Читать книгу: «Angel of Smoky Hollow»
They left the picnic basket at the edge of the clearing. Crossing the stream on stepping stones, Angelica laughed and Kirk turned to look at her.
“This is so different from New York City,” she explained.
“Better.”
She nodded.
“We’ll be there soon,” he said, turning and heading on again.
When they reached the pool, Angelica was hot and out of breath. The waterfall was a three-foot-tall curtain spilling over a wide lip of rock. She thought she’d love to swim beneath it and have it rain down on her.
Kirk stopped by the edge and trailed his hands in it. Then, mischief in his eyes, he flicked her with water.
Angelica shrieked and turned to run. Laughing so hard she almost fell, she reached the edge of the water. Stopping, she looked at Kirk, who had followed her. “Thanks for the picnic and bringing me here. This is such a lovely place.”
He nodded in acknowledgment, then leaned over and brushed his lips against hers.
Praise for Barbara McMahon
“A fresh spin on some tried-and-true plot elements makes this story work beautifully—and its outspoken, honest heroine is a delight.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Daredevil Tycoon
“Barbara McMahon takes a simple love story—employer falls for the employee—and turns it into a tale filled with romance, heartache and love. While the basis for this novel may be timeless, the issues both Caitlin and Zack face are enough to give this novel the feeling it has never been done before. These two characters rock!”
—loveromancesandmore.webs.com on Caitlin’s Cowboy
“A great story, The Tycoon Prince is fit for any woman (and perhaps a few men) who wished they kissed a few less frogs and had more princes to sweep them off their feet!”
—aromancereview.com
Angel of Smoky Hollow
Barbara McMahon
Barbara McMahon was born and raised in the south U.S.A., but settled in California after spending a year flying around the world for an international airline. After settling down to raise a family and work for a computer firm, she began writing when her children started school. Now, feeling fortunate in being able to realize a longheld dream of quitting her day job and writing full-time, she and her husband have moved to the Sierra Nevada of California, where she finds that her desire to write is stronger than ever. With the beauty of the mountains visible from her windows, and the pace of life slower than the hectic San Francisco Bay Area where they previously resided, she finds more time than ever to think up stories and characters and share them with others through writing. Barbara loves to hear from readers. You can reach her at P.O. Box 977, Pioneer, CA 95666-0977, U.S.A. Readers can also contact Barbara at her website. www.barbaramcmahon.com.
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
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
ANGELICA CANNON STEPPED OFF the bus into another world. Dragging her backpack down the steps, she made sure she did not let the precious violin case hit anything. The air was thick with humidity, sultry and hot. The trees that lined the street offered scant shade with the sun directly overhead, but gave some illusion of cool, dashed by the reflecting heat from the asphalt.
Running away wasn’t as easy as she’d thought when she stuffed a few things into her backpack and left without telling a soul where she was headed. Withdrawing a hefty sum from her bank account, before buying a bus ticket south, she was officially off the grid. She’d pay cash for everything and defy anyone to find her before she was ready.
She did not expect to be stepping into another world. Maybe—just maybe—she’d bit off more than she could chew.
Three pairs of eyes watched her disembark from the old bus. Two men had to be close to eighty, their scant gray hair covering little of their heads, their overalls looking as if they’d been made during the Great Depression. They sat on rocking chairs, but were still, as if watching people get off the bus was too important to miss by rocking back and forth.
The third set of eyes latched onto hers and for a moment she caught her breath, unable to step away from the bus, unable to breathe. The man leaned casually against one of the posts holding the roof above the wide porch. His stance was decidedly male.
Dark and dangerous, his eyes reflected the image perfectly. His black hair was wavy and longer than that on the men she normally associated with. He could be the grandson of the other two, as he couldn’t be much over thirty. Buff and brawny—she almost swallowed her tongue as she stared at him, consumed by the spark in his eyes, the way he let his gaze move slowly over her then snap back to hold her eyes in that compelling stare. Her heart sped up. Her sophisticated veneer shattered. She’d never felt such an instant raw sensual attraction before. It was as if every cell in her body became attuned to his. And she hadn’t a clue who he was.
She took a breath and, conscious of someone waiting behind her, stepped away from the bus—toward the trio on the porch of the rough-hewn building that served as bus terminus, general store and gas station. And a place for old men to watch the world go by. A place for a man to mesmerize with his stare.
Wide shoulders, muscular arms and chest, nothing was hidden by the skintight navy T-shirt he wore. Faded jeans tucked into motorcycle boots covered long legs. His face was all angles and planes, tanned a dark teak. She’d never seen anything as gorgeous in her life. The fluttering feelings inside kicked up a notch and she wished she could check makeup, hair and clothes. And find something scintillating to say that would impress him with her wit and sophistication.
Clothes—darn. She looked down at her outfit. The two of them almost matched. She wore a cotton top and faded jeans. So unlike her normal attire. In fact, she’d bet her mother didn’t even know she owned a pair of jeans.
Not that she was going to think about her mother! The great escape included thoughts about her parents, her job, and where she was going in the future.
“You miss your stop, sugar?” the man asked as she approached the porch.
Attuned to musical pitch and tone, Angelica almost swooned with the deep baritone voice and sweet Southern drawl. Talk some more, she almost said. Instead, she replied,
“Is this Smoky Hollow, Kentucky?”
“Last I heard,” he acknowledged.
“Pretty thing,” one of the older men said, as if she weren’t standing six feet in front of him.
“Why’s she here? Kin of anyone we know?” the other asked.
“Just fixing to ask that myself.” The fascinating man stepped off the porch in a casual and utterly masculine manner that had Angelica wondering if her hormones had spiked in some weird way since crossing the state line. She wanted to step up and flirt.
Flirt? She had never done so in her life. Where was that thought coming from?
“Can I help you?” he asked. “I’m Kirk Devon and I know almost everybody around here. Who’re you here to see?”
She blinked. His heah didn’t quite sound like here did at home.
“I’m looking for Webb Francis Muldoon,” she said.
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes intent on her face. “Webb Francis isn’t here,” he said.
She swallowed. Great, she left home and fled fifteen hundred miles and the man she was running to wasn’t even around. A second of uncertainty surfaced. Then she took a breath, needing more information. She was not going to be stopped at the first setback. She had yearned for this for too long.
“When will he be back?” she asked.
“Don’t rightly know. Might be a few days. Maybe longer. What do you want with Webb Francis?”
He took a step closer and Angelica wanted to step back. He was tall, at least several inches over six feet. Next to her own five and a half feet, he seemed to tower over her. But it wasn’t only his height. Tapered waist and hips, long legs and those broad shoulders made him look as if he could carry the weight of the world easily on those shoulders. Strong and masculine in an earthy way she wasn’t used to. She was fascinated, and overwhelmed. Her senses roiled.
“I prefer to explain that to Mr. Muldoon,” she said stiffly.
The bus door clanged shut and the old bus belched a puff of black smoke as it pulled away and groaned down the street.
Angelica watched it go, then looked back at the man in front of her. His eyes were still intent, studying her every expression.
“Looks like your transportation’s gone and left you here. Webb Francis is in hospital at Bryceville. He has pneumonia.”
“He’s sick?” Professor Simmons had assured her she’d be welcomed by Webb Francis. No one had counted on his illness. Least of all her.
“Friend of yours?” Kirk Devon asked still studying her.
“He’s a friend of—a friend.” She closed her mouth without saying another word. She dare not trust anyone. She wasn’t giving out who she was or why she was there until she’d spoken to Webb Francis to see if this was where she belonged. She gazed after the bus. Where was Bryceville? Would the bus have taken her there?
“Got a place to stay?” Kirk asked.
She shook her head slowly. She had thought Webb Francis would help her by recommending a place to stay. She knew Professor Simmons had written a letter for his old friend explaining everything. It was in her backpack, to be given once she met Mr. Muldoon. Looking around she squared her shoulders. She’d traveled in Europe, called Manhattan home, surely she could handle one small town in Kentucky.
“Any hotels around?” She would have seen one, she felt sure, watching as she had the foreign scenery as the bus drove in from Lexington. No skyscrapers here. But maybe there’d be a small boutique hotel on a side street.
“There’s a B&B in town. Sally Ann’s place. You can stay there tonight, decide what to do tomorrow. Don’t reckon Webb Francis will be home before a week. And not then unless folks rally around to keep him fed. You staying long?”
He stepped closer, almost crowding her. Reaching for her violin case, he offered to take it. She snatched it out of his reach, stepped back and swung slightly around so the case was almost behind her. “I can manage. Just point me in the right direction.”
His dark eyes watched for a moment. The air was charged with tension, then he gave a lopsided smile and relaxed. It was hard for Angelica to adjust to the change. The smile did crazy things to her. He looked like some harmless guy trying to help. But she didn’t feel reassured. He was big and strong and too sexy for her own good. She couldn’t get beyond that attraction. His dark hair almost shimmered with streaks of blue, it was so black. When he smiled, she felt a catch in her heart. He could probably charm the birds from the tree with a single smile.
She was not a bird. She had to remember she had a goal and falling prey to the first good-looking man she saw was not in her plans.
Reseating her backpack on her shoulder, she glared at him. No one touched the valuable violin but her.
“I’ll take your backpack, then,” he said, lifting it from her shoulders before she knew it. “Can’t let a lady carry all those heavy things,” he drawled as he turned and gestured for her to proceed in the direction away from the store.
The sidewalk ended fifty feet beyond the store. The road narrowed, feeling closed in with the trees that flanked it. With the sun overhead, there was little shade to ease the heat reflecting from the asphalt. If she’d had any idea of how hot it was in Kentucky in summer, she’d have—done what? This was her only bolt hole and she was grateful for it. She’d just have to deal with the heat. She hoped the walk to the B&B wasn’t long, or she’d be a puddle in the road. Glancing at her companion, she was annoyed he didn’t seem to notice the heat at all. If his pace was any indication, he didn’t. She was already growing winded.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” he commented after a few yards.
“Angelica Cannon.” She was sure no one around here had ever heard of her. She felt she’d stepped into a time warp, looking around at the lack of amenities and action. She felt curiously free knowing people here would only learn what she chose to share about her life. She could be totally anonymous if she wanted.
“Sally Ann runs a B&B, you said?” she asked. The shoulder was gravel and dirt and not wide enough to walk on. Would it be any cooler if she could take to the dirt instead of the asphalt? She was growing grateful to her guide that he’d taken the backpack. She was so hot!
“She does. And makes the best pancakes this side of the Mississippi. You tell her you want some one morning, she’ll pile them on your plate. You look like you need some good down-home cooking.”
Angelica frowned. Was that a backhanded comment about her slender frame? Or an insult? Did he think women needed more curves to be attractive? What did she care? He was some backwoods guy, not one of the men of influence she was used to dating. Not a patron of the arts, not a subscriber to the symphony. He probably wouldn’t recognize genuine world class music if it hit him on the head.
His longer gait had her rushing to keep up. Not that she’d ask for him to slow down. That would only prolong her listening to the slow Southern drawl and risk forgetting any good sense remaining.
Though how dashing away in the night showed good sense, she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t been a prisoner. She should have stayed and shown the logic of her choices. Only, she still couldn’t envision herself standing up against her parents. They had done so much for her. They only wanted the very best. How ungrateful she’d be to rail against everything. And it wasn’t as if she was turning her back on her life. For the most part she enjoyed music. It was only lately—she needed a break. She was flat-out burned out.
But try as she might, they never listened to her. Always pushing, always saying they knew what was best for her. She was almost twenty-five years old. Surely she had to know what was best for her by now. Coming here without confirming her would-be host was available didn’t show such good sense—even she had to admit that. But she had, and now she’d make the most of whatever chance she had. It was only temporary. Worst case, she could relax for a few days and then make new plans.
Through the trees she caught a glimpse of a large white clapboard structure. As they rounded a slight bend in the road, Angelica saw the house straight-on. A bit shabby in appearance, nevertheless it was impressive, with a wide porch, dormer windows flanked by green shutters and an immaculate green lawn. Flowering bushes encircled the base of the house. A colorful flower plot in the center of the lawn surrounded an old oak tree whose shade was just starting to touch the wide front porch of the house. Rocking chairs and benches lined up in a row.
Did every building in Smoky Hollow have a porch? She’d heard Southerners were a laid-back group of people. Had to be the heat. She’d like to lie down until the temperature dropped about twenty degrees. Maybe sitting in the shade was the next best thing.
Kirk stepped on the porch and banged on a screen door. The wooden door to the house stood open wide and a moment later a woman bustled down the hall that stretched out from the door, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“Kirk, gracious, good to see you. Is there something wrong?”
“Hey Sally Ann. I brought you a paying guest.”
“I declare.” She opened the screen door and stepped out, looking at Angelica with curiosity. “Was I expecting you?” she asked, tilting her head slightly and smiling. She tucked the dish towel in the top of her apron.
Angelica shook her head. “Mr. Devon said you take guests. I came to see Webb Francis Muldoon and learned he’s not here.”
“No, poor man, sick as can be in Bryceville. Mae went over this morning to see him. Evelyn and Paul will be going tomorrow. When are you going back, Kirk?”
“Might take this young lady to see him tomorrow if that’s what she wants,” he said, flicking a glance at Angelica.
Angelica studied him for a moment. Her common sense told her to stay away from this man. She could forget her own name if she wasn’t careful. Yet if he offered transportation she would not have to spend another moment on the local bus. That would be well worth some time with Kirk Devon.
With her expected ally gone, she needed to reassess everything. How long would Webb Francis be sick? What was she to do in the meantime?
“I’d pay for the ride to Bryceville,” she said looking straight at Kirk.
His face pulled into a frown. “Not if I’m going that way anyway. I’ll leave around ten. Meet me at the store.” He turned and gave Sally Ann a wide smile. “You take care of this one. She’s not used to Kentucky.”
He handed Angelica the backpack.
Angelica couldn’t argue the point, but she wondered how obvious she appeared. She felt like a stranger on a different planet. She was used to glass and concrete, canyons shadowed by tall buildings. The breeze blowing from the Hudson. Or freezing winters fighting slush and traffic and time.
Before she could even thank her reluctant guide, he’d turned and began walking back the way he came.
“Thank you,” she called after him, ever mindful of manners her mother had drummed into her head.
He didn’t acknowledge her appreciation.
“He can’t hear you,” Sally Ann said. “Come on in. I’ve got a nice room right on the front of the house. Gets the breeze at night. Quiet, too, unless those Slade boys are carrying on.”
Angelica nodded and followed her hostess into the house, wondering who the Slade boys were and what carrying on meant. The tall ceilings kept the temperature tolerable. It was a relief to be out of the sun. Climbing stairs that creaked with each step, she wondered how old the house was. The faded wallpaper on the walls gave the feeling of days gone by—long gone by. But the house was spotlessly clean. And smelled like apple pie.
“Here it is. What do you think?” Sally Ann stepped into a large room with wide windows overlooking the street. The oak in front shaded it from the sun. It wasn’t as cool as air-conditioning could achieve, but it was pleasant enough. Definitely twenty or more degrees cooler than outside.
The double bed was covered with an old quilt. There was a slipper chair near one of the windows, a large double-wide bureau and knickknacks galore from little ceramic kittens playing with yarn to old figurines of ladies in antebellum attire.
“This is nice,” Angelica said, taking it all in. It was so different from her sleek Manhattan apartment, with chrome and leather furnishings and modern art on the walls. This was warm and homey. She had never seen a place like it. She liked it.
“Supper’s at six. If you don’t eat here, there’s a good diner in town. Without a car, you’re going to be hard-pressed to find anything else you can walk to and get back before dark.”
“I’d like supper here,” Angelica said, slowly lowering her backpack to the floor. Her precious violin she hugged against her chest for comfort. She felt it was the only familiar thing in life right now.
“Meals are extra.” Sally Ann quoted a figure that was ridiculously low.
Angelica smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.” If everything was that cheap in Kentucky, she could stay longer than originally planned.
If Webb Francis got well and agreed to help her.
And if she could keep her mind on work and not the disturbing presence of Kirk Devon!
Kirk walked back toward town. He planned to call Webb Francis as soon as he reached a phone. Did the man know Angelica Cannon? He had not seemed worried about an invited guest showing up when Kirk saw him yesterday. The more he thought about it, the odder it seemed. What would a young woman whom no one ever heard of have in common with Webb Francis—except for the fiddle. Webb Francis was a world-class fiddle player. At the music festivals and hootenannies held in and around Smoky Hollow, Webb Francis was renowned for his talent. Could she be a student wannabe? Would explain the violin case she guarded. He should have told her he had no interest in her instrument.
Melvin and Paul still held the fort on the porch of the store. There were a couple of others from town chatting with them. Waiting. When they spotted Kirk, the questions began to fly as everyone wanted to know more about the woman who came to visit Webb Francis.
“Don’t know any more than you do. But I’m taking her over to see him tomorrow. Maybe that’ll clear things up.” He spoke another minute or two to the neighbors then headed for home. It was hot. Late July in Kentucky was always hot. He’d been in hotter places. But a long time ago. Time and places he didn’t want to remember.
Next time he’d take his motorcycle. It wasn’t a long walk to town, but midday wasn’t the time to be out walking in the sun.
Reaching the log cabin built as if it grew directly from the forest floor, Kirk went straight to his phone. In a moment he was connected to Webb Francis at the hospital.
“You expecting an Angelica Cannon?” Kirk asked after ascertaining his friend was improving.
“Who?”
“Some woman with a fiddle in a case, backpack, faded jeans and a secretive attitude.”
“Doesn’t sound like anyone I know. Far as I can remember, no one’s going to show up to see me.”
“Claims she was expecting to see you. I figure she’s going to try to talk you into giving her some lessons or something.”
Webb Francis coughed for a long moment. Then said, “Not up to it. Send her on her way.”
“I’m bringing her in to see you tomorrow.”
“I’m not up to taking on a student. The doctors here can’t even tell me when I’m going home.”
“Rest up. We’ll sort this out tomorrow. She’s staying at Sally Ann’s tonight. If you’re not up to seeing her, she can come back after you get well. Need anything?”
Webb Francis coughed again. “Naw, I’m good. It’ll be good to see you, Kirk. Don’t know about some stranger.”
“Take it easy. I’ll handle things.”
“You always do. Good thing for me and your granddad you came home when you did.”
Kirk stared out the window at the bank of trees. Good and bad. If he had not returned, he could believe Alice was waiting for him. Still—his grandfather needed him. He’d seen the sights he’d wanted to see. It had been time to return home.
“See you tomorrow,” he said and slowly hung up the phone.
Action kept memories at bay. He rose and went to the studio behind his house. He could get in some serious work this afternoon. And evening. And maybe think a bit more about the stranger who looked sad and lost and a bit scared. She presented a puzzle. Strangers didn’t come to Smoky Hollow often. Faded jeans and cotton top could be clothes of anyone. But her porcelain complexion and wide, tired blue eyes spoke of something different. Who had such creamy white skin these days? Her blond hair had been pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, sleek and shiny. What would it look like loose in a bank of waves framing her face?
He shook his head. He didn’t need interest rising at this juncture. He knew enough to know whatever her story, she wouldn’t be long in Smoky Hollow. And he’d had enough trouble with women in the past. Something had always been missing. He didn’t think about it any more. He liked his life just the way it was now. No complications, no drama.
And a tad lonely.
He pushed away the thought when he entered the structure a short distance behind his house. He’d built both buildings himself, using the knowledge and skill he’d picked up from many construction projects over the years. From the outside, both the house and shed merely looked like log cabins. Inside he had utilized the finer aspects of carpentry that enabled the house to be comfortable and stylish. The studio was a different matter. With strongly insulated walls, it was cool in summer, warm in winter, and totally utilitarian.
Standing in the doorway, he flipped on the switch. The daylight fixtures bathed the entire space in plenty of light. The tall windows added natural daylight. In the center of the building stood the sculptured piece of wood he was currently working. Five feet tall, it was not quite life-size. A mother with a baby in her arms and a child clinging to her knee, the semi-abstract rendition gave the illusion of motherhood everywhere without details to features and age.
The carving part was finished. He walked around it, studying it from every angle. Next was the final stage—sanding until it was as smooth as glass. Then applying the stain that would bring out the natural luster of the wood. Bring the statue to life. He reached for the first sandpaper and began long even strokes down the length of the back.
Caught up in his work, he didn’t realize the passage of time until he felt the pangs of hunger. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was after midnight. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. Time to take a break. He placed the staining cloth in an airtight container, put the used sandpaper in the trash.
Studying the figure once more, he was pleased. The deep stain had highlighted the grain of the wood. The smooth finish was pleasing to touch. He knew Bianca would snap it up for her gallery. He’d take photos tomorrow to send to her. Once they agreed on price, he’d load it up and deliver. She was always asking for more work. But he did the pieces as the mood struck.
It was cooler than expected when he stepped outside. He walked the familiar path from his studio to home with out light. He knew every inch of his property—and most of the surrounding properties as well. Another way to keep the memories at bay, walk in the dark where he could become attuned with nature, and forget the curve balls life some times threw.
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