The Baby Season. Alice SharpeЧитать онлайн книгу.
there when her shoe broke. At the sight of the tape recorder, Jack grimaced.
“What’s that for?” he demanded.
She held up the little contraption. “This?”
“Yeah. Who do you plan to record?”
“Dolly Aames, of course,” she said, throwing her belongings back in the now-tattered bag where they belonged.
“You should never have turned off the main highway,” he said, his voice as dry as the landscape. “This is all private property out here. It belongs to the High W Ranch. It’s well marked.”
“I didn’t see any signs,” she told him truthfully, but she suspected that even if she had, she would have taken a chance.
He grunted.
Roxanne indulged in more canteen water. Would a little tin sign nailed to a fence have dissuaded her from turning off the main road and trying to fulfill her grandmother’s fondest wish? Not likely!
“The signs are there,” he said firmly.
“But I didn’t see them. How can this be a ranch? I don’t see a single cow. Even if there are cows, what do they eat?”
“I’m still having trouble imagining someone dressed as inappropriately as you are striking out on her own,” he said, obviously not interested in discussing what the cows ate. “You should have carried water and stayed near your car. At the very least, you could have used your jacket to shade your head. If you were going to walk, then why not head back out to the highway? If I hadn’t come along…”
His voice trailed off. Even though she had thought the very same things, his observations made her bristle. “I’m sorry if I just flunked your version of Desert Survival 101. I’m new at this. I knew the highway was a long way back. The mountains looked closer. Besides, that was the direction I needed to go.”
Digging in her pocket, she extracted a yellowed envelope. “Dolly Aames,” she said evenly, “sent this letter to my grandmother almost forty years ago. See, the postmark on the envelope says Tangent, January, 1964.”
He stopped the truck in the middle of the empty road, then turned to her. Face on, within the tight confines of the truck cab, his presence was overwhelming and she gulped.
“Let me get this straight. You’re trying to track down a woman no one has heard from in forty years? What are you, a private eye? A bounty hunter?”
“I told you, I work for a television affiliate in Seattle. I produce midday news programming.”
“Produce? I would have thought you’d be in front of the camera.”
“The real power is behind the camera.”
“Power, huh? You’re one of those.”
“No, I’m not one of those. I just enjoy putting things together. Besides, I hate makeup, and have more bad hair days than good ones. Now, about Dolly Aames…”
His gaze traveled up to her hair and back again. She could only guess its current condition, but as he didn’t sputter a rebuttal, she imagined the worst. “Is this woman an escaped criminal or a notorious husband killer?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
“Then why did you come all the way from Seattle to find her? Is she a relative?”
“No. She’s an old friend of my grandmother’s.”
“So you traveled almost two thousand miles just to look up an old friend of the family? Why did your grandmother wait so many years to look for her?”
“It’s complicated,” Roxanne said, hedging. She didn’t want to go into the details of her grandmother’s illness just to satisfy this guy’s curiosity. Besides, she could barely stand to think about Grandma Nell’s symptoms and what they might portend. She added, “Grandma wants to reunite a singing group they both belonged to a long time ago.”
“And how about you? What do you want?”
She stared at him, unblinking, then muttered, “I want to help my grandmother.”
“Hmm—” Shaking his head he added, “Has it occurred to either one of you that this Dolly either moved away or died?”
“Of course. But you have to start somewhere.”
He shook his head. “Well, I think that’s pretty incredible. And very naive.”
Opening the envelope, she took out a small, faded photograph of a young woman standing next to a fence. Each rustic post was topped with the bleached skull of a long-horn, making it a rather grisly, if unique, setting. She shoved it under his nose.
He took it reluctantly.
“I stayed in Tangent last night and asked around town—not that it did me much good because most everything was already closed when I got there. Anyway, no one knew Dolly Aames, but the guy at the motel said this photo was taken at the juncture of this road and the highway. He told me how to get out here.”
“Was that Pete at the Cactus Gulch or Alan over at the Midtown?”
“I guess it was Pete. I just stayed there one night and checked out this morning. I can’t believe you know his name.”
“It’s a very small town,” Jack said, handing the photo back. “Okay, I’ll grant you that this photo was taken here, more or less. Those skulls were something of a landmark for a long time until I got rid of them. Still, people came from miles around to pose with the damn things, so I don’t see that the photo means anything. I don’t know who Dolly Aames is.”
“Hmm—”
“Maybe Sal will,” he said slowly, as though hesitant to admit he might have a way of helping.
“Really? Who’s Sal?”
“Sally Collins, but you’re a braver soul than I if you call her Sally instead of Sal. I have to warn you though, she’s not quite as forthcoming about these things as I am.”
“You’re forthcoming? You’ve got to be kidding.”
He cast her a serious look. “Roxanne, has it ever occurred to you that Dolly Aames may not want to be found?”
No, as a matter of fact it hadn’t.
Chapter Two
The house within the rolling hills turned out to be a sprawling white stucco structure with a red tile roof. Desert plants brought to life by vivid spills of flowers enhanced the aura of an oasis. Only a huge helium-filled bouquet of pink and white balloons tied to an old-fashioned pump provided a jarring note.
“Is this your place? It’s gorgeous.”
He cast her a speculative look as he circled the house and parked in front of a small barn. Next to it was another wooden building, this one long and low with a split-rail corral attached to one side. Within the corral were two horses who ambled over to the fence to stare at the truck and its passengers.
“Aren’t they cute?” she said. “What are their names?”
“The pregnant white mare is called Sprite and the bay gelding is Milo,” he said with a sidelong glance at her.
When Jack got out of the truck, the brown horse whinnied and the white horse tossed her head and snorted. After running a hand along their sleek necks, Jack reached back into the truck and snagged the pink box, keeping a firm grip on it in his large hand. His gaze met Roxanne’s, and he produced a shy grin.
It looked good on him, she decided. He really should try doing it more often.
This thought was cut short when a side door on the barn opened and out walked a large man with rounded shoulders. He wore a hat much like Jack’s though his was black and crisp instead of crumpled