Angel of Smoky Hollow. Barbara McMahon
Читать онлайн книгу.
and wide, tired blue eyes spoke of something different. Who had such creamy white skin these days? Her blond hair had been pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of her neck, sleek and shiny. What would it look like loose in a bank of waves framing her face?
He shook his head. He didn’t need interest rising at this juncture. He knew enough to know whatever her story, she wouldn’t be long in Smoky Hollow. And he’d had enough trouble with women in the past. Something had always been missing. He didn’t think about it any more. He liked his life just the way it was now. No complications, no drama.
And a tad lonely.
He pushed away the thought when he entered the structure a short distance behind his house. He’d built both buildings himself, using the knowledge and skill he’d picked up from many construction projects over the years. From the outside, both the house and shed merely looked like log cabins. Inside he had utilized the finer aspects of carpentry that enabled the house to be comfortable and stylish. The studio was a different matter. With strongly insulated walls, it was cool in summer, warm in winter, and totally utilitarian.
Standing in the doorway, he flipped on the switch. The daylight fixtures bathed the entire space in plenty of light. The tall windows added natural daylight. In the center of the building stood the sculptured piece of wood he was currently working. Five feet tall, it was not quite life-size. A mother with a baby in her arms and a child clinging to her knee, the semi-abstract rendition gave the illusion of motherhood everywhere without details to features and age.
The carving part was finished. He walked around it, studying it from every angle. Next was the final stage—sanding until it was as smooth as glass. Then applying the stain that would bring out the natural luster of the wood. Bring the statue to life. He reached for the first sandpaper and began long even strokes down the length of the back.
Caught up in his work, he didn’t realize the passage of time until he felt the pangs of hunger. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was after midnight. He hadn’t eaten since lunch. Time to take a break. He placed the staining cloth in an airtight container, put the used sandpaper in the trash.
Studying the figure once more, he was pleased. The deep stain had highlighted the grain of the wood. The smooth finish was pleasing to touch. He knew Bianca would snap it up for her gallery. He’d take photos tomorrow to send to her. Once they agreed on price, he’d load it up and deliver. She was always asking for more work. But he did the pieces as the mood struck.
It was cooler than expected when he stepped outside. He walked the familiar path from his studio to home with out light. He knew every inch of his property—and most of the surrounding properties as well. Another way to keep the memories at bay, walk in the dark where he could become attuned with nature, and forget the curve balls life some times threw.
CHAPTER TWO
ANGELICA ARRIVED at the store several minutes before ten the next morning. The two older men she’d seen yesterday were both in the same spot. Had they spent the night there?
“Good mornin’,” one said.
“Morning, miss,” the other echoed.
She greeted them both and then turned to look down the road. She hadn’t a clue in which direction Kirk would come from. Probably not from the B&B as he had walked back toward the store when he left yesterday. She hoped he’d meant it when he offered her a ride. She hadn’t a clue how to get to Bryceville on her own.
“Nice day,” one of the men said.
“Beautiful,” she agreed. Then took a moment to really appreciate the morning. It was already warm, but not as hot as it had been yesterday. The tall trees were widespread, shading a good portion of the store and parking lot. She could hear birds trilling in the branches. She tried to remember the last time she’d noticed birds singing in the morning. She rarely opened the windows in her high-rise apartment. And when she did, it was traffic noise she heard, not birds. Her parents’ home in Boston had huge elm trees in the yard, yet she couldn’t remember ever listening to birds. How odd. Was she so oblivious to what was going on around her?
A low rumble sounded to her left and she looked that way. In only a moment a motorcycle roared into view, stopping when it reached the porch. The throaty purr of the engine filled the morning air. Taking off his helmet, the driver grinned at her.
“Ready to go to Bryceville?” Kirk asked.
She stared at him and at the big black-and-chrome motorcycle, fear and fascination warring. “On that?” she almost squeaked. She’d never ridden a motorcycle in her life! What if it crashed? She flexed her fingers. What if she spilled onto the pavement and damaged her hands?
“I have an extra helmet,” he said, unstrapping it from the back and holding it out to her.
Angelica stared at it for a moment. She looked into his eyes which seemed to challenge her. The seconds ticked by. No one spoke. Only the trilling of the birds filled the silence. Almost fatalistically she stepped off the porch. She had come into a different world. She had wanted something different and found it—in spades.
Hesitating another moment, she took the helmet, put it on. Then, following his instructions, she climbed on to the powerful motorcycle. Once seated, she felt the vibration beneath her, the warmth of the man in front of her.
“Hold on,” he said, putting his own helmet back on.
When she hesitated, he reached back and brought both her arms around his waist, slapping one hand over the other. It was impersonal and expeditious. But it brought her slam up against his back. She felt every muscle as he moved and pushed the bike back from the store. She didn’t view it as impersonal, this was very personal. Her body against his, her arms around his hard stomach. She couldn’t breathe. She was so aware of his strong body, her blood pounded through her veins.
He gave the two old men a wave. In seconds they were flying down the narrow country road.
Angelica caught her breath in fear, closed her eyes and tightened her grip on the one solid thing in her world right now, Kirk Devon. His entire body was rock solid. His stomach muscles were like iron. His back muscular and hard. Once she caught a breath again, she risked opening her eyes. She rested against his back, head turned sideways. Slowly she lifted her head and peered over his shoulder. Trees whipped by. The black pavement seemed to unfold like a ribbon before them, curving and twisting, opening up straight ahead for long stretches before diving back into the thickness of the trees.
Gradually the fear morphed into elation. She felt as if they teetered on the brink of disaster, yet Kirk seemed to know exactly what he was doing. If this was his normal mode of transportation, he was an expert. She couldn’t ease back on her desperate hold, but she could breathe again. And slowly begin to relish the wind racing across her skin, seeping into the helmet. She wondered what it would be like to fly along without the safety helmet.
Fear faded. He hadn’t crashed, no reason to think he would with her onboard.
Conversation was impossible. Which was a good thing. She couldn’t think of a single topic of conversation that might interest him. She could hardly ask out of the blue if he were married. She shouldn’t be so aware of another woman’s husband. Her curiosity spiked. Had he always lived in Smoky Hollow? What did he do for a living? He hadn’t been working yesterday. And obviously wasn’t working this morning. Did he have rotating days or something? Was this his weekend? Or was he visiting like she was?
No, he’d known those men on the porch. Known Sally Ann. So what was a guy as dynamic as he was doing in sleepy Smoky Hollow, Kentucky?
Maybe he was unemployed. Lot of that going around.
She could consider herself unemployed. Her last contract had ended and she had yet to sign the new one waiting for her at her agent’s office. She had enough in savings to live quite a while before she needed to find another position. Inevitably, she’d return to New York. What else could she do besides play the violin? She hoped by then, however, that she’d know herself better and be able to withstand the pressure placed on her by