Heartbreak Ranch. Fern MichaelsЧитать онлайн книгу.
opened the door and ran outside.
It was with something like dismay that Amy saw there was no army of birds, no dark, thunderous storm clouds, no hailstorm. Nothing! What then? An animal? She shrank back toward the door, pulling Toddy with her. Maybe the raccoon had come back and was on the roof. Or maybe something bigger—like a bear! Not wanting to take any chances, she turned to run inside.
The pounding stopped.
“Amy. You finally up?”
Both Amy and Toddy looked up and stared at the porch’s overhang as if they could see the speaker through the wood and shingle.
Not a raccoon. Not a bear. But a polecat named Walker Heart!
Toddy let loose with a series of howls and Amy stomped down the porch step into the open. A few paces out, she turned, shaded her eyes and glared up at Walker, who was straddling the peak of the roof.
“Mornin’.” Walker lifted a gloved hand. “I know it’s a mite early, but I wanted to—”
“Quiet!” Amy shouted at Toddy to stop his howling. Much to her surprise, the command silenced both Toddy and Walker. “What are you doing up there?”
Walker grinned. “Fixin’ the roof.”
“But it’s—it’s barely even light out.” Amy gestured at the sun, just beginning to creep over the horizon.
“It’s a big job. I needed to get an early start.”
“Well, you’ve certainly done that. I don’t suppose you could have given me some warning?”
“I told you that until I heard from the Pinkerton man, I was gonna run this ranch the way I always have. The roof has to be fixed before the next brandin’.”
Amy bristled at the reminder of the Pinkerton man, ignoring most of what else he said. Second to Walker’s kissing her, she’d thought of little else. “You still could have had the courtesy to tell me,” she snapped. “I spent a lot of time cleaning things up, and now, because of your hammering, there’s dirt all over everything.”
“So I see,” he intoned, his gaze traveling downward.
Confused by his answer and his too-intimate expression, Amy bent her head and looked down at herself. It wasn’t the dirt that made her draw in her breath, but that she was wearing her nightgown.
She could have screamed. Would have screamed if she hadn’t been so embarrassed. She grabbed
Toddy’s collar, made a dash for the house, then bolted the door behind her.
“I should have known he’d do something like this,” she said, looking down at Toddy. “He probably thinks if he makes our lives miserable enough we’ll just pick up and leave.” Toddy gave a low growl that Amy interpreted as agreement. She shook her head and patted him comfortingly. “No, don’t worry. We’re not leaving. We have every right to be here. Sort of.”
Feeling calmer after her talk with Toddy, she dashed around the house gathering up all her personal belongings, then piled them in the bedroom and covered them up. She draped a blue-checkered tablecloth over her mother’s painting and spread an old blanket over her bed quilt. The journal lay on the trunk beside the bed. She hadn’t had time to read it in its entirety, but perhaps today would be the day since she could do little else thanks to Walker.
Moments later Amy left the house carrying a blanket, a food basket and the journal. Toddy prancing by her side, she marched like an infantry soldier toward a grassy knoll near the corral. Considering Walker’s curiosity of what was in her bedroom, she wanted to stay close enough to the house to keep an eye on him.
“Hey! Where are you going?” Walker called after her.
Amy jutted out her chin and kept walking, her sights set on an oak tree. The tree’s leafy branches would provide shade and its trunk would make a solid backrest. She laid her blanket beneath the tree and sat down.
“Sit, Toddy.” As soon as he sat, she removed his leash, confidant he’d stay close. Two days ago he’d learned his lesson about chasing cattle when one of them chased him. Since then, he’d been content to observe them from afar.
After situating herself, Amy opened the journal to the section entitled “My Life—Bella Duprey” and began reading.
My darling Amy,
If you are reading this, it is because I am unable to educate you in the Art Of Fascination. It is not my wish that you follow in my footsteps and become a courtesan. I want more for you than that. I want you to have a home, a husband and a family—all the things I never had. Because I know you want this, too, I have written this journal in the hopes that it will help you attract, manage and keep the man you love.
Here, in these pages, you will find the secrets of my success—methods and techniques in the art of understanding and pleasing a man. Some of them may shock you. Others you may find laughable. But trust me, done properly, they all work! One word of caution—if you are not desirous of a particular man’s attentions, be wary of casual experimentation.
Amy hadn’t realized that the journal was written specifically for her, although Howard had suggested as much. That her mother would go to so much work for her benefit brought a smile to her lips and tears to her eyes.
She turned the page and was immediately engrossed in her mother’s writings. She read that her mother had made a habit of observing men—their likes, dislikes and responses. With this knowledge, she felt she could assess a man’s temperament as well as determine the best way to enhance his sexual pleasure. Each page confirmed just how dedicated her mother had been to her profession. She’d left nothing to chance. After purchasing the Cock O’ The Walk, she’d hired a Chinese herbalist to help her develop aphrodisiacs, elixirs and potions to soothe the mind, heal the body and heighten sexual pleasure.
This explained the bottles in the bottom of the trunk.
Amy skimmed through the pages of the recipe section, thinking of them as witches’ brews. Then a thought crossed her mind. Might there be a potion she could mix up and use on Walker to soften his heart? She quickly turned the page, chiding herself for even thinking such a thing. If there was such a magical formula, she could never bring herself to use it.
Amy figured it was well past noon by the way the shadows fell. She had to read only another twenty pages or so of the journal and she’d be finished. Tired of sitting, she stretched out on her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows.
Toddy lay down beside her and rested his long nose between his front paws.
To become accomplished in the Art of Fascination, you must be willing to explore even the most unconventional methods. Several years ago an idea came to me quite by accident, after a devoted gentleman friend gave me Toddy.
Curious as to how Toddy figured into things, Amy leaned closer to the page, not wanting to miss a single word. Nothing could have surprised her more than to read her mother’s theory that a man could be trained in much the same way as a dog. She laughed out loud at the ridiculousness of it but continued to read—page after page of instruction on how to correct a man’s behavioral problems with training methods similar to those used for a dog.
It is all in the communication. You must make very clear what you want. And use short commands because men, like dogs, sometimes get confused.
Now Amy knew what Howard meant when he said Toddy taught Bella more about men than all the courtesans in France.
“Toddy, sit,” Amy said, putting her mother’s theory to test. The big poodle sat down. “Good boy,” she congratulated him. “Speak.” He began to bark. “Quiet,” she told him and he stopped.
It was then she remembered that this morning she had seen for herself how commanding Toddy to be quiet had inadvertently silenced Walker, as well. And when Walker had ruined her only decent batch of biscuits, she’d