The Mccaffertys: Matt. Lisa Jackson
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Texas soil than they’d ever been in the home of his ancestors.
“But why do you like it here so much?” Moira persisted with characteristic doggedness.
“Texas is almost ten times bigger than Scotland.” Doug shifted the burden of the sleeping child in his arms. “But it has only twice the population. And the sunshine warms me clear to the bones, Moira. I love this place.”
He gazed off at the rolling hills with their scattering of trees and rimrock outcroppings that sometimes reminded him of his homeland, especially on these blue, misty winter days.
“You know Mr. Wall, in the drugstore?” Moira gave her uncle a worried glance. “Mr. Wall says Crystal Creek is dying.”
“Does he now?” Doug said grimly.
“Yesterday Robin and I were in the store buying Gummi Bears, and he said I should tell you that half the people in the town will pack up and leave this year if they can’t get their taxes lowered.”
Doug, who was normally an easygoing man, felt a surge of real anger when he thought about the fat, gossipy druggist using children to carry his messages.
“Well, if Mr. Wall says something like that to you in future,” he told the girl, trying to keep his voice casual, “maybe you could suggest, my darling, that he might want to bring his concerns to me instead of telling them to a nine-year-old child.”
“I don’t like him.” Moira grimaced and scuffed her toe on the sidewalk. “Mr. Wall smiles all the time, but I think he’s mean.”
“Never trust a man who smiles too much,” Doug said. “Often they’re—”
He stopped abruptly, clutching Robin tightly in his arms.
“What’s the matter?” Moira asked, squinting up at her uncle.
Doug stared at the sandstone bulk of the Crystal Creek Hotel, a building on which he’d lavished a great deal of money and hard work since his arrival. The hotel’s facade glistened in the afternoon sunlight, its windows flaring gold against the darkening sky to the east. The freshly painted sign above the lobby entrance was as bright as a new coin, and all the windows shone.
A sleek yellow Mercedes was parked on the street in front of the hotel.
“Is it her?” Moira breathed, standing tensely at his side and staring along with him. “Do you think it’s the magic lady?”
“I believe it is.” Doug knew the reaction was absurd, but he felt his heart beginning to pound with excitement against his rib cage. “You know, sweetie, I do believe it is.”
“What does she want?”
He began to walk again, forgetting all about adjusting his pace to Moira’s. She puffed along at his side, looking up at him anxiously.
“Why is she here, Uncle Doug?”
“We’ll soon know, won’t we, Pumpkin?” Doug mounted the wide brick steps of the hotel and entered the lobby with the little girls, pausing to let his eyes adjust to the lack of sunlight.
Since her arrival the previous spring, Rose had worked along with Doug to redecorate the hotel’s interior. Now the old brasses shone, the woodwork gleamed with a satiny finish and chintz brightened the windows and the lobby furniture. The place had a rustic charm that drew guests from all over the Hill Country and beyond, making the Crystal Creek Hotel one of the few really thriving businesses in town.
On the back of a chintz sofa near the window, a big tabby cat drowsed lazily in the sun. She belonged to Doug and was named Dundee. Though he’d acquired her from June Pollock just a few years earlier, this plump female continued a long line of “Dundees” that stretched all the way back to his boyhood in Scotland.
But nothing in the lobby registered on its owner’s mind at this moment. Doug’s eyes were fixed on the scene at the reception desk, where Rose perched on a high stool behind the polished wooden counter, appearing so worried that Doug felt a stirring of protective concern.
Rose looked exactly like their mother, and a lot like little Moira. His sister was a small, dainty woman with fine blond hair and big blue eyes that often seemed anxious and frightened. She wore a blue sweater over a plaid shirt, and chewed the end of a pencil, gazing in distraught fashion at the hotel register.
Two people stood in front of Rose at the desk, surrounded by a small mountain of expensive-looking luggage. One of them was a handsome young blond man in khakis and a battered leather jacket. The other was Moira’s “magic lady”—the dark-haired driver of the yellow car.
The sight of them was confusing to Doug, rendering him temporarily speechless. Every time he’d seen the mysterious young woman she’d been alone. Somehow he’d never associated her with a man. He felt a sharp pang which he realized was disappointment.
But of course, that was ridiculous…
“They want a two-bedroom suite for an extended period of time.” Rose turned to her brother with obvious relief. “But they need all kinds of telephone outlets, too. I told them we only have the…”
Doug placed Robin carefully on one of the sofas by the old rock fireplace, then turned to face the group at the desk.
“We can give them the gold rooms on the second floor,” he said to Rose.
Rose smiled and handed him a key.
“It’s not exactly a suite,” Doug told the guests, “but the two adjoining bedrooms have doors that lead to a common sitting room.”
“Sounds perfect.” The young man gave Rose an engaging smile. “Don’t worry, ma’am, adjoining rooms will suit us just fine.”
Rose’s shy, delicate face turned an even deeper shade of pink. “This is my brother,” she said, her Scottish burr very pronounced. “He’s Douglas Evans, the proprietor of the hotel. Dougie, this is Margaret and Terence Embree, from Los Angeles.”
“Terry,” the young man said, coming forward to shake Doug’s hand. “Nobody ever calls me Terence.”
Doug pocketed the key and shook the man’s hand, liking the firm grasp, then turned to greet the woman who approached.
In spite of himself, she took his breath away. Up close she seemed even lovelier than all those times he’d seen her behind the wheel of her car.
She was tall and graceful, wearing leather boots and a long woolen skirt and matching jacket in pale taupe. Her face was finely sculpted, with high cheekbones and big dark eyes. A golden drift of freckles across the bridge of her nose added a touch of boyishness, an appealing contrast that seemed to heighten rather than diminish her elegance.
Her hair was long and dark, carelessly swept up and held at the back of her head by a big tortoiseshell clip. Doug studied the clip when she turned to glance at the sleeping child on the couch.
So tempting, he thought. A man would only have to reach out and unfasten that clip, and her hair would tumble down onto her shoulders in a rich, glistening mass…
He drew himself up with a guilty start.
What thoughts to be having about a woman whose husband was standing not ten feet away, he chided himself.
“Mr. Evans,” she said. Her voice was like honey warmed in the sun, sweet and husky. “I’m glad to meet you. Terry and I are planning to stay for quite some time in your hotel. We’ll need to make immediate arrangements to get a computer modem and fax machine installed in our room.”
She extended her hand and Doug took it, his whole body thrilling at the touch.
What was there about a woman that could make her very skin seem electric? Her hand was firm and slender, and he could have held it forever.
“A fax machine?” he repeated, still a little dazed. “Computer modems? That’s going to require some thought, Ms. Embree. Our rooms don’t even have phones.”