Angel of Smoky Hollow. Barbara McMahon
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she replied,
“Is this Smoky Hollow, Kentucky?”
“Last I heard,” he acknowledged.
“Pretty thing,” one of the older men said, as if she weren’t standing six feet in front of him.
“Why’s she here? Kin of anyone we know?” the other asked.
“Just fixing to ask that myself.” The fascinating man stepped off the porch in a casual and utterly masculine manner that had Angelica wondering if her hormones had spiked in some weird way since crossing the state line. She wanted to step up and flirt.
Flirt? She had never done so in her life. Where was that thought coming from?
“Can I help you?” he asked. “I’m Kirk Devon and I know almost everybody around here. Who’re you here to see?”
She blinked. His heah didn’t quite sound like here did at home.
“I’m looking for Webb Francis Muldoon,” she said.
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes intent on her face. “Webb Francis isn’t here,” he said.
She swallowed. Great, she left home and fled fifteen hundred miles and the man she was running to wasn’t even around. A second of uncertainty surfaced. Then she took a breath, needing more information. She was not going to be stopped at the first setback. She had yearned for this for too long.
“When will he be back?” she asked.
“Don’t rightly know. Might be a few days. Maybe longer. What do you want with Webb Francis?”
He took a step closer and Angelica wanted to step back. He was tall, at least several inches over six feet. Next to her own five and a half feet, he seemed to tower over her. But it wasn’t only his height. Tapered waist and hips, long legs and those broad shoulders made him look as if he could carry the weight of the world easily on those shoulders. Strong and masculine in an earthy way she wasn’t used to. She was fascinated, and overwhelmed. Her senses roiled.
“I prefer to explain that to Mr. Muldoon,” she said stiffly.
The bus door clanged shut and the old bus belched a puff of black smoke as it pulled away and groaned down the street.
Angelica watched it go, then looked back at the man in front of her. His eyes were still intent, studying her every expression.
“Looks like your transportation’s gone and left you here. Webb Francis is in hospital at Bryceville. He has pneumonia.”
“He’s sick?” Professor Simmons had assured her she’d be welcomed by Webb Francis. No one had counted on his illness. Least of all her.
“Friend of yours?” Kirk Devon asked still studying her.
“He’s a friend of—a friend.” She closed her mouth without saying another word. She dare not trust anyone. She wasn’t giving out who she was or why she was there until she’d spoken to Webb Francis to see if this was where she belonged. She gazed after the bus. Where was Bryceville? Would the bus have taken her there?
“Got a place to stay?” Kirk asked.
She shook her head slowly. She had thought Webb Francis would help her by recommending a place to stay. She knew Professor Simmons had written a letter for his old friend explaining everything. It was in her backpack, to be given once she met Mr. Muldoon. Looking around she squared her shoulders. She’d traveled in Europe, called Manhattan home, surely she could handle one small town in Kentucky.
“Any hotels around?” She would have seen one, she felt sure, watching as she had the foreign scenery as the bus drove in from Lexington. No skyscrapers here. But maybe there’d be a small boutique hotel on a side street.
“There’s a B&B in town. Sally Ann’s place. You can stay there tonight, decide what to do tomorrow. Don’t reckon Webb Francis will be home before a week. And not then unless folks rally around to keep him fed. You staying long?”
He stepped closer, almost crowding her. Reaching for her violin case, he offered to take it. She snatched it out of his reach, stepped back and swung slightly around so the case was almost behind her. “I can manage. Just point me in the right direction.”
His dark eyes watched for a moment. The air was charged with tension, then he gave a lopsided smile and relaxed. It was hard for Angelica to adjust to the change. The smile did crazy things to her. He looked like some harmless guy trying to help. But she didn’t feel reassured. He was big and strong and too sexy for her own good. She couldn’t get beyond that attraction. His dark hair almost shimmered with streaks of blue, it was so black. When he smiled, she felt a catch in her heart. He could probably charm the birds from the tree with a single smile.
She was not a bird. She had to remember she had a goal and falling prey to the first good-looking man she saw was not in her plans.
Reseating her backpack on her shoulder, she glared at him. No one touched the valuable violin but her.
“I’ll take your backpack, then,” he said, lifting it from her shoulders before she knew it. “Can’t let a lady carry all those heavy things,” he drawled as he turned and gestured for her to proceed in the direction away from the store.
The sidewalk ended fifty feet beyond the store. The road narrowed, feeling closed in with the trees that flanked it. With the sun overhead, there was little shade to ease the heat reflecting from the asphalt. If she’d had any idea of how hot it was in Kentucky in summer, she’d have—done what? This was her only bolt hole and she was grateful for it. She’d just have to deal with the heat. She hoped the walk to the B&B wasn’t long, or she’d be a puddle in the road. Glancing at her companion, she was annoyed he didn’t seem to notice the heat at all. If his pace was any indication, he didn’t. She was already growing winded.
“You didn’t tell me your name,” he commented after a few yards.
“Angelica Cannon.” She was sure no one around here had ever heard of her. She felt she’d stepped into a time warp, looking around at the lack of amenities and action. She felt curiously free knowing people here would only learn what she chose to share about her life. She could be totally anonymous if she wanted.
“Sally Ann runs a B&B, you said?” she asked. The shoulder was gravel and dirt and not wide enough to walk on. Would it be any cooler if she could take to the dirt instead of the asphalt? She was growing grateful to her guide that he’d taken the backpack. She was so hot!
“She does. And makes the best pancakes this side of the Mississippi. You tell her you want some one morning, she’ll pile them on your plate. You look like you need some good down-home cooking.”
Angelica frowned. Was that a backhanded comment about her slender frame? Or an insult? Did he think women needed more curves to be attractive? What did she care? He was some backwoods guy, not one of the men of influence she was used to dating. Not a patron of the arts, not a subscriber to the symphony. He probably wouldn’t recognize genuine world class music if it hit him on the head.
His longer gait had her rushing to keep up. Not that she’d ask for him to slow down. That would only prolong her listening to the slow Southern drawl and risk forgetting any good sense remaining.
Though how dashing away in the night showed good sense, she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t been a prisoner. She should have stayed and shown the logic of her choices. Only, she still couldn’t envision herself standing up against her parents. They had done so much for her. They only wanted the very best. How ungrateful she’d be to rail against everything. And it wasn’t as if she was turning her back on her life. For the most part she enjoyed music. It was only lately—she needed a break. She was flat-out burned out.
But try as she might, they never listened to her. Always pushing, always saying they knew what was best for her. She was almost twenty-five years old. Surely she had to know what was best for her by now. Coming here without confirming her would-be host was available didn’t show such good sense—even she