Cowboy Under the Mistletoe. Линда ГуднайтЧитать онлайн книгу.
“You’ll have to stick around Gabriel’s Crossing for a while and find out for yourself, my friend.”
“Can’t stay long, Manny.” He tried to keep the worry from his voice. “But I’m here until Granny Pat is better.” Even if it meant dealing with the Buchanons and dwindling cash flow.
“Maybe you stay for good this time. Gabriel’s Crossing is your home.”
Jake looked out over the cattle—his cattle—and thought of how often he’d longed to go back in time before he’d ruined everything. Before regret and rodeo were his daily companions. Back when he’d been a part of this town and the big Buchanon clan.
“Water under the bridge, Manny. The rodeo can’t get along without me.” Which wasn’t exactly true. Most seasons, he made a living, and arena dust got in a man’s blood. But he was sick and tired of the travel and the loneliness.
Manny’s dark gaze pierced him. “Still the bad blood?”
No point hiding from Manny. “Buchanons practically own this town. Coming back, even for a while, isn’t easy.”
Manny sighed and folded his brown, leathery hands on the iron railing. “The Buchanons are good people. By now, they will forgive you. Huh? You talk to them. Find out. Maybe you carry a burden for nothing.”
“I don’t think so, Manny. I talked to Allison.”
“You still sweet for that Buchanon girl?”
Jake felt a lot of things for Allison Buchanon that he couldn’t put a name to. Things he couldn’t allow into the conversation. Now or ever. “That was a long time ago. Before I ruined everything.”
If time healed wounds—and he prayed every night the Buchanons would heal—they didn’t need reminders of him to rip open the scab.
He swallowed the taste of regret. He didn’t like thinking about the accident, the worst day of his life, but the burden rode his back like a two-ton elephant. He could never forget it. Ever.
The accident or the girl.
* * *
Buchanon Construction was nothing more than a metal warehouse full of equipment with an office tacked on to one end. Inside that office at a U-shaped desk, Allison entered data for the Willow Creek project into her computer while blonde Jayla fielded phone calls and met with vendors selling ceramic tile or the latest eco-friendly appliances. The place was messy, practical and, other than the desk, bore little resemblance to a business office.
Not that she was thinking about business today with Jake Hamilton lurking in every thought.
Jake. The time at Miss Pat’s had been fun and eye-opening. She liked the handsome cowboy as much as ever. His gentle concern for his grandmother tugged at her, but more than that, being with him reminded her of what they’d had, of what might have been.
Jake was unfinished business.
Her twin brothers, Dawson and Sawyer, ambled in from the warehouse, smelling of sweat and doughnuts. “Mirror” twins, her brothers were lady magnets with black hair, blue eyes and bodies honed by years in the hands-on construction business.
Dawson’s dimple was on display because both men wore possum grins as if they knew a secret. Allison was relieved to see them smiling this morning. If they’d heard about Jake’s return, they wouldn’t be smiling.
“You can’t hide those from me. I have a nose for fresh-baked anything.” Allison held out a hand. “Gimme.”
“Greedy, isn’t she, Dawson?” Sawyer pulled a doughnut box from behind his back and held the white container above his head. At nearly a foot taller than Allison’s five-one, he had a distinct advantage.
“You want me to hop and jump and try to reach them while you laugh at me, don’t you?”
“Torment is our game. Hop, little sister.”
When she propped a hand on one hip and glared, he wiggled the box and said in a cajoling voice, “Come on. Hop. You know you want a hot, fresh doughnut from The Bakery.”
“Well, okay, if I must...” But instead of playing her brother’s ornery game, she poked a finger in his relaxed belly. His six-pack abs tightened, and when he curled inward with a “Hey!” Allison laughed and snatched the still-warm doughnut box.
“Greedy and sneaky,” she said as she popped open the box. “Yum. Maple with coconut. Did you bring milk?”
“Quinn’s supposed to be making fresh coffee in the back.”
“He’s so domestic.” She bit into the sweet dough and sighed, her mouth happy with the warm maple goodness.
“Don’t let him hear you say that.”
“Those things will give you a heart attack.” This from Jayla who held a palm over the telephone receiver. “I’m on hold about the Langley license.”
None of her three siblings paid Jayla any mind.
“Hey, Quinn,” Sawyer yelled toward the back of the warehouse. “What’s the holdup on that java?”
Quinn’s head appeared around the door leading into the warehouse. Golden haired and pretty, Allison thought he resembled a younger, bigger Brad Pitt.
“Some people work for a living.” He gave them all a scowling once over and disappeared again.
“I guess I’ll make the coffee.” Dawson headed into the warehouse, returning a short time later with a full carafe and a stack of disposable foam cups. “He’s in a happy mood today.”
“Which means he’s not,” Jayla said. “The Bartowskis asked for changes to the plans he finished over the weekend. Major changes.”
Sawyer snarled. “I hate when that happens.”
“He threatened to let Dawg bite them.”
“He is in a bad mood. Dawg wouldn’t bite a hot doughnut. Well, maybe he would, but you get the point.” Dawson leaned around the opened doorway. “Hey, Quinn, want a doughnut? Guaranteed to sweeten you up.”
A muffled reply about exactly what Dawson could do with his doughnuts had the siblings stifling snorts that would not be appreciated. They were loud enough, however, that Quinn stalked into the room, hazel eyes shooting sparks. “Something funny?”
Dawg low-crawled from behind Quinn and collapsed at Allison’s feet. “You’re scaring Brady’s dog. Where is Brady anyway?” She tossed the mutt a hunk of sweet roll. He snapped it in midair and tail-thumped in expectation of more.
“Open your mouth, Quinn,” she said, “and I’ll toss you a chunk.”
Quinn fisted a hand on his hip and allowed a grudging lip twitch. “You’d miss.”
“Can’t miss something that big.”
“Old joke, sis.” But with his better hand, he took a chocolate-covered pastry from the box. “Pour me a cup?”
Dawson obliged, handing the steaming brew to his brother. Quinn shifted the doughnut to his weaker right side to accept the coffee.
“Stinks about the plans.” Dawson lifted his ball cap and scratched at his unruly black waves.
“Part of the job.” As architect of Buchanon Construction, Quinn developed all their housing concepts, a recent turn of events, considering the slide into depression that had taken him away from home for too long. Even now, he wasn’t the most social Buchanon. “Those plans were exactly what they asked for. Now they want changes. I have a feeling this project may not be our favorite.”
“We could subcontract the entire project if the Bartowskis become a problem,” Dawson said.
“That would only make things worse. If a sub messes