Особое чувство собственного ирландства. Пат Инголдзби
it’s none of my business why you’re here.”
She looked disappointed. Which didn’t make an iota of sense to Quito. The woman had walked out of his life years ago. Granted, she’d said she was doing it all in the name of love. But she’d never come back to his little corner of the world. And for Quito that had pretty much exposed the truth of her feelings.
“Oh,” she said and then a frown marred her pretty face. “Well, why didn’t you tell me you’d been shot?”
So she’d heard about that already, he thought grimly. But hell, what did that matter, he reasoned. He wasn’t trying to be a superhero in her eyes anymore.
“Look, Clementine, I just stopped by your table to say hello. That’s all. What in hell do you expect from me, anyway?”
Her eyes were suddenly stricken with dark shadows and he couldn’t miss the slight quiver of her lips as she murmured huskily, “I don’t know, Quito.”
Damn it, he was going to have to tell the doctor that something inside his chest had ripped open. Some of that sewing they’d done on him must have pulled apart because there was a pain between his lungs like he’d never felt before.
A hot westerly breeze picked up her long hair and she caught the shiny strands with her hand as she turned and walked away from him.
Torn with all sorts of emotions, Quito watched her for a few seconds, then cursed under his breath and hurried to catch up with her.
By the time his hand closed around her upper arm, his breathing was rapid and labored. Clementine stopped her forward motion and turned to study him with concern.
“Quito, are you all right?”
No, he was far from all right, he wanted to tell her. He’d had enough trouble this past month without the only woman he’d ever loved showing up to bring back all sorts of pain and misery.
“One of my lungs collapsed and two of my ribs were shattered from the gunfire. I’m not totally well yet,” he admitted.
“I’m so sorry.”
She looked both sincere and concerned but Quito wasn’t going to be sucker enough to believe her this time.
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too,” he muttered.
She drew in a long, bracing breath as she continued to hold her blond hair away from her face. “Look, Quito, for what it’s worth I didn’t come up here to cause you any sort of problems. My parents willed the house to me and I’ve come up to see about putting it on the market. That’s all.”
He forced the tension in his body to relax and only then did he realize his fingers were still gripping her upper arm. He dropped his hand and said, “I didn’t really think you were here because of me. All of that was a long time ago. No sense in rehashing it.”
Except that loving her still continued to affect his life. All the days and months and years that had spanned between them should have erased her from his mind, he thought helplessly. Yet the time hadn’t done anything to dull the light of joy she brought to his heart.
She gave him a shaky smile. “I’m glad you feel that way, Quito.” She glanced thoughtfully toward her car, then back at him. “I’m on my way to the house. Why don’t you come with me? I haven’t been there in years and I’m almost afraid of what I’ll find.”
His initial instinct was to turn down her invitation. He didn’t need to spend any more time with this woman than necessary. But the hungry, wounded part of him couldn’t resist. For years he’d dreamed about seeing this woman again. Now that she was here, he might as well live the dream a little longer, he thought.
“Sure. I haven’t seen it in a long time, either,” he said. “I’ll follow you in the squad car.”
With a nervous smile, she nodded. “See you there.”
Had she gone crazy? Clementine asked herself as she started the car with shaky fingers and pulled onto the highway. What had possessed her to invite Quito to join her at the house?
Silly woman you know why you invited him. Because you never could resist him and these next few minutes might be the last you ever have with him.
Trying to put that black thought from her mind, Clementine concentrated on her driving and dared not to look in the rearview mirror. Just knowing he was directly behind her was enough to distract her.
Two miles passed before Clementine made a right-hand turn and pulled up to massive iron gates supported by two tall columns made of Colorado rock.
The gates were secured with a combination lock. She rolled the correct numbers and once the lock released she pushed the gates aside.
Before she slid back into her car, she walked back to the driver’s window on Quito’s car. He lowered the glass and looked at her.
“I just wanted to tell you not to bother locking the gates behind you. I’ve decided to leave them open while I’m here.”
“All right,” he replied.
She glanced toward the entrance. Clumps of sage had grown up around the rock columns and the two willows that her father had planted were now huge and drooping a deep shade across the driveway. It all looked so different and beautiful and for a moment hot moisture stung her eyes.
“It’s so grown-up,” she murmured.
“Things have a way of changing with time, Clementine.”
Oh, yes, she understood that better than anyone, she thought wistfully.
After a moment, she said, “Well, guess we’d better go on up.”
The drive up to the Jones house was less than a mile, but it seemed much farther. The road curved and climbed the whole distance and on either side of the rough track old twisted juniper stood like crippled warriors proudly hanging on to what little greenery they had left. The dirt was red and bare and some sort of sage was blooming pink and yellow. It was wild and beautiful scenery and Clementine wondered what it would be like to live here again, to see the fresh blue sky and breathe in the clean, crisp air of the high desert.
Don’t even think about it, Clementine. If you stayed your problems would eventually follow you. And then where would you be? Your staying might even put your old friends in danger.
Shaking that grim notion away, she gripped the wheel and tried to focus on the huge potholes scattered here and there on the deteriorated road. Finally the pathway flattened out to a level spot some several feet below the house. Clementine parked her car to one side so that Quito would have ample room, then climbed out to the ground.
As she waited for him to join her, she stared up at the huge structure where she and her parents had once lived in.
By Houston standards, the place really wasn’t anything to brag about. But in this area it was considered majestic, and had especially been admired eleven years ago when her father, Wilfred Jones, had it built.
The house was hacienda style with stuccoed walls in yellow-beige, a red tiled roof, and a long, ground level porch with arched supports running along the front. At the back of the structure an upstairs housed two more bedrooms to add to those on the ground floor. Off the second floor a large sundeck had been built of treated redwood. It was a spot where Clementine had often donned a bikini and lain in the warm sun.
Walking up behind her, Quito lifted his gaze toward the empty house. “Looks like you’ve been lucky. No vandalism. Which is surprising for as long as this place has been empty.”
“Daddy still has the place equipped with an alarm system. I’m sure that’s helped.”
“Yeah, that and the fact that most young people are too lazy to walk all the way up here from the highway.”
“Let’s go take a look around,” she said and without looking to see if he was following, she started up the twenty-five steps that would eventually take her