Three Brides, No Groom. Debbie MacomberЧитать онлайн книгу.
that money and effort, all the planning and dreaming, had been wasted. Her face burned with humiliation, knowing she was the one who would have to deal with the cancellations. But what was the use in dwelling on the negative? The only important thing was that she couldn’t marry Roger.
After some time on the road, the deafening sound of the Harley vibrating in her ears, she shifted on the seat, both physically and mentally miserable. What had seemed daring and exciting a few hours earlier appeared exceedingly foolish now. Her back ached from holding herself upright and not leaning against Josh. Her legs felt as if they were locked into position, and she was certain her calves would soon cramp up on her. To top everything off, Josh apparently had the bladder of a camel.
When at last he did stop, she was afraid he would need to pry her off the bike with a crowbar. She looked around and realized they were at the ocean. Huge rolling waves crashed against the shore, then lovingly stroked a frothy trail across the sand. Large gray-and-white gulls circled overhead, and the scent of the sea lingered in the moist air. The sun was a brilliant orange disk on the horizon, ready to slip out of sight. Already dusk was settling in.
“Where are we?” she asked, easing first one leg and then the other away from the motorcycle. Josh lent her a hand, which she gratefully accepted.
“Cannon Beach, Oregon,” he replied.
Vaguely she recalled crossing the Columbia River at Astoria. She’d actually kept her eyes closed most of the time, needing to think. At this rate, she should be home within two days, three at the most.
With his hands braced on his hips, Josh surveyed the sky. “I don’t think it’ll rain.” He left her and walked toward the beach. She looked longingly at the public rest room but followed him, wanting to know where he intended to spend the night. It went without saying that they wouldn’t be sharing a room.
Her shoes quickly filled with sand, and she found keeping pace with him difficult.
“We’ll bed down here for the night,” he announced.
“Here?” she asked, looking around. All she saw was barren sand. “The beach?”
“Do you have any better ideas?”
She glanced over her shoulder at the long row of oceanfront hotels.
“For seventy-five bucks you’ll get a room the size of refrigerator,” he said, his gaze trained on the ocean.
She squared her shoulders. “Well, then, the beach it is.”
He grinned as if to say he admired her adventurous spirit. “There’s a shower in the public rest room, if you want to take one.”
Gretchen did. She was afraid to look in a mirror, certain there must be bugs glued to her teeth. Her clothes felt plastered to her body.
She took what she needed from the saddlebag—a towel, washcloth and her cosmetic case—and headed for the rest room. It smelled of urine and ocean, but looked clean enough. The shower stall, minus the curtain, was in one corner. She stripped off her clothes and stood under the spray. Despite the lukewarm temperature, it felt luxurious.
As she turned her face into the water, the ache returned to the pit of her stomach. She leaned against the back of the open stall and cradled her middle. That morning she’d awakened thinking all was right with the world. She had her business degree and within weeks would be wed to Roger. And now, in the space of a few hours, her reality had changed completely.
When the water turned from lukewarm to chilly, she reached for the towel. Once she was dressed, she felt better. It was when she combed out her long blond hair in front of the metal mirror that she made the decision. She stared at her distorted reflection, the comb halfway down the side of her head.
She had only herself to please now, not Roger. Her fingers trembled as she dug through her cosmetic bag until she found a small pair of scissors. Seizing the pale tresses, she snipped at the sides with erratic, disjointed motions. She hacked and cut until the long strands of hair lay at her feet like discarded remnants of spun gold. Despite the distorted reflection, she knew she’d brutalized her once lovely hair. Breathing hard, she waited several minutes before she gathered up the courage to go back outside.
By the time she left the rest room, the sun had completely set. A full moon cast a golden glow across the beach. Josh had spread out a blanket and lit a small driftwood fire, and was now working his pocket knife against a stick, whittling it to a point. He glanced up as she approached. He said nothing about her mutilated hair.
“There’s a grocery store not far from here,” he said. “I got us wieners and buns.”
Gretchen nodded, then self-consciously sat down on the end of a log and started to shake. Exhaling harshly, she raised her fingers to her head to investigate the damage. It wouldn’t have hurt to wait, she realized. In a couple of days she would be home, and a trained professional could have cut it. She could only guess how horrible she looked. Tears stung the back of her eyes.
“Give me the scissors,” Josh said gently.
She still had them clenched in her fist. He took them from her and sighed as he ran his fingers through the uneven tresses, his touch strangely intimate.
She swallowed tightly. “Roger insisted I keep it long,” she whispered. Cutting it had been an act of defiance, a way of casting her former fiancé from her life, but in doing so she’d only hurt herself.
Josh took his time clipping away here and there. At last he stood back to admire his handiwork. “Not bad,” he said with a slow smile. “Even if I do say so myself.”
Gretchen reached for her compact and flipped it open. With the light from the fire and the moon, she could see that his touch had been masterful. She barely recognized herself. She now wore a short pixielike cut that flattered her cheekbones and deep blue eyes.
Her gaze returned to Josh. “You’re a man of many talents. Thank you,” she murmured.
Her words appeared to please him. He reached for his knife and the stick he’d been sharpening earlier. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”
Gretchen couldn’t have eaten if her life depended on it. She sat with her chin resting on her knees and studied the fire. “You go ahead. I’m not hungry.”
They sat side by side, surrounded by the sound of the ocean and the crackle of the fire as he cooked himself a wiener.
“Is it true what Roger said?” she wondered aloud. “About your father being in prison?” She wasn’t sure what had prompted the question. Probably she should never have asked.
Josh stilled. “Yes.” But he didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t question him further. Although he claimed to be hungry, he didn’t eat more than one hot dog. For a long time afterward he sat cross-legged on the blanket he’d brought, staring into the flames as though hypnotized.
“Josh,” she whispered, after the uncomfortable silence grew too long to bear. He didn’t look at her right away. She waited until he grudgingly gave her his attention. “I’m sorry. I had no business asking you about your father.”
Without acknowledging her apology, he rose to his feet and disappeared into the darkness. She watched him go, resisting the urge to go after him and apologize again. Angry with herself, she pressed her forehead against her knees and wondered how she could have been so insensitive to a man who’d been nothing but kind and helpful.
After the tumultuous events of the day, she was convinced she would never be able to sleep. She stretched out on the blanket, covered herself with a thick sweater and tucked her head against her bent arm. She was asleep almost immediately, only to jerk awake a moment later. That happened several more times before the physical demands of her body won out over the emotional trauma of the day.
Gretchen wasn’t sure at what point during the night Josh joined her. Her eyes fluttered open to see that the fire had died down to glimmering coals. She was on her back, and all she could see was the dense spattering of stars above. She rolled