Valentine, Texas
Автор
Kate Denton
Прочтений
18,3K
Глав
12
CHAPTER ONE
BOXES overflowing with mail crammed the back room of the rural post office in stacks so high they threatened to topple at any second. Jan Armstrong glanced around and grimaced. From the looks of things, she was making no progress—the stacks seemed taller now than when she’d started.
It was her first experience with the post office, much less with this special seasonal workload. February meant valentines. Here in Valentine, Texas, it meant cards arriving from all over the world to be imprinted with the town’s unique heart-shaped postmark before dispatch to final destinations.
To Jan the sight was depressing—cards of all sizes, their envelopes a variety of colors from basic white and sophisticated cream to raucous shades of red and pink. She couldn’t help but pity the senders of these love notes. Darn fool romantics. There must be zillions of card-writing sentimentalists out there. Everyone but me, she thought ruefully. For her, the upcoming lovers’ holiday held as much appeal as Cluistmas did for Scrooge
Yet little more than a year ago, she’d been a romantic, too. Back then, she’d had a job she loved…a husband she loved If only … Her reveries were interrupted by the ping of the counter bell signaling a waiting customer.
“Anybody home?” a voice called out.
“Down here,” she said, gazing up from her cross-legged position on the floor as the face of a man appeared over the counter—actually the ledge of a Dutch-style door.
Casually he leaned on the countertop, a half-filled bottle of Coca-Cola gripped in one hand. “Well, hello there. How about a game of post office, pretty lady?”
Jan forced a smile at the lame joke. She’d heard it more than once from local cowhands, especially those from the Montgomery place who made a ritual of teasing her. “May I help you?” she asked, the words husky, difficult to get out now that she’d gotten a better view of the visitor. The man might not earn points for originality, but as far as looks went, he unquestionably rated a ten. Jan suspected there were plenty of female postal workers who would eagerly dispense kisses to him, game or no game.
She hadn’t seen a male this handsome since leaving Los Angeles…in fact, she’d seen few men this handsome in L.A. itself—his regular features framed by a strong jaw, vivid blue eyes, and an easy smile revealing nice white teeth. One tooth was slightly crooked, an endearing flaw which warded off physical perfection. As their eyes met, he grinned confidently, his expression suggesting that he was sensing her approval. Jan stood up, self-consciously dusting the backside of her jeans.
Her customer straightened, also, bringing the Coke to his lips and taking a long swallow as he downed the rest of the bottle. He set it on the counter. “I need a book of stamps,” he said, pulling out his wallet and placing a ten in her hand.
Jan gave him the stamps, then opened the cash register for change, all the time aware of his un- yielding gaze. He was staring almost to the point of rudeness. Yet she was determined not to shy away, her hazel eyes assessing him in precisely the same unflinching manner.
He was long and lean and dressed in well-worn jeans and a Western-styled shirt. A brown leather belt with a silver buckle circled his trim waist and she didn’t have to see his feet to know he wore boots. No denim jacket or sheepskin coat, so popular in these parts, however. Instead he sported an expensive leather bomber jacket.
Aside from his jacket and his spectacular good looks, the man typified a male Valentine resident. He could be a local ranch hand with that deep tan and slight squint, acquired around here from working out of doors, not from lazy days lounging on a sunny beach. But he wasn’t someone she recalled meeting before, even though the face and those crayon-blue eyes were vaguely familiar.
Jan watched as he lay the cola bottle sideways on the counter and with a flick of his wrist sent it spinning. When the motion finally stopped, the bottle was pointing her way. He glanced at the bottle, then at her. Although he said nothing more about silly kissing games, an insolent smile tugged at his lips, a smile that Jan found more annoying by the minute.
“Is there anything else I can get for you today?” She tried to stifle the indignation which was creeping into her tone. Whoever this guy was, she didn’t like him. He was too handsome, too sure of himself, cocky enough to believe she would actually entertain the notion of playing “Post Office” or “Spin the Bottle"—or whatever—with him. Little did he know. She’d rebuffed plenty of rural Romeos since arriving in Valentine and she could rebuff him, too. Just let him try something.
But he didn’t. “I guess that about covers it for now,” he said, walking across the anteroom to drop the bottle in a wastebasket, then turning around to face her. “Maybe another time.” He grinned again and headed out the door, leaving Jan with her mouth agape. The words might have been innocuous, but the expression suggested more. Arrogant malel
She checked the wall clock, then slammed the top half of the wooden door shut. It was four minutes past twelve and the post office was officially closed. Thank goodness.
Jan slumped into the handiest chair and sighed, disgusted with the stranger for subjecting her to this meaningless encounter and at herself for becoming irritated. Also troubling her was the flickering desire that had stirred within her. “What’s wrong with me?” she asked woefully, as one who prided herself on being unaffected by handsome, flirty males. Even when the attention did occasionally rattle her, it was caused more by aggravation at the presumptuousness of the situation, than by a reaction to the man’s supposed charms.
Yet now… now she hardly knew how to explain her feelings. It was as though she’d experienced some kind of ridiculous attraction to this person, the idea of him actually holding her and kissing her strangely appealing. She shook her head in strenuous protest, willing the emotion away. She didn’t want to respond to him, to any man for that matter. Her heart was just starting to mend and she had no desire to jeopardize the healing process.
For another thirty minutes she worked feverishly at postmarking valentines, but found the task increasingly depressing and decided to quit. Three weeks remained until Valentine’s Day. The mail could wait. “My heart’s just not in this now,” she told herself, then grimaced at the unintended pun.
After locking up, she headed out the front door and across the street to Neumann’s Grocery. Her Aunt Sally was ill and Jan wanted to buy ingredients for chicken soup. Hot soup would be just the thing for a sore throat.
Sally MacGuire, or Sally Mac as she was called by almost everyone, was the town’s postmistress, and also the reason Jan had spent her Saturday morning at the post office. Jan was by training a teacher, but she was only too happy to fill in for the woman who’d taken her in, who’d comforted her, who’d helped her realize that life goes on. And chicken soup was another service she could bestow, a small payback on the massive personal debt she owed.
“No good deed goes unpunished.” The adage came to mind the second Jan entered the market and saw that, regrettably, he was there. Leaning against the magazine rack near the door, backlit by the big red neon heart that always shone in Neumann’s storefront window, her recent customer appeared to be engrossed in conversation with a group of locals. But upon seeing her enter, he excused himself and came over to her. “So, we meet again. Must be Kismet.”
“Or maybe just my bad luck,” she retorted.
“Possibly, if you want to be a cynic,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Cla—”
“And I’m in a hurry,” Jan interrupted, ignoring the hand and rushing to gather items for the soup.
But as she threaded her way through the narrow, makeshift aisles, he stayed with her. “Are you always this unfriendly—or are you making an exception for me?”
You’re definitely an exception, she wanted to answer, but held her tongue. After all, he hadn’t behaved much differently from a dozen local cowhands who’d come on to her. Why he managed to be such a bigger annoyance than the others was beyond her comprehension. Still, this being a free country and she being off duty meant she didn’t have to talk to him if she didn’t want to. And she didn’t want to. Responding to him right now would serve no purpose—probably just encourage him to keep pestering her.
He didn’t pursue her further, but patiently stood nearby, scanning a Newsweek magazine while she checked out her items and scribbled her signature on a receipt. In accordance with small town practices, the grocer would bill her at the end of the month.
As Jan reached for the bag, though, her hands connected with his.
“I’ll take this,” he announced in a commanding voice, folding the Newsweek into a back pocket and tucking the groceries in the crook of his arm.
Jan shrugged in resignation. Short of creating a minor scene, there was no way of retrieving that bag from his grasp. Discretion was the only route for her to take in this situation. Valentine was a community where gossip flowed faster than rainwater through a dry creek bed and Neumann’s was a conduit for that gossip, dispensing more rumors than food.
Once they were on the sidewalk and out of earshot, she grabbed for the bag. “I’m perfectly capable of carrying my own groceries,” she snapped.
He deftly pulled the bag out of her reach and eyed her carefully before shaking his head. “I’m not so sure. You don’t look all that strong to me. In fact, the next blue norther’ll probably blow you clear off your feet.”
Jan knew she was too thin at the moment, just a little over a hundred pounds and, at five-four, the crown of her chestnut-brown hair barely reaching his shoulder. Looks were deceiving, however, and she could take care of herself. Too bad this pompous stranger didn’t comprehend that fact.
She’d seen his type many times over in Los Angeles, the type who fancies himself as God’s gift to women. In fact, the West Coast or New York was where he belonged, not here. A second glance in his direction told her that he seemed a step out of place in Valentine, his russet hair professionally styled, and the fit of his shirt suspiciously custom tailored. Plus he had a worldliness that reminded her of Glen. Ah, that was the rub! Glen. Suddenly Jan found justification for her behavior. No wonder she’d overreacted to the man—the last thing she needed in her life was a reminder of her ex-husband.
They crossed the street to her Mitsubishi and he opened the door, setting the bag on the passenger seat. “Thanks,” she said grudgingly.
“My pleasure, ma’am.” He touched his head in a mock salute, before assisting her into the car. “See you around.”
Jan watched in her rearview mirror as he trotted back toward the grocery store and disappeared inside. “Not if I see you first,” she vowed.
Only a few blocks lay between the post office and Sally MacGuire’s modest frame home, yet Jan would pass by most of Valentine’s sights on her way. The small town was similar to many in central Texas with its long, single main street flanked on each side by stores and a smattering of offices. For eleven months a year its appearance closely matched that of its sister towns.
But in mid-January those similarities abruptly ended when the last Christmas bows and wreaths were put away and overnight the community exploded with a hodgepodge of valentine arrangements. Lamp posts, signal lights, shops, trees, anything that didn’t move got decorated. As well as a few things that did, such as the sheriff’s patrol car which now had big red seethrough hearts covering the shields on its front doors. The observance lasted for a month and then the town went back to normal—for the most part.
Within minutes Jan was home, entering the back door and placing the groceries on the kitchen table. Then she sought out Sally’s room where her aunt sat propped up in bed, a romance novel in hand. Sally smiled, acknowledging her niece’s presence, and eased off her reading glasses, allowing them to dangle on a cord around her neck. “Hello, dear. How are things with the mail?”
“The mail’s fine,” Jan answered hastily. No use distressing her aunt by revealing the accumulation of cards taking place. As postmistress Sally took her duties very seriously and only something as debili- tating as the flu could keep her away from them, especially now.
Sally was a romantic, a never-married woman of indeterminate age who still believed in candy, flowers, honeyed messages and all the other trappings of the Valentine’s Day observance. Perhaps it was living in a town with a billboard announcing: “Welcome to Valentine, Texas. We take our name to heart.” Or maybe it was the weighty influence of the February mail crush, but for a few weeks each year Sally seemed to get her role of postmistress confused with that of Cupid. She prided herself on having personally fostered at least a dozen long-lasting marriages.
“I can put in some extra hours next week if you need me,” Jan said. Sally operated on a tight schedule and she probably needed reassurance that her illness had not thrown her off, But Jan didn’t anticipate problems. In a few days, there would be several parttime helpers coming in to get the greetings on their way. “Right now, though,” she announced, “I’m going to fix chicken soup for dinner.”
“That sounds wonderful. You’re really spoiling me. Jan…” Her aunt paused a moment. “I do love having you here.”
“And I love being here. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.” Jan patted the older woman’s leg affectionately. “I’d better get busy. There’s a bird waiting for me in the kitchen.”
Nowhere I’d rather be. Jan pondered the words as she mechanically went through the process of cooking. It was a surprising revelation considering how miserable she’d been when she arrived in Valentine last fall. Until then, Jan had only visited a few times, and most of those trips were so long ago that she hardly remembered them.
Her father and his sister were total opposites. One a government emissary, a globe-trotter who’d taken his family to posts all over the world. The other a nester who still lived in the old family house where the two siblings had grown up. Like Sally, Jan was developing a sense of contentment in Valentine, almost as though she belonged here.
Would anything happen to spoil that contentment? Jan hoped not. She could stand the month-long holiday aggravation, and most of the other negatives were insignificant. The biggest problem was being unmarried, which made her a target for more male attention than she wanted, such as having to deal with the likes of her morning visitor. With any luck, however, he was merely passing through. After all, she’d been in town for months and hadn’t seen him before. Feeling calmer, she reached for the pepper mill to season the soup.
The next morning, Jan went alone to the small white church for worship services, Sally not yet well enough to accompany her. Walking down the aisle and searching for an unfilled pew, she halted dead in her tracks. There he sat, the pesky stranger, right beside the Montgomerys—Garrett and his grandson B.J. Was this a coincidence or was he staking out all the places she went?
Get a grip on yourself, she chided. This is a church and he has as much right to be here as you do. Rights or not, Jan couldn’t see herself enduring an hour with him in close proximity, so she eased into a pew near the back.
She had difficulty keeping her mind on the hymns and the sermon. Her eyes kept straying to the nape of the newcomer’s neck, to the red-brown hair brushing the collar of his white shirt, to the strong profile displayed whenever he turned his face to the side. Once he even glanced back her way, catching her in the act of watching him and giving her a cynical crooking of an eyebrow to tell her so. From then on, she kept her gaze fixed on the pulpit.
Her concentration didn’t improve though. The man was intruding on her life, even going so far as to interfere with her Sunday worship. Her list of grievances continued to grow until it reached the point where Jan realized she was overreacting again. She forced her thoughts onto the Montgomerys.
B.J. was her pupil. The sweet-faced seven-year-old had filled part of the recent void in her life. And Garrett—Garrett was extra special. A widower with no family except his grandson, the rugged rancher had become almost a father figure to Jan during the past few months—just as Sally had become a surrogate mother. Although Jan had hardly known Garrett before moving in with her aunt, she’d quickly developed a deep respect and liking for him.
Garrett was big—a good six-four—with a weathered sixty-year-old countenance more fitted to Mount Rushmore than to a mere mortal, and a personality as stiong as Texas white limestone. Behind this rocklike image, however, beat the heart of a gentle and compassionate man.
He’d stepped right in when she’d arrived in Valentine, encouraging her to frequent his ranch, the Lazy M, teaching her to ride a horse, letting her talk out her problems.
Even after personal tragedy struck him a fierce blow, Garrett had remained sensitive to her needs. His only child, a daughter, Toni, was killed in a car accident shortly after Jan arrived in Texas. As a result, his grandson B.J. went to live at the Montgomery ranch and Garrett had offered Jan a position tutoring, telling her how much it would help the little boy. The local school provided a quality education, but the child required individual attention, he’d said. “B.J. needs you.” Garrett had never added, “And you need him,”, even though Jan knew it to be true. She’d been working at the Lazy M over a month now and had not once regretted the decision.
Restoring her career was one of the hundreds of ways in which Garrett had been an unrelenting supporter. Together, he and Sally had given Jan the courage to put one foot in front of the other, to try and make the most of her life. She owed him a great deal.
As the congregation rose for the last hymn, “Rock of Ages,” Jan realized that, thanks to her random musings, she’d missed most of the service. This had to stop. Despite a strong desire to escape out the door the moment the song ended, she couldn’t let some good-for-nothing cowboy continue to ruffle her hind feathers, as Sally would say. So Jan sighed, took a deep breath, then calmly slipped out of the pew, making herself chat with acquaintances, pausing to shake hands with the pastor and waiting on the front steps for Garrett and B.J.
It wasn’t just a coincidence, Jan decided, that her nemesis had been sitting next to the Montgomerys, because he now accompanied them as they emerged through the arched double doors. Apparently, he either worked for Garrett or was a guest at the ranch.
B.J. hugged Jan, and Garrett kissed her on the cheek. The stranger held back, but that dratted smile still played about his lips, as though he perceived Jan’s reluctance to see him and was enjoying it. And despite all her efforts at indifference, she couldn’t help but remember yesterday—the momentary feelings he’d generated.
Garrett, unaware that this wasn’t their first encounter, took Jan’s arm as he made introductions. “Clark, Jan Armstrong, my grandson’s teacher. Jan, this is B.J.’s father, Clark Brennan.” There was no warmth in Garrett’s manner as he spoke.
Jan fought for composure, her eyes widening with confusion as she turned her attention from the grimfaced rancher to Clark. Of all people! She’d had no idea. According to Garrett, B.J.’s father was a parental failure, at best an apathetic, intermittent presence in his son’s life who hadn’t bothered to visit the child in a year. Even Toni’s death hadn’t been enough to bring him back. So why has he come now?
“Mr. Brennan,” Jan acknowledged, her voice nearly as frosty as Garrett’s.
“Ms. Armstrong,” he replied, the grin now missing, even though his words were cordial. “Pleased to meet you.” He waited a moment, as though contemplating adding “again.” Instead, he said, “My son’s very fond of you.” He rested a hand on B.J.’s shoulder.
“And I of him,” she said crisply. Jan knew good manners called for polite conversation, but she simply couldn’t stand around making idle chitchat with such a sorry excuse for a human being. “If you all will pardon me, I need to get back to Sally. Goodbye.”
Before waiting for a response, Jan rushed down the church steps toward her car.
Her mind was in overdrive all the way home. The stranger was Clark Brennan, B.J.’s father. She had yet to hear a good thing about the man. Garrett regularly lambasted him for neglecting his son, the rancher’s outbursts generally coming when B.J. was having a rough day. The boy, himself, rarely mentioned his father. When he did, it was only to show Jan a postcard or knickknack from some distant place. There was never any comment that indicated closeness between the two of them. As far as Jan knew Clark hadn’t made so much as a phone call since B.J. lost his mother.
The best she could determine was that a divorce occurred when B.J. was a mere toddler, and from that time on Clark had had little to do with the child.
Why hadn’t she been more inquisitive? As B.J.’s teacher, it behooved her to know what his father had been doing all those years. Not that it would have changed the outcome—the son would still have been ignored—but at least Jan would have had some background to guide her.
To think that she’d found Clark even remotely appealing was more disquieting than ever. Jan consoled herself with the reminder that she’d been more put off than taken in by him. Anyway, any earlier impressions had been replaced by total contempt since she’d learned his identity.
She adored children and in her short time as tutor to B.J. had already grown attached to him. Sometimes she had to rein in her feelings, realizing they went beyond what was appropriate for a teacher and pupil. But she couldn’t help caring about him. And if she were a mother A twinge of regret pulled at
Jan’s heart. If she were a mother, she’d put the needs of her child first and her own second. “Most people do—including most fathers,” she said aloud as she pulled into the driveway.
She sat in the car a few moments, continuing to absorb the shock. One thing was certain, she would be better prepared for her next meeting with Clark Brennan. Three off-kilter encounters were quite enough and she knew just what she was going to say on the fourth go-round. She’d tell him exactly what she thought about his treatment of his son, let him know exactly how much B. J. had suffered because of his father’s indifference. Jan had no patience for irresponsibility—especially when it affected children.
She went in the back door, kicked off her black pumps in the kitchen and checked on the pot roast she’d left on the burner. It had simmered sufficiently; all she had to do was toss in some vegetables.
With lunch on its way and a cup of coffee in hand, she headed toward the glassed-in sun porch where Sally sat watching a church service from Dallas. A punch of her aunt’s finger on the remote control and the sound muted. “You’re home early.”
“I felt like I should get back,” Jan said. She hadn’t mentioned Clark Brennan yesterday and she wasn’t sure how to bring up the subject now. “Evelyn Sanders said to tell you ‘hi,’” she said, stalling for time until she figured out how much to reveal. “You were missed.”
“Well, I would hope so,” Sally retorted goodnaturedly. “I’ve been going to that church so long, the pew should have an imprint of my bottom by now.”
A knock sounded at the front door, then Garrett’s voice boomed from the hall. “Sally Mac, Jan? Are you girls decent?”
“Come on back,” Sally answered, as heavy footsteps on the hardwood floor announced Garrett’s approach.
“I’m here to check on the patient,” he said with a solicitous smile, obviously at home as he unceremoniously plopped down in a rocking chair, resting his felt Stetson on his knee.
“The patient is fine,” Sally answered. “Almost well. I’ll be back at work tomorrow…but where’s B.J.?”
“With his daddy,” Garrett blurted out, his tone leaving no doubt as to the level of his disgust. Jan wished she’d prepared her aunt.
“Clark Brennan is in Valentine?” Sally exclaimed.
“Showed up Friday acting as if he owned the place! Who does he think he is interrupting our lives now?” Garrett’s voice was still a roar. “Frankly I’d just as soon he’d never come back.”
“Maybe it’s good that he did,” Sally soothed.
“What’s good about it? Sally Mac, you know as well as me that all he ever did for the boy was send support checks and too many presents. Big deal.” Garrett fairly spat out the words. “We don’t need his money and we don’t need him hanging around spoiling the boy rotten, catering to his every whim.”
Jan silently agreed that B.J. didn’t need another adult catering to him. Garrett was bad enough. Only recently had she managed to convince him that overindulging B.J. wouldn’t make up for the loss of his mother or the absence of his father. But gifts aside, she had to agree with Garrett—biased though his view might be—the appearance of Clark Brennan could hardly be considered good news.
Garrett stood up, walking over to the window and gazing out at the garden. Abruptly he turned toward Jan and Sally. “After six years of token fatherhood, he’s decided he wants the boy.” Garrett raked his fingers through his thick hair, hair the color and texture of steel wool. “Well, we’ll see about that. I’ve got an appointment with a lawyer in Temple next week. I’m going to find a way to get Brennan out of our lives once and for all.”
