Smoketree - By Jennifer Roberson Page 0,17
he wouldn’t sell. Not in a million years. “Would you?” I asked impulsively. “Would you sell if Smoketree were yours?”
Harper did not smile. “I wondered how long it would take you to ask me that.”
For a moment I stared at him blankly. “What do you mean?”
“You obviously know about the deal Nathan and I worked out.” He shook his head, mouth twisted grimly. “Should have known better than to think we could keep it secret. People have a way of finding out things. ”
“What are you talking about?” I demanded.
He was unsmiling. “How much are you going to offer me, Miss Clayton?”
“Offer you? I thought Nathan was the owner.”
“Still is. But only half. The other’s all mine.”
He seemed to be waiting for something. I had no idea what it was, and didn’t have the mental energy to wonder. I waved a hand at him. “If you came out to ride, ride. Don’t let me keep you.”
The sorrel pawed at the carpet of pine needles, snorting as dust rose. Harper tapped him with one heel and spoke a single word: “Quit.” The horse quit. After a moment Harper dropped off the animal and came to slouch against a boulder near mine. Like me, he looked across the meadow below; unlike me, he was perfectly at ease. I still had the feeling he was after something.
“Horse needs a rest,” he said quietly.
“He looks fit enough to me.”
He shot me a glance from under the brim of his gray hat. I saw a teasing glint in his eyes. “So you know horses, do you?”
I scowled back. “You wouldn’t be riding him if he weren’t. And yes, I know horses—sort of.” I tacked the last part on in case he tested my claim.
The animal in question snuffled against the ground, still seeking edibles. He was contentedly unconcerned with the odd tension between his rider and myself.
Harper slid down until he squatted on his boot heels, leaning back against the fall of boulders. He picked a long wheat-like plant from the ground, pruned it, then stuck it between his lips. He turned it idly, staring into the distance.
“I’m not trying to be intentionally rude,” he said around the stem, “but sometimes it helps to talk about it.”
“Maybe. ” I picked at a crust of greenish lichen.
“I take it he was a real s.o.b. about it.”
“What are you—oh.” I smiled. Then I laughed a little. “So, you still think I’m nursing hurt pride and a broken heart. Well, I’m not.” The sluggish pain rose up again, even as I spoke lightly. “He didn’t break off the affair, you see… he died. ”
Harper’s head came up. I saw the movement as a swing of the gray hat, and then he turned his head to look at me. I saw surprise in his eyes, and the faintest trace of bafflement. Bafflement? What had he expected to hear? But I also saw a bit of suspicion. Did he think I lied?
“I’m sorry.” His tone was noncommittally proper. “Is that what you’re running from?”
“Partly,” I admitted. That was all I intended to say, since my guilt was my own.
Harper sighed. His face was turned away from me so that I could see no expression, but I thought I had somehow surprised him. It was odd. What was he thinking? And why did I want to know?
“It won’t work,” he told me.
Escape hardly ever did. “Probably not,” I agreed.
“Then you might as well leave.”
I looked at him sharply. “But I just got here!”
“I told you it won’t work.”
“I’d at least like to give it a try,” I said, a little indignant. “How do you know it won’t work?”
“It won’t.” He stood up and pulled a gold pocket-watch from his jeans, flipped open the cover to read the time, then closed it and returned it to the pocket. “Nearly time for supper, Miss Clayton.”
“A little early yet, for me. I’ll be down later.”
“You don’t want to miss a meal. ”
“I won’t.”
One hand indicated the horse. “Care for a lift?”
I looked past him to the horse and considered the broad, smooth rump and my own inexperience. “Thanks just the same, but I think I’ll walk.”
He turned and swung up on the horse, then kicked a foot free of the stirrup. “Come on up. Sunny doesn’t bite, and neither do I.” He smiled. “I can’t just leave you here. My mother taught me better manners. And if you refuse, we’ll both be late for supper.”
I gave up. I stuck my foot in the stirrup