Country Brides (2 page)

Clay made no comment.

He drove past the house and around the back toward the largest stable Rorie had ever seen. The sprawling wood structure must have had room for thirty or more horses.

“You raise horses?” she said.

A smile moved through his eyes like distant light. “That's one way of putting it. Elk Run is a stud farm.”

“Quarter horses?”

That was the only breed that came to mind.

“No. American Saddlebreds.”

“I don't think I've ever heard of them before.”

“Probably not,” Clay said, not unkindly.

He parked the truck, helped Rorie down and led her toward the back of the house.

“Mary,” he called, holding the screen door for Rorie to precede him into the large country kitchen. She was met with the smell of cinnamon and apples. The delectable aroma came from a freshly baked pie, cooling on the counter. A black Labrador retriever slept on a braided rug. He raised his head and thumped his tail gently when Clay stepped over to him and bent down to scratch the dog's ears. “This is Blue.”

“Hi, Blue,” Rorie said, realizing the dog had probably been a childhood pet. He looked well advanced in years.

“Mary doesn't seem to be around.”

“Mary's your wife?”

“Housekeeper,” Clay informed her. “I'm not married.”

That small piece of information gladdened Rorie's heart and she instantly felt foolish. Okay, so she was attracted to this man with eyes as gray as a San Francisco sky, but that didn't change a thing. If her plans went according to schedule, she'd be in and out of his life within hours.

“Mary's probably upstairs,” Clay said when the housekeeper didn't answer. “There's a phone on the wall.” He pointed to the other side of the kitchen.

While Rorie retrieved her AT&T card from her eel-skin wallet, Clay crossed to the refrigerator and took out a brightly colored ceramic pitcher.

“Iced tea?” he asked.

“Please.” Her throat felt parched. She had to swallow several times before she could make her call.

As she spoke on the phone, Clay took two tall glasses from a cupboard and half filled them with ice cubes. He poured in the tea, then added thin slices of lemon.

Rorie finished her conversation and walked over to the table. Sitting opposite Clay, she reached for the drink he'd prepared. “That was my hotel in Seattle. They won't be able to hold the room past six.”

“I'm sure there'll be space in another,” he said confidently.

Rorie nodded, although she thought that was unlikely. She was on her way to a writers' conference, one for which she'd paid a hefty fee, and she hated to miss one minute of it. Every hotel in the city was said to be filled.

“I'll call the garage in Nightingale for you,” Clay offered.

“Is that close by?”

“About five miles down the road.”

Rorie was relieved. She'd never heard of Nightingale and was grateful to learn it had a garage. After all, the place was barely large enough to rate a mention on the road map.

“Old Joe's been working on cars most of his life. He'll do a good job for you.”

Rorie nodded again, not knowing how else to respond.

Clay quickly strode to the phone, punched out the number and talked for a few minutes. He was frowning when he replaced the receiver. Rorie wanted to question him, but before she could, he grabbed an impossibly thin phone book and dialed a second number. His frown was deeper by the time he'd completed the call.

“I've got more bad news for you.”

“Oh?” Rorie's heart had planted itself somewhere between her chest and her throat. She didn't like the way Clay was frowning, or the concern she heard in his voice. “What's wrong now?”

“Old Joe's gone fishing and isn't expected back this month. The mechanic in Riversdale, which is about sixty miles south of here, says that if it is your pump it'll take at least four days to ship a replacement.”

“F
our days!” Rorie felt the color drain from her face. “But that's impossible! I can't possibly wait that long.”

“Seems to me,” Clay said in his smooth drawl, “you don't have much choice. George tells me he could have the water pump within a day if you weren't driving a foreign job.”

“Surely there's someone else I could call.”

Clay seemed to mull that over; then he shrugged. “Go ahead and give it a try if you like, but it isn't going to do you any good. If the shop in Riversdale can't get the part until Saturday, what makes you think someone else can do it any faster?”

Clay's calm acceptance of the situation infuriated Rorie. If she stayed here four days, in the middle of nowhere, she'd completely miss the writers' conference, which she'd been planning to attend for months. She'd scheduled her entire vacation around it. She'd made arrangements to travel to Victoria on British Columbia's Vancouver Island after the conference and on the way home take a leisurely trip down the coast.

Clay handed her the phone book, and feeling defeated Rorie thumbed through the brief yellow pages until she came to the section headed Automobile Repair. Only a handful were listed and none of them promised quick service, she noted.

“Yes, well,” she muttered, expelling her breath, “there doesn't seem to be any other option.” Discouraged, she set the directory back on the counter. “You and your brother have been most helpful and I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you've done. Now if you could recommend a hotel in…what was the name of the town again?”

“Nightingale.”

“Right,” she said, with a wobbly smile, which was the best she could do at the moment. “Actually, anyplace that's clean will be fine.”

Clay rubbed the side of his jaw. “I'm afraid that's going to present another problem.”

“Now what? Has the manager gone fishing with Old Joe?” Rorie did her best to keep the sarcasm out of her voice, but it was difficult. Obviously the people in the community of…Nightingale didn't take their responsibilities too seriously. If they were on the job when someone happened to need them, it was probably by coincidence.

“A fishing trip isn't the problem this time,” Clay explained, his expression thoughtful. “Nightingale doesn't have a hotel.”

“What?” Rorie exploded. “No hotel…but there must be.”

“We don't get much traffic through here. People usually stick to the freeway.”

If he was implying that
she
should have done so, Rorie couldn't have agreed with him more. She might have seen some lovely scenery, but look where this little side trip had taken her! Her entire vacation was about to be ruined. She slowly released her breath, trying hard to maintain her composure, which was cracking more with every passing minute.

“What about Riversdale? Surely they have a hotel?”

Clay nodded. “They do. It's a real nice one, but I suspect it's full.”

“Full? I thought you just told me people don't often take this route.”

“Tourists don't.”

“Then how could the hotel possibly be full?”

“The Jerome family.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Jerome family is having a big reunion. People are coming from all over the country. Jed was telling me the other day that a cousin of his is driving out from Boston. The overflow will more than likely fill up Riversdale's only hotel.”

One phone call confirmed Clay's suspicion.

“Terrific,” Rorie murmured, her hand still on the receiver. The way things were beginning to look, she'd end up sleeping on a park bench—if Nightingale even had a park.

The back door opened and Skip wandered in, obviously pleased about something. He poured himself a glass of iced tea and leaned against the counter, glancing from Rorie to Clay and then back again.

“What's happening?” he asked, when no one volunteered any information.

“Nothing much,” Rorie said. “Getting the water pump for my car is going to take four days and it seems the only hotel within a sixty-mile radius is booked full for the next two weeks and—”

“That's no problem. You can stay here,” Skip inserted quickly, his blue eyes flashing with eagerness. “We'd love to have you, wouldn't we, Clay?”

Rorie spoke before the elder Franklin had an opportunity to answer. “No, really, I appreciate the offer, but I can't inconvenience you any more than I already have.”

“She wouldn't be an inconvenience, would she?” Once more Skip directed the question to his older brother. “Tell her she wouldn't, Clay.”

“I can't stay here,” she returned, without giving Clay the chance to echo his brother's invitation. She didn't know these people. And, more important, they didn't know her and Rorie refused to impose on them further.

Clay gazed into her eyes and a slow smile turned up the edges of his mouth. “It's up to you, Rorie. You're welcome on Elk Run if you want to stay.”

“But you've done so much. I really couldn't—”

“There's plenty of room,” Skip announced ardently.

Those baby-blue eyes of his would melt the strongest resolve, Rorie mused.

“There's three bedrooms upstairs that are sitting empty. And you wouldn't need to worry about staying with two bachelors, because Mary's here—she has a cottage across the way.”

It seemed inconceivable to Rorie that this family would take her in just like that. But, given her options, her arguments for refusing their offer were weak, to say the least. “You don't even know me.”

“We know all we need to, don't we, Clay?” Skip glanced at his older brother, seeking his support.

“You're welcome to stay here, if you like,” Clay repeated, his gaze continuing to hold Rorie's.

Again she was struck by the compelling quality of this man. He had a stubborn jaw and she doubted there were many confrontations where he walked away a loser. She'd always prided herself on her ability to read people. And her instincts told her firmly that Clay Franklin could be trusted. She sensed he was scrupulously honest, utterly dependable—and she already knew he was generous to a fault.

“I'd be most grateful,” she said, swallowing a surge of tears at the Franklins' uncomplicated kindness to a complete stranger. “But, please, let me do something to make up for all the trouble I've caused you.”

“It's no trouble,” Skip said, looking as if he wanted to jump up and click his heels in jubilation.

Clay frowned as he watched his younger brother.

“Really,” Rorie stressed. “If there's anything I can do, I'd be more than happy to lend a hand.”

“Do you know anything about computers?”

“A little,” she said. “We use them at the library.”

“You're a librarian?”

Rorie nodded and brushed a stray dark curl from her forehead. “I specialize in children's literature.” Someday she hoped to have her own work published. That had been her reason for attending the conference in Seattle. Three of the top children's authors in the country were slated to speak. “If you have a computer system, I'd be happy to do whatever I can…”

“Clay bought a new one last winter,” Skip informed her proudly. “He has a program that records horse breeding and pedigrees up to the fourth and fifth generation.”

A heavyset woman Rorie assumed was the housekeeper entered the kitchen, hauling a mop and bucket. She inspected Rorie with a measuring glance and seemed to find her lacking. She grumbled something about city girls as she sidled past Skip.

“Didn't know you'd decided to hold a convention right in the middle of my kitchen.”

“Mary,” Clay said, “this is Rorie Campbell, from San Francisco. Her car broke down, so she'll be staying with us for the next few days. Could you see that a bed is made up for her?”

The older woman's wide face broke into a network of frown lines.

“Oh, please, I can do that myself,” Rorie said quickly.

Mary nodded. “Sheets are in the closet at the top of the stairs.”

“Rorie is our guest.” Clay didn't raise his voice, but his displeasure was evident in every syllable.

Mary shrugged, muttering, “I got my own things to do. If the girl claims she can make a bed, then let her.”

Rorie couldn't contain her smile.

“You want to invite some city slicker to stay, then fine, but I got more important matters to attend to before I make up a bed for her.” With that, Mary marched out of the kitchen.

“Mary's like family,” Skip explained. “It's just her way to be sassy. She doesn't mean anything by it.”

“I'm sure she doesn't,” Rorie said, smiling so Clay and Skip would know she wasn't offended. She gathered that the Franklins' housekeeper didn't hold a high opinion of anyone from the city and briefly wondered why.

“I'll get your suitcase from the car,” Skip said, heading for the door.

Clay finished his drink and set the glass on the counter. “I've got to get back to work,” he told her, pausing for a moment before he added, “You won't be bored by yourself, will you?”

“Not at all. Don't worry about me.”

Clay nodded. “Dinner's at six.”

“I'll be ready.”

Rorie picked up the empty glasses and put them by the sink. While she waited for Skip to carry in her luggage, she phoned Dan. Unfortunately he was in a meeting and couldn't be reached, so she left a message, explaining that she'd been delayed and would call again. She felt strangely reluctant to give him the Franklins' phone number, but decided there was no reason not to do so. She also decided not to examine that feeling too closely.

Skip had returned by the time she'd hung up. “Clay says you can have Mom and Dad's old room,” the teenager announced on his way through the door. He hauled her large suitcase in one hand and her flight bag was slung over his shoulder. “Their room's at the other end of the house. They were killed in an accident five years ago.”

“But—”

“Their room's got the best view.”

“Skip, really, any bedroom will do…I don't want your parents' room.”

“But that's the one Clay wants for you.” He bounded up the curving stairway with the energy reserved for the young.

Rorie followed him more slowly. She slid her hand along the polished banister and glanced into the living room. A large natural-rock fireplace dominated one wall. The furniture was built of solid oak, made comfortable with thick chintz-covered cushions. Several braided rugs were placed here and there on the polished wood floor. A piano with well-worn ivory keys stood to one side. The collection of family photographs displayed on top of it immediately caught her eye. She recognized a much younger Clay in what had to be his high-school graduation photo. The largest picture in an ornate brass frame was of a middle-aged couple, obviously Clay's and Skip's parents.

Skip paused at the top of the stairway and looked over his shoulder. “My grandfather built this house more than fifty years ago.”

“It's magnificent.”

“We think so,” he admitted, eyes shining with pride.

The master bedroom, which was at the end of the hallway, opened onto a balcony that presented an unobstructed panorama of the entire valley. Rolling green pastures stretched as far as the eye could see. Rorie felt instantly drawn to this unfamiliar rural beauty. She drew a deep breath, and the thought flashed through her mind that it must be comforting to wake up to this serene landscape day after day.

“Everyone loves it here,” Skip said from behind her.

“I can understand why.”

“Well, I suppose I should get back to work,” he said regretfully, setting her suitcases on the double bed. A colorful quilt lay folded at its foot.

Rorie turned toward him, smiling. “Thank you, Skip. I hate to think what would've happened to me if you hadn't come along when you did.”

He blushed and started backing out of the room, taking small steps as though he was loath to leave her. “I'll see you at dinner, okay?”

Rorie smiled again. “I'll look forward to it.”

“Bye for now.” He raised his right hand in a farewell gesture, then whirled around and dashed down the hallway. She could hear his feet pounding on the stairs.

It took Rorie only a few minutes to hang her things in the bare closet. When she'd finished, she went back to the kitchen, where Mary was busy peeling potatoes at the stainless steel sink.

“I'd like to help, if I could.”

“Fine,” the housekeeper answered gruffly. She took another potato peeler out of a nearby drawer, slapping it down on the counter. “I suppose that's your fancy sports car in the yard.”

“The water pump has to be replaced…I think,” Rorie answered, not bothering to mention that the MGB wasn't actually hers.