Kitabı oxu: «Seduction Of The Reluctant Bride»

One

Digger Jones was dead.

No one in the town of Cactus Flat, Texas, could believe it, of course. Who ever would have thought a freak mountain storm would get the best of the crusty old café owner? He’d worked his mine in Lonesome Rock Canyon for more than forty years and survived broken bones, pneumonia, snake bite and weather that would have immobilized the city of New York. Digger Jones was too damn ornery to die.

But facts were facts. The storm had turned the canyon where Digger had camped into a raging river, washing out everything in its path. Search parties had turned up little more than half a tent and a few assorted articles of clothing. It might take months to find a body in the devastation the flood had left behind. More than likely, no body would be found.

With that thought in mind, Sam McCants frowned at the rose-covered coffin resting on the altar. There’d been no official declaration of death from the State, and Sam had argued with Holis Fitcher, the town mortician, at the absurdity of a coffin without a body. Still, Hollis had insisted piously that Digger had paid in advance, in full, for the deluxe package that included the top-of-the-line oak casket. Body or not, the mortician had sniffed, Digger would have what he paid for.

The organist, also part of the deluxe package, broke into a lively rendition of Amazing Grace, signaling that the service would begin in a few minutes. Except for the last two rows, every pew in the small church was nearly filled. Digger might have been a cranky, cantankerous coffee shop owner and silver miner, but the entire town of Cactus Flat would miss him terribly.

Sam slipped into the front pew beside Jake Stone. Savannah, Jake’s wife, looking beautifully slim after the birth of their second child, leaned over and kissed Sam’s cheek. Sam winked playfully at the honey blonde.

Never mind that Jake and Sam had been best friends most of their lives, instinct—and Sam’s notorious bachelor status—had Jake slipping an arm around Savannah anyway. “Find your own woman, McCants.”

“Sam doesn’t have to find women, dear. They find him.” Savannah pressed a reassuring hand into her husband’s and squeezed. “Matilda tells me that just last week when Sam came into the Hungry Bear her business practically doubled—all female. She said there was a near brawl at Sam’s booth when Pattie Wright tried to shove Marie Farrel out of her seat.”

“Pattie slipped,” Sam defended the pretty brunette. Small towns were a curse on a single man. Every move he made, every word he spoke to a female—any female—was like gasoline on the gossip fire. And definitely exaggerated. “We’re just friends, that’s all.”

“And a man can never have too many friends, right?” Jake wiggled his eyebrows. When Savannah frowned at him, he cleared his throat. “So, we heard you were giving the eulogy.”

Sam admired Jake’s wisdom to change the subject. “Since Digger left me executor of his estate, Reverend Winslow thought I might like to say a few words.”

“And what estate might that be?”

They all looked up as Jared, Jake’s brother, slid into the pew behind them. Jared brushed Savannah’s cheek with a brotherly kiss. “Other than a stuffed grizzly bear and a set of frying pans, Digger Jones didn’t even own a watch.”

“He loved that bear.” Sam grinned at Jared. “I’m thinking about buying it myself and passing it along to you and Annie for the entryway of that new house you built. And speaking of your lovely wife, tell me she finally dumped you and the path is clear for me.”

Had he been any other man but Sam McCants Jared would have had to hit him Instead, he smiled goodnaturedly. “The only clear path around Annie these days would be a 747 runway. Her due date is only two weeks away. Ah, here’s the little woman now.”

“I heard that crack.” Annie slowly eased herself down beside her husband, then coolly accepted his repentant kiss. “If I wouldn’t have to fight my way through the long line of women, I just might take Sam up on his offer. At least he knows how to treat a lady.”

The third Stone sibling, Jessica Stone Grant, slid into the pew beside Annie. “He knows how to treat a lady, all right. All the ladies. Don’t look now, Sam, but Carol Sue Gibson is sitting with Sarah Pearson and they’re both looking moon-eyed at you.”

Two delightful specimens of the female gender, Sam thought as he turned and grinned at the women. Carol Sue crossed her legs, hiking up her skirt and Sarah licked her glossy red lips.

Ah, it’s good to be alive.

“Friends, I’m telling you. We’re just friends,” he said casually and settled back in his seat.

Jessica, Annie and Savannah rolled their eyes, while Jared and Jake exchanged a knowing smirk.

Jessica leaned forward and whispered in Sam’s ear. “Watch out, sweetheart, one day one of your ‘friends’ is going to have you on your knees.”

Jared and Jake were shaking their heads as Dylan, Jessica’s husband, slid into the pew beside her. “You want to explain to me why you’re whispering in another man’s ear before, or after, I slug him?”

Jessica gave Dylan a peck on his lips, then wiped a smudge of baby food off his cheek. “It’s just Sam, darling. You get Daniel off all right at Josephine’s?”

“Soon as our son saw his cousins were there, too, I might as well have been the mailman. See what you have to look forward to, Sam?” Dylan slipped an arm around his wife and she automatically leaned into him. “Baby food and babysitters.”

The intimate look they exchanged, Sam noted, relayed there was plenty more to their marriage. “That’s the Stone family department,” Sam said with the assured confidence of a confirmed bachelor. “Preachers and promises are not in this boy’s future.”

The organist punctuated Sam’s words with a deep rumbling chord, heavy with foreboding. An odd sensation scooted up Sam’s spine, and he shifted restlessly in his seat.

Then, as suddenly as the organist had intensified her playing, she hesitated and stumbled. The buzz in the church seemed to quiet, as well. Baffled, Sam glanced over his shoulder. All heads turned toward the entrance at the back of the church.

A young woman stood in the shadows of the foyer, with the sun at her back. Afternoon light danced off her shoulder-length golden blond hair. She wore black, a double-breasted suit that emphasized her small waist and revealed long, long legs encased in black silk and high heels. A small purse dangled from a gold chain off one smooth shoulder, hugging the curve of her slender hip. She stood there, motionless, her cool gaze resting on the rose-covered coffin, then glanced casually around the church.

Every man straightened, every woman stiffened. Sam simply couldn’t breathe.

She was a stranger, no question of that. Sam had lived and ranched in Stone Creek County outside of Cactus Flat his entire life. He knew everyone who lived here and most everyone in the surrounding counties, too. This woman wasn’t from anywhere around here. She was city, with a capital C.

What the hell was she doing here, at Digger Jones’s funeral?

“Goodness,” Jessica breathed.

Not exactly the first word that had come to Sam’s mind, but a close derivative, he thought. There were other words, too. Cool. Sophisticated. Chic. Untouchable. He watched her scan the pews with thickly lashed eyes, and from across the room he wondered about their color. It surprised him how much he suddenly wanted an answer to that question.

The organist found her beat in the music again and Reverend Winslow, who had also paused to stare curiously at the stranger, took his place at the pulpit.

The woman moved to the last row and sat, her back straight, her unblinking gaze focused solely on the Reverend. The music stopped, then reluctantly bodies shifted and heads turned back to the front of the church.

Reverend Winslow straightened his shoulders and cast a long, imperious glance over the room, pausing momentarily at the last pew. Sam grinned at the thought of the pious Reverend Winslow caught under the blond stranger’s spell, but even men of the cloth were allowed fantasies, weren’t they?

And this woman was definitely the stuff fantasies were made out of He could have sworn he saw lace poking out from under her suit jacket. Black lace against creamy white skin. What man wouldn’t wonder what was under that cool exterior, if those silky black stockings went all the way up those long legs to that narrow waist, or if they cut off at her thighs, thighs that...

Jake elbowed him.

“Huh?” Coming out of his daydream, it was the most intelligent response he could manage. Jake nodded toward the pulpit. Reverend Winslow had obviously already introduced him and now stared disapprovingly down at him.

Damn.

He tamped down the rush of blood to his brain, stood, then straightened his jacket and made his way to the pulpit.

Joseph Alexander Courtland III had instructed his only daughter at a very young age on the importance of disciplined emotion. For that, especially at this moment, Faith was extremely grateful.

She’d seen all the heads turn when she’d walked into the small church. Felt their curious stares and wary glances. Strangers were not to be trusted, she understood. But then, Faith thought dryly, quite often, neither were friends or family.

The minister, dressed in a flowing black robe, had thinning brown hair and wore round, wire-framed glasses. His solemn voice welcomed everyone, then he glanced at her and introduced himself as Reverend Winslow. Since everyone else in the church obviously knew the Reverend, Faith realized with dread that the man was speaking directly to her. Resisting the urge to squirm, Faith simply stared back, pretending not to notice that several heads had turned discreetly her way.

The Reverend quoted several comforting psalms, spoke briefly of the tragic loss of Francis Elijah Montgomery, better known as Digger Jones to the town of Cactus Flat, then called on one of Digger’s friends to speak. Faith froze at the introduction.

Sam McCants.

A man rose from the front pew where he’d been seated. The man she’d come here to see. She’d expected someone older. Digger had been seventy-two. Faith had assumed the man that he had appointed as executor for his estate would be a peer, a life-long friend. Someone closer to his own age. This man couldn’t be more than thirty-four or -five.

He was certainly tall, she thought, watching him walk smoothly to the pulpit. At least six-two, maybe even sixthree. His thick, wavy hair touched the collar of his white dress shirt and was almost as black as the tailored suit he wore. A suit, Faith noted with interest, that fit his broad shoulders and narrow waist like a glove. Her gaze drifted just below the waist, and she felt a tug of curiosity, wondering if his suit jacket covered a backside that was as wellshaped as the rest of his muscular body.

The improper thought caught Faith completely off guard. Frowning, she straightened and carefully reined in her wayward wondering. She had a job to do here, she reminded herself sharply. The sooner she completed that job, the sooner she could be back in Boston. It was imperative she stay focused.

When the man turned and looked straight at her, her focus tumbled.

The face matched the body: dark, intense eyes; strong, masculine features; a jaw that advertising agencies paid big bucks for. Only when he looked away from her did she realize she’d been holding her breath.

“Digger Jones,” the man said, his voice deep and resonant, “was the most irascible, ill-natured, argumentative, opinionated man I’ve met in my entire life.”

She nearly gasped out loud. How could he say such a thing after a man had so tragically lost his life? Shocked, Faith glanced around the church. Everyone was nodding.

“And no one,” Sam said, “no one, loved him more than me.”

There were smiles now. Some of the ladies dabbed at their eyes. Relieved, Faith leaned back in the pew. Any resentment or grievance with Digger from Mr. McCants, or from the town, might complicate her business here.

“Many of you—” Sam said, moving to the coffin “—are probably thinking what I’m thinking. That this casket hd is going to fly open any minute, with Digger ranting and raving, wanting to know what all the fuss is about and why the hell isn’t Matilda flipping burgers and frying potatoes at lunchtime?”

There were chuckles throughout the church and a loud nose-blow from a big-haired platinum blonde in the second pew. Matilda, Faith assumed.

“But we all know,” he went on, “that this coffin is empty. Digger is still in the mountains. In the canyons that he loved, where he worked, his entire life. Some people may have thought him foolish, crazy even, to live his life chasing after a silver mine. But I admired him. His tenacity, his determination, his dream. His apple cobbler.”

When Sam looked heavenward, laughter broke out and Faith pressed her lips tightly together. She’d only been to two other funerals in her life, the first one four years ago, when she was twenty-two. Randolph Hollingsworth, the founder of the Boston Businessmen’s Association, had passed on at eighty-four. Dignity and formality had been protocol for the elderly gentleman. Even when Russel Matthews’s toupee had slipped off his head and fell directly onto Widow Hollingsworth’s lap no one had laughed.

And then there was her second funeral, only six months ago.

Her father’s.

There’d certainly been no laughter there, either. The service for Joseph Alexander Courtland III had been solemn, the reception afterward hushed and reserved. Like the man himself.

“I was only ten the first time Digger took me into the mountains to mine with him,” Sam continued, and Faith drew in a breath to refocus her attention. “I just knew I was going to come home rich, with silver nuggets bulging out of my pockets.”

He paused and smiled at the coffin. “What I came back with was a sore butt from four days in the saddle and hands that had more blisters than Pete Johnson has teeth.”

The crowd laughed again, and a pole-shaped man in a too-small suit rose, tipping his cowboy hat as he grinned at everyone with a smile reminiscent of a woodchuck.

“But a young boy’s disappointment,” Sam said quietly, “became a man’s realization. A realization that I did come home rich from that trip, that I brought back much more with me than any amount of riches could ever buy. Digger taught me perseverance, to never give up on what I value most, no matter what the cost. To treasure our families, our goals, our dreams.”

Sam touched the coffin, a tender gesture of farewell. “Goodbye, Digger Jones. You may never have found your treasure, but you were one of the richest men I’ve ever had the pleasure, and the honor, to know.”

The organist began to play as Sam walked back to his seat. Faith struggled to blink back the tears threatening to spill. What was the matter with her? She had no reason to cry. No reason at all, she told herself. She was tired from the trip, under tremendous pressure at the moment, nervous about meeting Mr. McCants.

So what if the man’s eulogy was touching? So what if Digger had made such an impact on these people’s lives? None of that had anything to do with her, or why she was here. She was Faith Alexis Courtland, daughter of Joseph Alexander Courtland III and Colleen Jane Buchanan. She did not cry at funerals, and she most certainly did not laugh.

One by one, the townspeople passed by the coffin, men with their hats in their hands, women dabbing their eyes with tissues. Faith stayed where she was, ignoring the curious looks from the people of Cactus Flat as they filed out of the church.

To keep her eyes diverted and her hands busy, she fumbled in her purse for a tissue. She had no desire to talk with anyone, and she waited until the church was nearly empty before she tucked her tissue back into her purse. A few deep breaths and she would be fine. In control. Composed.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

Faith snapped her head around and stared into Sam McCants’s dark eyes. She stood quickly, too quickly, and her purse slipped from her fingers, still unclasped. The contents skittered over the worn, but shiny oak floor.

Great—just great, Faith thought with a silent groan. A terrific first impression.

Her eyes were blue, Sam noted. The color of pale, soft denim. He’d caught her off guard, he realized, and for just a moment, before she’d straightened her shoulders and lifted that cute little chin, he’d seen something in those wide eyes that belied her outer image of cool sophistication. A distress that went deeper than a spilled purse.

He bent to help her, but they moved at the same time and only managed to bump into each other. The contact, though only a fraction of a second, brought forth an image of heated flesh. The sudden flush on her high cheeks charmed him. He caught her scent. Expensive. Exotic.

She stepped back, the windows in her eyes closed now. “Excuse me.”

Her formality amused him as much as it intrigued him. He watched her bend demurely and scoop up a slim black wallet, palm-size brush and set of keys with a rental car insignia. He enjoyed the extra inches of exposed leg as she reached for a gold-toned ballpoint pen.

“Do you mind?” she asked.

He thought he’d been caught sneaking a peek, but she was gesturing to the silver-cased lipstick that had rolled between his feet. He bent to pick it up, glancing at the label as he handed it to her. “Passion’s Blush,” he read aloud. “Very nice.”

She dropped the silver tube into her purse, snapped the purse shut and adjusted the gold chain over her shoulder as she stood. “Faith Courtland, Mr. McCants.”

He looked down at the hand she extended to him. Her tone was as stiff as the starched collars his mother had made him wear to Sunday school when he was a boy. “We’re laid back here in Cactus Flat, Faith. Why don’t you just call me Sam?”

She nodded, then smiled hesitantly. “Sam.”

Her fingers were long and smooth Warm. And no rings. He held her hand longer than he should have. “I’ve never seen you before, Faith.” He would definitely have remembered. “Are you a friend of Digger’s?”

“Digger?” she repeated. She cleared her throat, then tugged her hand from his. “Oh, yes, of course. Mr. Montgomery. No, I’m not a friend. Actually, Mr. McCants, I mean Sam, I’m here to see you”

It took a moment for her words to sink in, another longer moment for them to register. Of all the things he might have expected her to say, that was the last. “You’re here to see me?”

“You are the man that Mr. Montgomery appointed as executor of his estate, aren’t you? Owner of the Circle B ranch in Stone Creek County?”

How would she know that? And why did she keep referring to Mr. Montgamery? Digger had a tendency to punch anyone who called him by his real name.

“Yes,” he answered slowly. “Digger did appoint me executor. But I doubt that you’re interested in a stuffed grizzly bear or set of frying pans.”

“Pardon me?”

“Never mind. I have a reception to go to over at the hotel. You’re welcome to join me, but why don’t we just get whatever it is you came here to say out of the way first.”

“Yes, of course.” She cleared her throat. “Mr. McCants—Sam—I’d like to inform you that I—we—at Elijah Jane Corporation are most anxious to work with you toward settling the matter of Mr. Mont—Digger’s—holdings.”

“Elijah Jane Corporation? As in the restaurant chain?” Sam frowned. “Why would they be interested in Digger? And what holdings are you talking about? Digger ran a small diner here in town, in a rented space, and lived in a tiny apartment at the hotel. He had an old truck, at least he had one until six months ago when Andy over at the gas station gave it last rites. That, other than the grizzly bear and frying pans I already mentioned, are the extent of Digger’s holdings.”

Her incredible blue eyes widened. “You mean, you don’t know?”

Her startled question, sort of a throaty whisper, skimmed over him like silky fingers. “Know what?”

Her composure was back now, her face controlled and voice steady. “Mr. McCants, Francis Elijah Montgomery, known to you as Digger Jones, was the sole owner of Elijah Jane Corporation, a company with gross sales of over twohundred-million dollars and a net worth of approximately twenty-million dollars.”