Sawyer's Special Delivery. Nicole Foster
Читать онлайн книгу.
he turned to tell her goodbye, she averted her eyes, her face a becoming pink. “Um, thanks for everything,” she said quickly. “I really—”
“Appreciate it, I know. Forget it,” he said roughly. He looked down at her upturned face, those wide green eyes locked with his, and wondered why he couldn’t just walk away and forget about her.
“I should go,” he said. Fishing around in his pocket, he pulled out his sunglasses and shoved them on. “Call me if you need or want anything.” He opened the door and stepped out, paused and turned back. “You know where to find me.”
She smiled at that, soft and full. “And you know where to find me.”
His arms laden with a pile of dirty clothes he’d kept throwing in his truck from the station but forgetting to bring home, Sawyer kicked his door shut with his heel. Regina had come this morning, and the place smelled fresh, of lemon oil and floor wax. His housekeeper would ream him for bringing her the heap of sweaty, smoky clothes from work, but he was used to that.
Regina Cortez had been taking care of him and Cort one way or another since they’d moved to the estate. She’d been working for his grandparents for a couple of years before his mother had come to live there with her two young sons and asked Regina to be their part-time babysitter. From the beginning Sawyer and Cort considered Regina family rather than hired help. Even now she fussed over the both of them and had made it her life’s work to find them both nice girls to settle down with, since she was firmly convinced both of them were overdue for marriage and family.
Tugging off his boots, Sawyer left them by the door, lest she have another reason to curse him out in Spanish for leaving black scuff marks on her shiny beige ceramic tiles.
Sawyer strode to the gleaming kitchen and tugged open the stainless-steel fridge. “Beer, beer or beer?” he muttered to himself, rummaging through shelves largely empty except for the bonanza of imported beers. “Come on, Reggie, didn’t you leave me some of your world-famous tamales? Ah, there they are.” He pulled a tray from behind a six-pack. “Atta girl, I knew you wouldn’t hold that gouge in the coffee table against me forever.”
He snapped the beer and drank it while he shoved the tamales in the microwave to warm, then wandered into his living room and snatched up the TV remote. He sat back in his favorite leather chair and propped his legs up on the coffee table. He began channel surfing, not really watching anything. His thoughts weren’t here in his gorgeous, custom-decorated hacienda. His thoughts were back at the Rainbow love shack. His thoughts had never left Maya.
Why was she so attached to that run-down excuse for a house? Maybe because it was a home, he mused.
Sawyer looked around him at the beautiful Spanish antiques, Indian rugs, pottery. Most of it, including the rich leathers and upholstery, had been given to him by his mother from the estate house furnishings. His mother had bought the house shortly after Sawyer had joined the Air Force, with plans of finally moving off her parents’ estate. But she’d always found a reason not to make the move, and when Sawyer came back to Luna Hermosa, she had insisted he move in to this house. She had offered the house to Cort, but he had flat-out refused to live there. Sawyer hadn’t been excited about a house, either, because he thought it was too big and too fussily decorated for his taste. And if his mother hadn’t been ill at the time and determined he accept, he would never have agreed to live here.
The house had every amenity money could buy. And yet it was still only a house, a shell. Impersonal. Cold. The house had almost nothing of him in it except his old leather chair—and that he’d had to fight his mother tooth and nail to keep after she’d consigned it to the junk pile.
He smiled, thinking of Maya’s grade school painting on the wall. Hardly the Gorman that hung over his fireplace. But it was a part of Maya, like her mother’s pillows and heaven knew what other trinkets and odd junk. All of it worthless, except to Maya. He took another swig of his beer, his other hand still impatiently surfing his hundred-plus channels of cable service for something worth watching.
Hell, if that place means so much to her and she won’t leave it, then at least it’s going to be up to code and safe for her to bring Joey home to.
Sawyer dug his cell phone out of his jeans pocket and punched in his brother’s number. “Hey, Cort, you wanted to talk, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“How about now?” Sawyer suggested. He figured Cort would make the time for a brotherly heart-to-heart, especially since Sawyer hadn’t bothered to tell him what their talk would be about.
Half an hour later Sawyer slung a towel around his waist and went to answer the doorbell only to nearly get hit in the face by the door when Cort shoved his way through the entrance. “Come on in,” Sawyer said.
“Sorry. I got tired of waiting for you to answer,” Cort grumbled. He looked harried and not at all glad to be there.
Sawyer pulled the towel from his waist and dried his chest. “Go grab a beer while I throw on some pants,” he said, heading for the bedroom, where he tugged on a fresh pair of black jeans.
“Where’s my brew?” Cort yelled from the kitchen.
“I don’t stock rotgut beer.” Sawyer strode into the kitchen, still bare-chested, and prodded his brother away from the fridge.
“You used to. But that was when we saw each other once in a while.”
“Stop bellyaching. Here, I found one.” Sawyer handed the bottle to Cort, thinking he must have been working out like a fiend. His younger brother had always had strong arms and broad shoulders and he’d always worked out, but he looked a size larger in the faded black T-shirt and worn jeans.
“So, you finally ready to at least talk about this?”
Sawyer fingered his damp hair back from his face. “Yeah, whatever. But first I need a favor.”
Cort set his beer down, leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms over his chest. “I knew it. The invite was a ploy. And I’ll wager it’s another Sawyer-to-the-rescue stunt, isn’t it?”
“It’s a worthy cause.”
“And does that cause have green eyes and red hair?”
“Actually he doesn’t have any hair yet.”
“What?”
“Her baby, Joey.”
Cort looked unconvinced. “Like I believe that. Saving babies in distress isn’t exactly your style. You usually prefer rescuing someone when it requires you to jump out of a plane or climb a mountain through ten feet of snow or— What’s that latest rescue group you’re heading up now? The mounted saviors, led by Zorro himself? Last I heard, you were riding poor old Diablo through the rapids of the Rio Grande to drag some drunken rafter out of the river.”
“Diablo likes adventure,” Sawyer said, not bothering to defend himself. Cort didn’t exactly spend his time in sheltered safety.
“He told you that, did he?”
“I know my horse.”
“Sure you do,” Cort said, smirking. “The poor beast doesn’t have much chance to avoid potential loss of life and limb with you around. So, anyhow, what’s with this baby? I’m guessing this is the kid you delivered the other night.”
Sawyer nodded. “He was premature and he needs a safe place to come home to after he’s out of the hospital.”
“And this is your responsibility because…?”
“Because he’s a helpless baby and his mother doesn’t have many options right now. Besides,” Sawyer said, searching for some reasonable explanation that would cut short Cort’s questions, “we went to school together.”
“Oh, well, that makes perfect sense then,” Cort said. “I’m sure the other dozens of women you went to school with would love to hear about this.”