up?

Yes! He had messed up her beautiful plan to prove what a cool and collected and efficient woman she could be!

Oh, hell, why did she have to prove anything to him? she wondered bleakly.

“Sonia,” she said as she rose, “I’ve got an idea. Let’s do these together, and then we’ll finish up the evening with a mulled brandy. What do you say?”

Her brandy was another success—maybe too much of one. By the time they all trooped out she was feeling extremely mellow.

Martine took a long bubble bath, sipping a second brandy in the tub. When she finished, she thought she would sleep as peacefully as an infant.

But she just wasn’t tired. She donned her one elegant robe—a forest green velvet with a lighter colored silk sash and lining—and wandered into the game room. Hot tears stung her eyes for a moment as she gazed at the pool table. Her father had loved the game.

She set down her brandy and set up the balls. “This one’s for you, Dad,” she murmured nostalgically, and tried to set a sober eye at the balls. A little cry of delight escaped her at her break. It was almost perfect. Then she heard the sound of applause.

Looking up, she saw Kane standing by the door.

“Good evening, Ms. Galway,” he said, grinning. She stared at him blankly, her stick in her hand, her torso leaning halfway over the table.

Wherever he had gone, she thought, he had dressed up to go there. She had never seem him in a suit before. The slacks were tan, the jacket was a shade darker, and his vest was a chocolate brown. The combination was superb against his dark coloring. He seemed very tall and, suddenly, exceptionally good-looking. Still not really handsome but striking and rugged and, yes, almost elegant. He appeared as comfortable in the suit as he had in jeans, just different.

When his grin widened, she noted the cleft in his chin and that his dimples—the softening point of his rather severe features—were very deep.

“Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Want an opponent?”

She straightened, shrugging. “Do you play?”

“Don’t all hustlers and drifters play pool?” He removed his jacket and neatly folded it over the back of a chair.

She didn’t move as he came around by her to pluck a pool cue from the wall. She smiled slightly. “Are you a drifter or a hustler?”

He indicated the table. “Take your shot, Ms. Galway. I believe you knocked in the six ball with your break.”

She scanned the table, chose a shot, and called it. The ball sailed like magic into the chosen pocket.

“Very good.” He commended her lightly. She cast him a dry glance, then called her next shot. She noted him picking up her brandy glass, swirling the liquid around, sniffing it, tasting it.

She missed her shot.

“Your fault,” she told him, plucking her glass from his hand. “Go get your own brandy.”

He laughed. “So that’s what you’ve been into tonight. Brandy, huh? Why don’t you play hostess and get me one?”

“Maybe I will,” she replied sweetly. “But take your shot first.”

“Don’t trust me, huh?”

She swirled her brandy, smiling complacently. “Not for a second,” she told him flatly.

He grimaced, then appeared very businesslike suddenly as he called his shot.

That ball did exactly as he ordered. And the next, and the next, and the next—until he had taken the game.

Martie kept smiling. “Are you always this good?”

“Nope,” he said, returning his cue to the wall. He grinned at her and arched a brow slightly. “Tonight just seems to be my night. Do I get that brandy?”

Martine shrugged, then turned to sail gracefully out of the game room. But her attempt at gracefulness was wasted when she tripped over the small step up to the living room.

His light chuckle sounded behind her. “I don’t think
you
should have another.”

She righted herself, keeping her sweet smile plastered to her face. “Why not?” she asked lightly. “I’m not driving. All I have to do tonight is go to sleep.”

The warm, enveloping sound of his laughter followed her to the kitchen. The brandy was still warming in the fondue pot. Feeling as if she were floating in a pleasant, exciting, and slightly dangerous dream, Martie sprinkled a little more cinnamon into the warming liquid, then poured out a snifter for Kane.

She thought about his words of warning, shrugged, and prepared another for herself.

When she returned to the game room—walking very, very carefully—she discovered that he had shed his tie and vest and was studying the TV page of the newspaper.

“There’s a great old horror flick on,” he told her. “Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee in
The Mummy
. Want to watch it?”

She waved a hand airily, almost spilling the contents of a snifter, but Kane rescued it from her hand. “Turn on whatever you like,” she told him grandly. Then she noticed the speculative humor in his eyes and realized that her words, once again, could be taken in several ways. She decided to ignore the fact that she had said them.

Kane walked over to the television, flicked it on, and played with the dials for several seconds. Martine watched him, sipping her brandy.

He looked past her to the old plump leather-upholstered divan that faced the television. He lifted a hand toward it. “Want to sit with me?”

“Why not?” Martine murmured.

He walked over, caught her free hand, and led her to the sofa. Curling her toes beneath her, she sat beside him. She could feel her hand still resting in his, while she continued to sip the brandy that was going down all too easily and all too quickly. Peter Cushing was telling an inspector all about his father’s find in Egypt and trying to convince the doubting policeman that a mummy really did exist.

“Want to hand me your glass?” Kane asked her. “It’s empty.”

“Oh. Sure.” She handed him the glass and stared at the screen. “Christopher Lee makes a great mummy,” she murmured.

“Mmm. I love these old things,” Kane said.

“Do you really?” She chanced a glance at him. He wasn’t watching the TV at all. He was staring at her, just short of laughing out loud at her.

“Do you do this often?” he asked.

“What?” she demanded a little sharply, at which point he did laugh.

“Get tipsy all by yourself.”

“All by myself? I wasn’t all by myself. The rest of my employees made it for dinner.”

He tossed back his head slightly, and deep laughter rumbled from him, seeming to touch her insides. “So that’s another mark against me. I didn’t show for dinner.”

“Mr. Montgomery—”

“Whoa, what a mark against me! All of a sudden I’m ‘Mr. Montgomery’ again!”

“Mr. Montgomery,” she continued, pronouncing each of her words with careful deliberation, “it is none of my concern if you choose to eat or not.”