скачать книгу бесплатно
“No. Never.” He leaned back in his chair, extending his legs, as his gaze swept her pretty face. “Not even a pretty señorita with flashing dark eyes.”
Her lips, with only the hint of rose-colored lipstick, quirked as she made a tsk-tsk sound. “That’s too bad. Life must be boring for a man mired in reality.”
That was for sure. What little imagination Mark had was spent deciphering puzzles, weeding out lies and digging for the meat of a story. And although his life was normally far from dull, that wasn’t the case on this assignment.
Covering the gold rush was a waste of his time, and it chapped his hide that his boss had sent him here because he’d once been a local boy. But Mark was a professional. He’d get the damn story written, make Thunder Canyon look remotely interesting, then get the hell out of town. As long as he could stay a step ahead of the memories he’d like to forget, he’d come out on top.
“My life isn’t dull,” he told her. “Not by a long shot. But I’ve got to admit I’m bored in Thunder Canyon.”
She leaned back in her chair. “You’re a stick in the mud.”
“And you’re a romantic.”
Her smile drifted and the light in her eyes faded. “About some things, I suppose.”
His gaze fell to her belly, to the swollen womb where her baby grew, and he realized the conversation had taken a personal turn for her. A heavy turn?
“What’s your husband do?” he asked, curious about the guy and hoping he was supportive and making sure she didn’t do too much in her condition.
“I’m not married. I’ll be raising my child alone.”
God knew he didn’t want to go there. Mark would be in and out of town long before she had the baby. At least that was his game plan.
“Soooo,” he said, trying to get them both back to an impersonal level, at least when it came to the lover in her past. “You fell in love with Thunder Canyon and settled here.”
She nodded.
“Amazing. And I couldn’t get out of town fast enough.” The minute the words slipped out, he wanted to take them back.
There were some things Mark Anderson was hell-bent to forget, some memories he refused to discuss. Some guilt, that if left unchecked, would stealthily creep back in the dark of night, pointing a finger and reminding him how he’d failed his sister, his family.
But he’d be damned if he’d let the reminder haunt his dreams tonight. So he gamely changed the subject. Again. Back to her past. “Where are you from?”
“Originally? San Diego.”
“That’s a long way from Thunder Canyon.”
“The distance was part of the appeal.”
Mark nodded, as though he knew something he couldn’t possibly understand. The reporter in him wanted to question her, to learn why she was running, but this wasn’t another work-related interview. And he didn’t want to encourage self-disclosure when turnabout wasn ‘t fair play.
“My baby’s father didn’t want our child,” she offered without being asked, then shrugged and cast a smile that didn’t convince Mark that the guy’s rejection hadn’t done a number on her. “So I left town with the intent of settling down in the first place that felt like home to me.”
The lover who’d fathered her baby was a fool. But Mark kept the thought to himself. “And you just ended up here?”
“I stopped at a restaurant near Sacramento and chatted with a couple of tourists who’d come from Montana. They told me how quaint and charming Thunder Canyon was, and I decided to visit.”
“And then you decided to stay.” An easy assumption.
“That’s about the size of it.” She scooted her chair back and stood, her belly and the baby stretching between them.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Back to work.”
“Shouldn’t you go upstairs and put your feet up or something?” He didn’t know why he was feeling so protective of her.
God knew he didn’t have any intention of getting involved with any local women, not to mention a pregnant one who was a good ten to fifteen years younger than he was. But that didn’t keep him from feeling sorry for her. After all, the father of her child wasn’t in the picture, and considering her job, money was obviously an issue.
She shouldn’t be working so hard this late in her pregnancy. Something could go wrong.
A momentary flash—lightning quick—thundered in his chest, reverberating in his mind and threatening to shake the memories free from their dark hiding place.
Kelly lying on the floor. The gray pallor of her death mask. The distended belly. The pool of blood.
Mark could tap dance around the truth all night. But he knew where the urge to protect the pretty waitress had come from.
His sister had been about Juliet’s age when she and her unborn son had died.
As Juliet slid the chair she’d been sitting in back to the table, obviously ending their chat and the short break she’d taken, he couldn’t keep quiet. “I hope you’re turning in your apron for the evening.”
“Dr. Hart told me to take it easy. And she suggested I stop work. But that’s not an option right now.”
“You need to take the doctor’s orders more seriously.” No one understood how something could go wrong better than Mark.
“I did take the doctor seriously. I took off two days from work, I’ve cut back my hours a bit and the other waitresses have tried to make my job easier.”
Before Mark could stop her, she made her way to another table, leaving him to ponder the easy banter, the subtle flirtation that went on despite her circumstances.
And the overwhelming urge to take care of a woman he hardly knew.
He took a drink of the bourbon. And then another. He hoped the alcohol would drown the memories Juliet’s pregnancy had invoked. But it didn’t seem likely.
The godawful guilt had reared its head, and it was too late to turn back the clock, to right a wrong he’d never forget.
Chapter Two
As was his custom, at least while in Thunder Canyon, Mark ended each day of interviews by downing a couple of drinks and having dinner at The Hitching Post.
He didn’t feel any better about the value of his work on this story or feel any closer to wrapping it up than he had on his first day back in town. For the most part, all he could come up with was human-interest type stuff.
Public opinion, it seemed, was split when it came to the gold rush and the influx of fortune hunters.
Some townspeople had gotten so excited by the fervor, they’d locked up their homes and drained their bank accounts in order to buy prospecting gear. Others—mostly business owners—were pleased by the increase in revenue the newcomers brought to town.
But then there were the vocal locals, those who hated the publicity and the swarm of strangers who’d turned the quaint little town topsy-turvy. Juliet, with her love of history, probably fell into that group.
Mark scanned the room and found her near the cash register, talking to her boss. Why didn’t Martha Tasker trade jobs and let the pregnant waitress sit on a stool while collecting payments and making change? It wouldn’t hurt the older woman to take orders and serve customers for the time being.
As Juliet walked away, she massaged the small of her back with both hands.
Damn. It grated on Mark to see her working so hard. And hurting.
But hey, he reminded himself. That really wasn’t any of his business. He ought to be relieved that she hadn’t waited on him this evening. That she hadn’t made any effort to stop by his table—in spite of the friendly conversation they’d shared last night.
Yet the fact that she hadn’t come by bothered him, too.
He missed her smile, her wit. Her company.
But then why wouldn’t he? Juliet was about the only person, place or thing in this town he found interesting or appealing.
And she hadn’t looked his way this evening.
Was she avoiding him? Had he been too intrusive last night? Offering his opinion and advice without being asked?
Maybe so, but that was just as well.
Last night, following their chat, he’d gone back to the Wander-On Inn and, when he’d finally dozed off, he’d slept like hell, tossing and turning all night long like a trout trapped in shallow water.
He glanced up from the trace of meat loaf and mashed potatoes on his plate and saw her coming his way.
Well, what do you know? Speak of the pretty devil who’d triggered his insomnia.
When she reached his table, she smiled. “Mary Sue had to go home because of a family emergency. So I’m going to be taking care of you from here on out.”
“You’re the one who should be cutting out early. And someone ought to be taking care of you.”
She arched, grimaced, then rubbed her lower back. “We’ve already talked about that.”
They had. And he hadn’t meant to get her all riled up. After all, it wasn’t his place to harp on her. And even if she appreciated his concern, he wouldn’t be around long enough to nurture a friendship. Besides, he damn sure didn’t need to get involved with a single mother and her child, especially when they lived in a town he’d been avoiding for twenty years.
“I’m sorry, Juliet. I’ll let it go.”
“Thanks.” She offered him an olive-branch smile. “I’m trying to take it easy, Mark. But I’ve got to keep working a little while longer.”
He nodded. She was concerned about finances, which was understandable. Once she gave birth and went back to work, the cost of a babysitter would probably put a crunch on her paycheck.
Maybe he ought to give her some money. Five hundred dollars might make life a bit easier for her. And then he could let it go. Ease off. Let her be.
“Can I get you some dessert?” she asked. “Buck made his blue-ribbon peach cobbler today. And everyone’s been raving about it.”
“Sure. I’ll take some.” Mark placed his napkin on the table and pushed aside his dinner plate. “Will you join me?”
“Maybe for a minute.” She glanced over her shoulder at Martha, who appeared preoccupied with sorting bills in the cash drawer. “I’ve had a nagging backache all afternoon.”
Mark couldn’t hold back a grumble. If he were a violent man, he’d slam a fist on the table in frustration. Was a backache normal for a woman in her condition? Or was it an indication that something was wrong? Something terribly wrong? Something that put her life and that of her baby at risk?
Like Kelly.
Damn the memory that wouldn’t let him alone.
No matter what he’d told himself, no matter what kind of truce he and the waitress had drawn, Mark couldn’t shake his concern. “I’m glad you’re going to take a break, but come on, Juliet. You really need to go home and put your feet up. Think about the baby.”
“I am.” Her eyes locked on his in rebuttal, although they appeared a bit glassy, like they were swimming in emotion and barely staying afloat. “I don’t have a family to fall back on. It’s just the baby and me. And I can’t help worrying about making ends meet, about keeping a roof over our heads once he or she gets here.”
“Yeah, well unless you want that baby to get here too soon, you’d better heed the doctor’s advice and quit work.”
“Tonight, when I clock out, I’ll ask for a couple of days off. Okay?” She lifted a delicate brow, as though cueing him to agree.
He merely blew out a sigh, giving in—so it appeared. He didn’t usually offer unsolicited advice. It wasn’t normally his style. But then again, he wasn’t reminded of Kelly that often. Of her unnecessary death.
Juliet seemed to accept his silence as acquiescence, which it was. But her weary smile didn’t take the edge off the exhaustion in her expression. Nor did it erase the dark circles he hadn’t noticed under her eyes last night.
“I’ll have two peach cobblers,” he said. “And a glass of milk.”
“I’d think the milk might curdle in your stomach with the bourbon you drank earlier.”
“The milk is for you.”
She nodded, then went after the dessert. When she returned, she took a seat. “How’s your story coming along?”
“What story? This assignment is a joke.” And it was, compared to the bigger stories he’d covered in the past. Important events that made him feel as though he’d reached the professional level he’d strived for, that level where one man—a reporter—could make a difference in people’s lives.
“You think the gold rush is a joke?” she asked.
“Writing a story about a bunch of loony-tune prospectors who’ve flocked to a possible gold rush in Thunder Canyon can’t even come close to a story about a major flood or fire.” He dug into the cobbler and scooped out a gooey bite. Hmmm. Not bad.
When he glanced up, he caught Juliet’s eye, her rapt attention.
“You’d rather write about disasters?” she asked. “Why such depressing news?”
“It touches hearts, confronts our deepest fears. Stirs up emotion.”
“We had a fight in here last Saturday night. There was plenty of emotion stirring then.” Her lips quirked into a grin, and he realized she was teasing him, trying to chip away at the cynical armor it had taken him years to build.
“A fight, huh? I’m sorry I missed the entertainment. But not to worry. I can go down to the E.R. at Thunder Canyon General and watch them stitch up the scalp of some idiot who tripped over a pickax and split his head open.”
“So this is small tomatoes for you.”
“Small potatoes,” he corrected, unwilling to reveal his disappointment, his frustration. His desire to make a difference, to help people—victims of disasters. And to better prepare people who hadn’t been stricken by major calamities yet. He shrugged. “I’ll get the job done.”
“You know,” she said, licking a dollop of peach cobbler from her fork. “There have been some gold nuggets found. So one of the prospectors could strike it rich.”
“Maybe. But I think the biggest story I’ve got is the hullabaloo about the ownership of the old mine.”
“I thought Caleb Douglas owned it. That his great-grandfather won it in a poker game with the Shady Lady.”
“That’s the legend that’s been circulating for years. People have just assumed that Caleb was the owner. But he hasn’t produced the deed.”
