New Way to Fly. Margot DaltonЧитать онлайн книгу.
down at the river. Actually jumped into a whirlpool, dragged me out coughing and spitting like a drowned rat. Afterward, my parents found out he couldn’t swim a stroke himself, he just sort of acted on instinct. I had a terrible crush on him for about five years after that.”
“But what’s he like, Bev? What kind of family does he have?”
“Poor Brock, he doesn’t have a family. Never did, not to speak of. His mama died when he was just young, and his daddy was such a bad apple that Brock did most of the parenting. When he was just a teenager he worked like a man, ran the whole ranch, they say, while his daddy was off drinking and playing cards.”
Amanda thought again of the clear steady dark eyes, the quiet uncompromising look of the man.
“So,” she began slowly, “he has no formal education at all?”
“No,” Beverly said cheerfully. “A high school diploma, I guess, and that’s about it. Poor Brock, he’s always just been a hardworking rancher, as long as I can remember.”
“Is he married?”
Beverly shook her head. “Never has been. Women chase after him all the time, and he sure doesn’t mind their company, but Brock Munroe just doesn’t seem to be the marryin’ kind, if you know what I mean. As far as I can recall, he’s never even gotten really serious about anyone.”
“But when he does get serious about someone, what will she be like, do you think?”
Beverly shrugged. “Who knows? Likely she’ll be some nice wholesome ranch girl who can brand a steer and string a fence line, and raise him up a whole brood of curly-haired little kids.”
Amanda was silent, absorbing this image, wondering at her sudden wistfulness and the new thrust of pain that stabbed at her. It was, in fact, quite similar to the pain she experienced when she thought of Edward with his young model. And yet this pain had a different quality about it, something more subtle and hurtful….
“Why?” Beverly asked, rummaging busily in the glove compartment again. “You know, I thought I had some peanuts in here,” she complained. “I’m sure I…oh, good, here they are. Why all the interest in Brock Munroe?” she added casually, opening the plastic container and pouring a mound of salty nuts onto her palm. “Care for some nuts, Mandy?”
Amanda shook her head in disbelief. “Beverly Townsend, I swear I don’t know why you don’t weigh two hundred pounds. I’m not interested in Brock Munroe,” she added just as casually. “We just got involved in kind of a weird conversation, that’s all, and I was really grateful when you rescued me. Guess who else I talked to?” she added brightly, changing her mind and taking several peanuts from Beverly’s outstretched hand.
“Who? I thought you didn’t talk to anybody. I was sure you just stood alone in that damned corner all night long.”
“I talked to Mary Gibson. And guess what, Bev? She wants to look at some clothes!”
“That’s great,” Beverly said, “but I don’t think Mary can afford designer clothes.”
“She can’t,” Amanda said, and launched into her fabrication about the ill client.
For the rest of the trip, missing boyfriends, disturbing poetry, fears and loneliness were all forgotten as the two young women planned the transformation of Mary Gibson.
THEY WERE so beautiful, the ostriches in Mary Gibson’s dream. There were always three of them, two females and a big arrogant male, their huge obsidian eyes wise and gentle, their iridescent feathers glittering like rainbows in the hot desert sun. The birds ran and circled Mary, who sat mesmerized by their lofty grace. Then, gradually, the big male began to drift closer and closer to her, his powerful legs churning slowly, his long neck outstretched in invitation.
In the wondering, slow motion of dreams, he finally knelt and allowed Mary to climb on his back, and then they were off, skimming over the desert sands while she clung to his warm feathers, riding the wind and feeling the sun-warmed sand go flashing past in dizzying cartwheels of light. She was so happy in the dream, free of pain and loneliness, free of everything in the world, ears singing, heart pounding with a wild fierce exultation….
Gradually consciousness replaced the dream. Pain flowed in, the old dull ache that was now so much a part of Mary Gibson’s life. The ostriches faded, pushed aside by memories of the party at the Double C.
Mary moaned and rolled over in bed, pulling the pillow over her head, trying to shut out the images of her neighbors’ pitying faces and tactfully averted glances, of Billie Jo Dumont’s smug grin and lush swaying hips. Worst of all was the memory of Mary herself, actually agreeing to look at clothes with that glamorous television lady…
“God help me, I must be crazy,” Mary whispered aloud into the muffling depths of the pillow. “What on earth could I have been thinking about? What do I need stylish clothes for?”
She rolled over again, and lay staring at the ceiling, thinking about Amanda Walker’s dark classic beauty and her calm sweet air.
Mary admired women who managed to look perfect on all occasions. Mary herself always felt, even when she did dress up, that there was something not quite right, something hanging or bunching or fitted wrong, something smeared or rumpled or clashing with something else.
Of course, she thought, moving restlessly in the wide lonely bed and gazing up at the ceiling, she’d never had much chance to learn how to dress and make herself up. She’d been married at nineteen, and life had been such a struggle in those early years that there was no money for a young ranch wife to think about getting herself rigged up fashionably.
Still, she and Al had been so happy in those days. They spent their time working and building, laughing together in the sunshine, playing with their little girl….
Tears stung in Mary’s eyes and burned hotly against her cheeks. She snatched a tissue from the bedside table and dabbed at her face impatiently, disgusted with herself. “I’ve done enough crying,” she muttered aloud, a habit she’d acquired since the dreadful day when they’d taken Al away. “I’m not going to cry anymore, dammit.”
But it was hard not to cry when she remembered all the pain and confusion. Thirty-five years of marriage, Mary thought bleakly. All those years of planning and building and loving and caring, washed away in a single moment by a car swallowed up in the dust.
She hadn’t been to the jail to visit him, and she didn’t know if she ever wanted to, though she’d gotten a couple of letters from him begging her to come, telling her that they needed to discuss urgent business about the ranch.
“Can you imagine Bubba Gibson sitting in prison?” the neighbors were whispering to one another. “Bubba Gibson, locked away in some little ol’ jail cell, with nothing to look at but four walls?”
And Mary tried sometimes, but she just couldn’t. When she pictured her husband he was always outdoors somewhere, striding across the sun-warmed grass in big booted feet or riding out among his cattle herd, casting a fishing line into the river or standing on a hillside in the sunset with the autumn wind riffling his hair.
He deserves every single thing that’s happened to him, Mary thought defensively. He brought it all on himself, and now he’s paying, just like he should.
At least he recognized that, she reflected morosely. He’d refused J.T.’s offer to bail him out, saying he deserved his punishment and he’d take it like a man. Or so J.T. had told her later. But Martin had insisted on ensuring he’d gotten a speedy trial, with the eligibility of parole for good behaviour, especially in light of the fact he’d testified against that horrible man who actually made it his business to murder innocent animals.
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