Lone Star Winter. Diana PalmerЧитать онлайн книгу.
on yours. It’s good land, and it adjoins your property.” He pursed his chiseled lips. “Is that the only merger you’re contemplating?”
Cy’s eyes narrowed. “She’s only been widowed two weeks,” he pointed out.
Blake nodded. “I know that. But she’s going to have a hard time paying rent. She doesn’t even have a job anymore.”
Cy studied him evenly.
“Well, I guess I could use a receptionist,” he said. “Callie Kirby is my paralegal, and she can’t really handle the research and the phones at the same time. Besides, Lisa worked for a colleague of mine last year. She knows her way around a law office.”
“What happened to the brunette who works with Callie?” Cy asked.
“Gretchen’s gone off to Morocco with a girlfriend from Houston,” Blake said with a chuckle. “She spent the past few years nursing her mother through a fatal bout of cancer,” he added solemnly. “And then the first man who took a shine to her insurance money broke her young heart. She needed a change of scene, and she said she doesn’t want to work in a law office when she comes back. So there’s a job available, if Lisa wants it.”
“I’ll tell her. Thanks.”
He shrugged. “We all like Lisa. She’s had a rough deal, one way or another.”
“She has indeed. Now, about those appraisals…”
When Cy came to pick Lisa up for their trip to the opera, he was wearing a navy sports coat with dark slacks and a white shirt. His tie combined red and navy in a paisley print. He looked dignified and very handsome. Lisa was glad he hadn’t worn a dinner jacket, be cause she had nothing that dressy in her small wardrobe. The best she could find was a simple gray jersey dress with long sleeves and a skirt that fell to her calves. She covered it with her one luxury, a lightweight black microfiber coat that was warm against the unseasonably cool autumn winds. Her hair was in a neat, complicated braid and she wore more makeup than usual to disguise her dark-circled eyes. She slept badly or not at all lately, and not completely because she missed Walt. She was having some discomfort that concerned her. She knew that pregnancies could fail in the early weeks, and it bothered her. She really needed to talk to her doctor when she went for the next visit. It might be nothing, but she didn’t want to take any chances with her baby.
“Not bad at all,” Cy mused, watching her pull on the coat over her clinging dress. She had a pretty figure.
“Thank you,” she said, coloring a little. “You look nice, too.”
“I talked to my attorney about the property,” he said after he helped her into the utility vehicle and started the engine. “He’s contacted two appraisal firms. They’ll be out next week to see the ranch and give you an estimate.”
That worried her. She hated seeing the family ranch go out of the family, but what choice did she have? She smiled wanly. “Walt was planning a dynasty,” she recalled. “He talked about all sorts of improvements we could make, but when I mentioned having kids to inherit it, he went cold as ice.”
Cy glanced at her. “Not much point in working yourself to death just to have the empire go on the market the minute you’re in the ground.”
“That’s what I thought.” She turned her small purse over in her lap. “It’s just as well that you’ll have the ranch,” she added. “You’ll know how to make it prosper.”
“You’ll still be living there,” he pointed out. “I’ll be a damned good landlord, too.”
“Oh, I know that.” She stretched. “I’ll still have to get a job, though. I’ll want to put what I get for the ranch into a savings account, so the baby can go to college.”
She surprised him constantly. He’d thought she might want to brighten up the house, even buy herself a decent car. But she was thinking ahead, to the day when her child would need to continue his education.
“Nothing for you?” he asked.
“I’ve got everything I really need,” she said. “I don’t have expensive tastes—even if Walt did. Besides, I’ve got a little nest egg left over from some cattle Walt sold off before he…before he died.”
“I know of a job, if you want it.”
He distracted her, which was what she supposed he’d intended. “Really?”
“Kemp needs a receptionist,” he said. “Gretchen’s gone off to Morocco and she isn’t coming back to work for him. So now Callie Kirby’s up to her ears in work. Kemp said you’d be welcome.”
“What a nice man!” she exclaimed.
“Now there’s a word that doesn’t connect itself with Kemp.” He gave a soft laugh. “Or didn’t you know that people talk in whispers around him?”
“He doesn’t seem that bad.”
“He isn’t, to people he likes.” His eyes softened as they searched her averted face. “He’ll like you, Lisa Monroe. You’re good people.”
“Thanks. So are you.”
“Occasionally.”
She glanced in his direction and smiled. “It’s funny, isn’t it, the way we get along? I was scared to death of you when you first moved here. You were so remote and difficult to talk to. People said you made rattlesnakes look companionable by comparison.”
“I moved here not long after I buried my wife and son,” he replied, and memories clawed at his mind. “I hated the whole world.”
“Why did you move here?” she asked curiously.
He wasn’t surprised that she felt comfortable asking him questions. He wouldn’t have tolerated it from anyone else. But Lisa, already, was under his thick skin. “I needed someone to talk to, I guess,” he confessed. “Eb lived here, and he and I go back a long way. He’d never married, but he knew what it was to lose people. I could talk to him.”
“You can talk to me, too,” she pointed out. “I never tell what I know.”
He smiled at her. “Who would you tell it to?” he drawled. “You don’t have close friends, do you?”
She shrugged. “All my friends got married right out of high school. They’ve got kids of their own and, until fairly recently, I didn’t even date much. I’ve been the odd one out most of my life. Other girls wanted to talk about boys, and I wanted to talk about organic gardening. I love growing things.”
“We’ll have to lay out a big garden spot for you next spring. You can grow all sorts of stuff.”
“That would be nice. I’ve got a compost pile,” she added brightly. “It’s full of disgusting things that will produce terrific tomatoes next summer.”
“I like cattle, but I’m not much of a gardener.”
“It’s a lot of work, but you get lovely things to eat, and they aren’t poisoned by pesticides, either.” She glanced out at the long, flat dark horizon. “I guess you aren’t big on people who don’t like to use chemicals.”
“Haven’t you heard?” he chuckled. “I go to cattlemen’s association meetings with J. D. Langley and the Tremayne brothers.”
“Oh, my,” she said, because she’d heard about the uproar at some of those gatherings, where the Tremaynes had been in fistfights over pesticides and growth hormones. Their position against such things was legendary.
“I enjoy a good fight,” he added. “I use bugs for pest control and organic fertilizer on my hay and corn and soybean crops.” He glanced her way. “Guess where I get the fertilizer?”
“Recycled grass, huh?” she asked, and waited for him to get the point.
He threw back