The Mystery Man of Whitehorse. B.J. DanielsЧитать онлайн книгу.
She lifted the lid on the casserole, and he groaned and breathed in the rich scent with obvious pleasure. She couldn’t help but smile with pleasure of her own.
“If that tastes half as good as it smells…”
She laughed as she dished him up some of the meatballs and spaghetti hiding beneath the sauce and waited as he sat down and picked up his fork.
He took a bite, closing his eyes and savoring the wonderful flavors. His eyes flew open. “Who made this?”
“I bought it from some woman cooking beside the road,” she joked, thinking he must be doing the same, as she filled her plate and took a bite of his salad. “This salad is wonderful. Did the restaurant’s cook make it?”
He grinned. “Yeah, you like?”
She nodded, looking surprised as she took a bite of the bread. “Yum. Homemade bread. Maybe this restaurant will do all right after all.”
“Maybe, if it has these meatballs on the menu,” he said and took another bite. “I’m serious,” he said between bites. “I’m hiring whoever made this.”
“Hiring them to do what?” Laci asked.
“Cook, what else?”
She glanced toward all the stainless steel in the kitchen. “This is your restaurant?”
It hadn’t dawned on her. For some reason, she’d just assumed he was doing the construction on the place—not that he owned it—given how he was dressed.
About then she noticed that he was looking at her oddly. “You made this?” he asked, sounding as surprised as she’d been about him.
She bristled. “Don’t I look like someone who could have made this?” She realized her skin was a little thin since her catering business had gone nowhere fast.
He still looked stunned, and she realized he had to be regretting saying he wanted to hire whoever had made the meatballs now that he’d found out it was her. “Is this about the job offer? Because if it is, I’m definitely not looking for a job.”
“Sorry, it’s just that…” He shook his head. “Can you cook anything else?”
She bristled again. “Of course. I can cook anything.”
“That’s big talk,” he said, his tone challenging. “I assume you’re willing to back it up?”
She glared across the table at him. “Name your terms.”
He grinned. “I can have the kitchen ready tomorrow. Say 9:00 a.m.? You don’t mind a little friendly competition?”
“You mean from your chef?”
He nodded, looking pleased with himself.
Not that she had to prove anything with her cooking. But damn if she wasn’t going to show him. She smiled across the table at him, wanting to cook something that would knock this cowboy and his chef on their ears.
They ate in a strangely companionable silence. She couldn’t remember a meal she’d enjoyed as much. After they’d finished, she started to pick up her casserole dish, but he put a hand over hers. There were only two meatballs and just a little sauce and spaghetti left.
“Mind if I finish that off later? I’d be happy to get your dish back to you tomorrow.”
She looked into his dark eyes, surprised that she hadn’t noticed before the tiny flecks of gold in all that warm-brownie chocolate. What was she thinking taking a cooking dare from this man?
She didn’t want a job in a restaurant. She was determined to make Cavanaugh Catering a success.
But she couldn’t let him think that she was a one-dish cook. No way. Her pride was at stake here.
And not just that, Laci realized as she left and headed home. Bridger Duvall had taken her mind off worrying about Alyson for a while. And for that she was thankful.
But when she reached home, she knew that she couldn’t put off calling her friend any longer. She dialed the number Alyson had given her for the hotel where they would be staying in Hawaii.
“I’m sorry, we have no one by that name registered here,” the desk clerk informed her.
“But that’s not possible,” Laci said. “Mrs. Spencer Donovan gave me this number.”
“When were they to arrive?” the clerk asked.
Laci told him and waited while he checked.
“Apparently Mr. Donovan canceled those reservations.”
Laci stood holding the phone, dumbstruck, her fear spiking. Spencer had canceled the hotel reservations? Why?
So Laci couldn’t warn Alyson.
AS BRIDGER HEADED out of town toward the ranch he rented outside of Old Town Whitehorse, he spotted the nursing home marquee announcing one of the resident’s birthdays. It was later than usual, but still he turned into the lot.
It had become a ritual, stopping by every day to pay Pearl Cavanaugh and the other elderly Whitehorse Sewing Circle women a visit. He’d been told by the nurses that Pearl had been quite the woman before her stroke.
While her mother may have started the quilting group and possibly the adoptions, there was little doubt that Pearl Cavanaugh had been the ringleader during the time that he and Eve were adopted.
He stuck his head in Pearl’s room. Her husband Titus visited every morning and early in the afternoon. Bridger made a point of making sure their paths didn’t cross. He’d attempted to ask Titus about the adoption ring but had been quickly rebuked and threatened with slander. If Titus knew anything, he wasn’t talking. Just like the rest of them.
Pearl was lying in bed, her blue eyes open and fixed on the ceiling.
“How are you doing today, Pearl?”
No response. But then, he hadn’t expected one.
He pulled up a chair beside her bed and looked into her soft-skinned wrinkled face. It reflected years of living, and yet there was a gentle strength about her. He wished he had known her before the stroke. Guilt consumed him since he felt he was partly to blame for putting her here. If he hadn’t come to Whitehorse looking for answers, maybe she wouldn’t have had the stroke.
He took her frail hand. The skin was thin and pale, lifeless. Her eyes moved to him. “Remember me? Bridger Duvall. I’m one of your babies.”
Did something change in her expression? He could never be sure as he told her—as he always did—about his adoptive parents, about growing up on a ranch outside of Roundup, Montana.
“I loved my parents and miss them terribly, but I still want to know who my birth mother is. From what everyone has told me about you,” he continued, “you have to have known that some of the children you adopted out would come looking for their birth parents. You would have kept a record.”
He thought he saw something flicker in her pale blue eyes—eyes the same exact color as her grand-daughter Laci’s. He was more convinced than ever that Pearl was in there, just unable to respond.
“You know who she is, don’t you?” He looked down at her hand. It was cool to the touch, the skin silken and thinly lined with veins. He stroked it gently.
“How to get that information out is the problem, huh? Don’t worry, I’ll be here every day to see you, and one of these days you’ll be able to tell me.” He smiled at her. “You’re going to get better.”
Tears welled in her eyes, and for a moment he thought she’d squeezed his hand just a little as he placed it carefully back on the bed.
As he rose, he saw that she was no longer looking at him but behind him. He spun around expecting to see Titus in the doorway, but it was another