No More Mr. Nice - By Renee Roszel Page 0,22
I could have some coffee?”
He’d pulled out a chair, then stopped, scanning the kitchen counter nearby. “Looks like there’s some left.” He started in that direction, but she fairly leaped up. “No—don’t bother. I can do it.” She wasn’t sure why, but she couldn’t allow this man to serve her. Maybe she didn’t care to be obliged to him in even a small way. The less involved they were outside strict business dealings, the better.
As she scrambled from her seat, he flicked his wrist up to look at his watch. “Whatever,” he mumbled. “Can we make this quick? I have a meeting at my office in thirty minutes.”
She halted, her lips open, ready to demand, You have a meeting, tonight? But she stopped, the inquiry dying on her tongue. He’d sat down and was pinching the bridge of his nose as though he had a headache. She felt a rush of sympathy for him. If he’d had a meeting at six this morning, and had another one at seven this evening, he was putting in very long days. Instead of making her planned sharp remark, she went over to the coffeemaker and asked, “Would you like a cup?”
He glanced at her, his brows lifting in surprise. “If you don’t mind.”
“How about a couple of aspirin?”
“I’d kill for some,” he admitted quietly.
With trembly hands, she poured two mugs of coffee and returned to the table. From her purse she drew out a tin of aspirin, lifted the lid and held the container toward him. “No improvement with your program?” she asked, surprised that she was actually concerned.
“Not much.” He tipped back his head and downed the headache remedy without benefit of liquid.
She took a sip of coffee—it was strong, but revitalizing after the nerve-racking day—and murmured against the cup’s rim, “I’m sorry to hear that.”
He’d raised his mug halfway to his lips. “Sorry enough to give me a reprieve until spring?”
Her mood lurched from nervousness to dejection. “I’m not your jailer,” she said. “You know you can quit any time.”
Avoiding his face, she added, “You probably ought to know, Mr. Roxbury had another stroke last night.”
She heard Lucas’s raw curse and couldn’t help but peer at his expression. His features had darkened. “How bad?” he asked.
She shrugged. “Thankfully, not as bad as it could have been, but it set back his physical therapy.”
Lucas glared at his watch, then in a harsh voice, demanded, “What did you need to see me about? I can be five minutes late.”
She inhaled, feeling both grudging and grateful. Lucas’s concern for Mr. Roxbury had won out again—barely. Why does it have to take a man practically on his deathbed to get your attention! her mind raged, but she hid her feelings. Holding fast to her temper, she opened her briefcase and pulled out a typed list. “Okay, we don’t have to discuss all of this. I saw stables and what looked like a bunkhouse a ways back from the house. Do you have horses on the property?”
Again, his coffee cup halted halfway to his lips. “Horses? What would I do with horses? I don’t have time to drive a car, let alone ride a horse.”
She ignored the gibe with effort, jotting a note. “We’ll have to rent some for horseback riding. I’ll handle it, but you have to okay the funds, since you’ll be paying for them.” He took a swallow of coffee as she asked, “What about a hay wagon?”
“What about one?”
She peered up from her list. “Do you have one?”
“Did you see one in the garage?”
Trying to hide the sting his mockery caused, she made another note. “We’ll have to rent one of those, too.”
“What the hell for?” He sounded tired.
“The hayride. That’ll be the next-to-last day.” She tapped the pen against her upper lip. “What have I forgotten?”
“The stagecoach?” he suggested wearily. “Maybe five thousand longhorns for the cattle drive to Abilene?”
Without comment, she deposited her list in her briefcase, refusing to take the bait. “I’ll tend to the horse and wagon rentals first thing in the morning. I just needed your authorization.” Closing her case, she faced him, struggling to retain a pleasant, professional facade. “The kids and I and four volunteers will be here at ten.”
He took another swallow of his coffee. “Are we finished?”
She nodded. Then, recalling the vision of Lucas hunched down, talking to Jack in the living room, she had to add, “Just one thing.”
He’d started to stand, anticipating the end of the meeting, but sat back down,