The Rancher's City Girl. Patricia JohnsЧитать онлайн книгу.
for the job with Mr. Bessler. She’d grown up in Billings, the largest city in Montana, and while she was well acquainted with cowboys—what Montana girl wasn’t?—she still felt a sense of admiration when she saw the real thing. He loomed head and shoulders taller than she was, and his cowboy boots clunked solidly against the hardwood floor. A hint of musk lingered near, and despite his wide shoulders and obvious strength, he moved with ease.
“Please sit down.” Eloise gestured into the sitting room, and the big man dwarfed the sofa as he sank into its depths.
“How is my father doing?” Cory asked.
“He doesn’t have much strength left, and he’s in a lot of pain,” she replied, perching on the edge of a chair opposite him. “It’s better to let him sleep when he’s able to. Sometimes the pain keeps him awake, so the more rest he can get, the better.”
Cory nodded. “It’s okay. I don’t want to wake him up.”
“He doesn’t know I called you.” Eloise blushed and cleared her throat. “So this will be a little delicate.”
A grin broke over the man’s face. “I’ll be a surprise, then.”
“That’s one way to put it.”
“So, how did you find out about me?” he asked.
“From him.”
“My father told you about me?” Cory raised his eyebrows.
Eloise paused, unsure how much information to divulge. “He always said he had no family, so when he mentioned a son, I did an online search. I was a little surprised to find you as quickly as I did. I thought it best to tell you that there wasn’t much time left if you wanted to connect with him.”
Cory nodded slowly and fiddled with the edge of his hat. His hands were calloused and rough, nothing like Eloise’s ex-husband’s smooth fingers. She swatted back the memories, irritated with how quickly they seemed to rise lately. Philip had left her for another woman two years ago. He’d moved on with the woman, but obviously, if Eloise was comparing a rugged rancher to her lawyer ex-husband, she wasn’t as over him as she’d like to think.
“You didn’t say how much time he has when we spoke,” Cory said.
Eloise pulled her attention back to the task at hand. “I don’t know. His cancer is aggressive and he’s refused more treatment. So it won’t be very long.”
“How long have you worked for him?”
“For the past six months.” Eloise glanced in the direction of Mr. Bessler’s bedroom. “Your father is a very complicated man, but he has a softer side, too. I’m sure you know that.”
“I don’t know him at all,” Cory admitted. “I’ve never met him.”
“Never?” Eloise sucked in a breath. “You didn’t think to mention that on the phone?”
“I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”
“He’ll be angrier than I thought.” She smiled wanly and tucked that stray curl behind her ear once more. “I’d just assumed that you would have seen him at some point from the way he talked about you.”
Cory looked uncomfortable. “No, ma’am. He was out of the picture before I was even born.”
“I suppose I should warn you, then. The medication doesn’t control the pain as well as it used to, so—”
“He’s cantankerous?”
Eloise nodded. “He doesn’t mince words.”
“Thanks for the heads-up.”
Eloise pushed the feeling of dread back down into her stomach. She’d gone through this scenario in her head a hundred times since their telephone conversation, but not once did she imagine she’d orchestrate the meeting between a son and father who had never laid eyes on each other.
This is so much worse than I thought...
A thin voice wavered from the bedroom, “Red?”
Eloise forced a smile and stood. “It looks like he’s awake now. I’ll be back.”
As she left the room, her heart hammered in her chest. A week ago, this seemed like the best course of action, but now she wasn’t so sure. Not that it mattered—the time of reckoning had come. She wished she could close her eyes and be anywhere else—a play, perhaps, or in a bustling little coffee shop in downtown Billings, a city big enough to swallow her up. Instead it was time to face the consequences of her phone call to Cory Stone.
Entering the bedroom, she found Mr. Bessler struggling to sit up, and he grunted with effort. Eloise hurried forward and helped him the rest of the way. He nodded his thanks, his breath coming in short gasps. Eloise put the breathing tubes in his nose and turned on the flow of oxygen-rich air.
“Where are my pills?” he muttered, and she pushed a paper cup of pills forward. He tipped them into his mouth with a shaky hand and slurped the water she offered him. He shut his eyes, inhaling through his nose.
“You slept for a few hours,” Eloise said quietly. “How do you feel now?”
“No better. I’m dying.” He opened his eyes to shoot her an irritated look.
“You aren’t gone yet, Mr. Bessler.” She took the cup away.
“I heard voices in the other room.” He turned his head toward the wall. “You have a boyfriend visit when I sleep?”
“Hardly.” She chuckled. “You give me too much credit for a personal life.”
“Then who is it?” the old man demanded.
“A visitor for you.”
“Who?”
Eloise turned her back to get the old man’s slippers and brought them by the bed, then busied herself with his wheelchair.
“Do you want to come out to the living room to talk to him?” she asked. “Or would you rather have him come in here?”
“I’ll go out there.” Mr. Bessler pushed himself up and allowed Eloise to steady him as he slid his feet into the slippers. “Why on earth would I have somebody into my bedroom? Can’t a man have any privacy?” He grumbled until he was settled in his chair.
“Ready now?” Eloise asked cheerily.
“Who is it?” he repeated.
“You’ll see,” she replied as she wheeled him out into the hallway.
“If there are balloons and a cake, you’re fired,” he muttered, and Eloise chuckled.
“I would expect nothing less.”
As Eloise rolled Mr. Bessler’s chair into the room, Cory rose. He towered over the small sitting room, broad shoulders blocking out the light from the window behind him. A piano sat against one wall, and doilies adorned every surface from side tables to the back and arms of the couch—Mr. Bessler’s late wife’s addition to the decor. Cory scrubbed a hand through his dark hair and he locked dark, pensive eyes on the old man.
“Whatever you’re selling,” Mr. Bessler said, “I’m not interested.”
Cory’s gaze flickered toward Eloise, then back to his father. “I’m Cory Stone.”
Eloise settled her patient by the couch. She held her breath, utterly unsure of what to expect from her charge. For a long moment, no one said a word; then Mr. Bessler broke the silence.
“Your mother gave you her last name. Seems appropriate.”
“She thought so,” Cory agreed.
“And why are you here?” the old man queried.
“To meet you. You’re my father.”
“To