A Home of Her Own. Brenda NovakЧитать онлайн книгу.
she couldn’t brew any for herself. But she wasn’t going to press her welcome long enough to drink it. She didn’t want to take anything more from Mike than absolutely necessary. “No, I’m fine.”
He opened his mouth to speak again but Polly Simpson interrupted with the phone book, which he immediately passed to her.
“Thanks,” she mumbled and tried to get her burning fingers to work well enough to turn the flimsy pages.
Mike shoved his hands into the pockets of his Wranglers and leaned against the doorjamb, then seemed to think twice about hanging around to watch. “I’m gonna grab a cup of coffee,” he muttered and left, and Lucky breathed a sigh of relief to find herself alone.
It took her nearly fifteen minutes to get through to the power company, and an additional five to reach the other utility companies, but when she finally hung up with her third customer service representative of the day, she had promises that the electricity and phone service would be restored at 215 White Rock Road. She just didn’t know exactly when. She’d been told it would happen after the storm, but the storm could last another day or two.
“All set?” Mike reappeared almost the second she closed the phone book.
Lucky took the question to mean that he was as anxious for her to leave as she was to go. “Yes. Thank you.” She stood and headed for the door, but knew she’d be stupid not to ask Mike if she could borrow a shovel. If she didn’t get power and water today, she’d have to dig out and drive to town. She was down to a small bag of sunflower seeds for food, only half a gallon of water and no more firewood.
Cursing herself for not being better prepared for the harsh Idaho winter, she paused on her way out. “I’m sorry to bother you again, but would it be possible to borrow a shovel? I won’t need it for more than a couple of days.”
He’d already started working on his computer. He glanced up—and hesitated long enough that she regretted asking.
“If you don’t have an extra one, I understand,” she said.
“No, that’s not it. I’m sure I can find something.” Getting up, he came around the desk and led her through the offices. When they reached the outside door, he told her he’d be right back.
She put on her cold, wet boots while he disappeared into the private part of the house. By the time he returned, she was dressed and ready to go, and he was carrying a fair-size snow shovel. “Here you are.”
“Thanks. I’ll get it back to you as soon as I can,” she told him and ducked out into the storm. She thought he said, “There’s no rush,” but the wind had kicked up so much, she could scarcely hear him.
LUCKY SPENT the next several hours shoveling snow in a veritable blizzard. The work warmed her body but did little for her fingers and toes. Soon her jeans were stiff with ice. She had to stop every few minutes to go inside, take off her boots and stick her frozen feet in her heavy sleeping bag in an effort to warm them.
As the temperature dropped and the sky darkened, she considered heading back to Mike’s. It was getting harder and harder to wield that darn shovel, but she had too much pride to beg him for any more favors. She’d get by on her own, like always. She just needed to figure out a way to reach town.
The shovel scraped the gravel of the drive as she jammed it through the snow for what felt like the millionth time. Her back and arms ached, protesting the strain as she tossed a scoop off to the side before digging in again. Who would’ve thought clearing the driveway could take so long?
She slumped against the car and tried to catch her breath. Shading her eyes against the flakes still blowing around her, she squinted toward the road. She had at least twenty feet to go.
“I had to pretend I was coming home for Christmas, had to see the old place in winter,” she grumbled, longing for the cup of coffee she’d refused earlier and a hot bath. She imagined slipping into a steaming tub and promised herself she’d do exactly that—as soon as she had some hot water to do it with.
After another fifteen minutes of sheer determination, she finally threw the shovel down and, completely winded, wiped her nose with the back of her gloved hand. She wasn’t making enough progress, and it was getting too dark to see.
Tramping into the house, she flipped the first light switch she found, praying that her electricity had been restored. As hungry as she was, she could get by without food for one more night if only she had heat.
Nothing happened.
Dejected, she yanked off the hood of her coat and went to the kitchen to ransack her backpack. She was hoping to find an energy bar or something else she might have missed, but discovered nothing more than a few gum wrappers and crumbs. To make matters worse, her jug of water contained only a few ounces.
What was she going to do? She needed to finish clearing the drive and get out of here. But she couldn’t go back to shoveling….
Returning to the living room, she stared through the large front window at what she’d achieved so far. Maybe she could drive out. It was worth a try, wasn’t it?
Encouraged by visions of a hot meal and a cozy motel room, she grabbed her purse and hurried outside again. But she had trouble starting the car, and even after she got the darn engine running, she didn’t make it more than ten feet before her tires spun out.
“Come on!” She shifted the transmission into Drive. No luck. She gave the Mustang a quick shot of gas and reversed. Nothing. She was stuck—at least until morning.
Letting her shoulders slump, she hammered her forehead on the steering wheel. What had she been thinking, coming back to Dundee at Christmastime? She, of all people, knew there was no Santa Claus.
AS THE WIND TOSSED tree branches and snowflakes against the house, Mike stared at the ceiling of his room. He was exhausted and wanted to sleep, but this was one of the worst storms he’d seen in years and much as he wanted to forget Lucky, he couldn’t do it. He kept picturing her, small and cold with her toe poking through that hole in her sock, and he kept feeling guilty that he hadn’t sent over one of his men to shovel her drive. If she’d been anyone else, he would’ve done it in an instant. But she wasn’t anybody else. She was Red’s daughter, and she wasn’t as sweet as she looked.
He remembered her sticking her tongue out at him and decided he’d done the right thing. She’d been living on his grandfather’s money since she turned ten. The physical labor had probably done her some good.
Unless she’d never managed to get her car out of that long drive. Maybe she was sitting over at the house right now, freezing to death….
He thought of the broken windows and the snow drifting inside.
If she’d needed anything, she would’ve come back to the ranch, he told himself. She’d been over once—and he’d been nice enough.
But he wasn’t absolutely convinced she’d return. He could tell she’d had a difficult time appearing on his doorstep in the first place.
Punching his pillow, he rolled over. Mike had made sure his horses were safe in their stalls, each covered with a thick blanket, but he was letting a woman stay alone in a house that had no heat?
Not just any woman, he reminded himself. Lucky Caldwell. Lucky didn’t count. Besides, if she was cold, she’d build a fire. She’d built one last night, hadn’t she? A fire would keep her warm. He wasn’t going to lose any more sleep over the little brat who’d replaced him in his own grandfather’s eyes. Lucky wasn’t his responsibility, and he didn’t want anything more to do with her.
Work…he needed to think about work. With Josh gone he’d have plenty to do come morning. He had clients to call, payroll to sign—
The image of Lucky pressed between him and the wall, her eyes wide with alarm, flashed through his mind.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered and