Smoketree (3 page)

I picked my way carefully across a lovely earth-toned Navajo rug and met Nathan Reynolds just inside the cavernous dining room. He greeted me with a warmth I realized was both customary and genuine. He escorted me within, took my drink order and went off to do the honors.

The size of the place impressed me instantly. The beams were massive things, roughhewn as if a lumberjack had simply knocked off the outer bark; ingrained with the patina of age and authenticity. The floor was polished, pegged hardwood, dark as raw honey. A flagstone fireplace swallowed half of one wall, warming the room considerably with its crackling fire. Pine scent mingled with the aroma of roasting beef. The tables, covered in red-checked gingham, were scattered all over the room, silent testimony to Smoketree’s sizeable capacity, though I saw only a handful of guests present.

One of them rose as I approached, a man I judged to be in his mid-fifties. He smiled pleasantly and nodded. “Please—won’t you join us? Lenore and I were just discussing the need for new blood around here. ” He smiled and extended a large hand. “I’m John Oliver. This is my wife, Lenore.” He wasn’t much above average height but his bulk was concentrated in shoulders and chest, and a wide face was accented by a pair of very shrewd brown eyes. His graying hair was cropped closely but still sprang vigorously from his scalp. There was a vitality and command about him that branded him influential and competent.

Lenore, I thought, was her husband’s opposite. She was younger than he by only a few years, but took pains to hide her age. Her dark blonde hair was frosted, but she had had it done, and recently, at a good salon. She was darkly tanned but her face was very tight around her green eyes and at the points of her jaws, a sure sign of at least one facelift.

“Kelly Clayton.” Her brows slid upward. “The name is familiar, but I don’t believe we’ve met.”

I kept my voice very calm as I slid onto the wooden bench next to her. “You may have seen my photograph. I model.”

She brightened at once. “Ah, of course! I recall you now.” For a moment the slight frown marred her too-smooth face, and her eyes narrowed appraisingly as she studied my face. As I was trying to decide if her look was simple curiosity or if she was looking for, or at, the scar, Nathan came back with my drink and then disappeared again. But the timely interruption had distracted Lenore.

“You’re just what we need around here. ” John Oliver resumed his seat across from his wife. “We haven’t had the most gregarious company for the past several days.” He indicated a couple seated at a distant table. “Sam and Sheila Kramer. Honeymooners. They’ve hardly said a word to anyone.” He grinned. “Not that I blame them.”

The Kramers were oblivious to their surroundings, clasping hands across the table. Both were red-haired and freckled, as perfectly matched as Raggedy Ann and Andy. I envisioned carrot-topped children running rampant through their household.

“And, of course, there are the Chesleys.” He lifted his glass in another direction. “Orthopedic surgeon. Insists anyone who runs is a fool, but he told me he’s making a fortune off their abused knees. His wife,” Oliver said calmly, “thinks he’s a dreadful flirt. Can’t say as I’ve noticed.”

“You’re forgetting Rafferty.” Lenore’s green eyes gleamed. “You mustn’t forget Rafferty.”

Oliver grimaced. “Our introspective author hasn’t made an appearance yet. He should be here soon. For all the man keeps a low profile—
creating
, you know—he does manage dramatic entrances with great regularity.” Oliver straightened. “And here he comes.”

I glanced around immediately. The man who had just entered the dining room did so silently, moving with a smooth grace that belied the tension in his stern face. He was very dark-haired and brown-eyed, wearing horn-rimmed glasses that did not entirely hide the intensity in his eyes as he glanced in my direction. He went directly to an unpopulated corner of the room.

“Rafferty doesn’t talk to anyone,” Lenore confided. “I think he must be pretending to be one of his characters.”

“Characters?”

“Out of one of his books. Haven’t you heard of them? He does spy books, John tells me.“

“He just prefers to keep to himself,” Oliver said calmly. “That’s something I like in a man.” He smiled as I looked at him quickly. “I’m a businessman, Kelly; I have to be able to trust my associates to keep things confidential. Talkative people can’t keep secrets.”

Lenore smiled at him lazily as she raised her drink. “And you will have Kelly believing
you
can’t keep one, my dear.”

Oliver laughed and lighted a slender cigar. "An insinuation I’m talking too much. Well, perhaps I am.”

Nathan Reynolds returned to our table and took his seat with us. He kept an eye on the others, always the attentive host, and yet he was able to make me believe he cared about us in particular.

“Do you play tennis?” Lenore Oliver veered off on another tack, avid with interest.

I smiled. “No. Not at all.”

Oliver laughed at his wife’s moue of disappointment, then looked at me through the curling cigar smoke. “Lenore is a tennis fanatic, you see. She’s been hoping for a decent partner since we arrived three days ago. Guess she’ll just have to keep banging balls against the backboard and taking lessons from the pro.”

I wondered about the other guests. Surely there had to be someone Lenore could play. I glanced around the room and saw only the people Oliver had already mentioned: the honeymooning Kramers; the doctor and his wife; Rafferty the writer, who was staring into the shadows of the lantern-lighted room with all the absorption of deep thought.

Nathan broke into my thoughts as he cleared his throat, smiling at me encouragingly. “Perhaps you could take lessons from Randy Poe, our resident tennis pro. Then you could give Lenore some competition.”

I laughed at him. “If you had ever seen me with a racket in my hands, you’d know better than to suggest that.”

Nathan nodded commiseratingly. “I never saw the sense in whacking a little ball back and forth, myself. ” He sent Lenore a disarming smile that removed the potential barb from his words. “But we do have other activities here at Smoketree, Miss Clayton. What could I suggest?”

“To tell the truth, I hadn’t really thought about what I’d like to do. I just sort of—
came
…”

“Ah.” John Oliver’s tone said he had found something telling in my simple statement. I looked at him sharply and found him watching me. His expression was blank, carefully so, and I wondered uneasily what went on behind his eyes.

“If you came for the relaxation of doing absolutely nothing, we offer that as well,” Nathan said. “You’re under no pressure here. Do whatever you like—or
don't
—and if I can help arrange anything, just let me know.”

I smiled at him gratefully. “I will. Thank you.”

“Kelly Clayton,” Oliver said consideringly. A faint crease appeared between his brows. “I know the name, too.”

My stomach instantly tightened. For a moment I sat very stiffly, then slowly forced myself to relax. It was ridiculous to get upset over something I couldn’t help. People would always ask questions.

And I’d always feel guilty.

Lenore sat bolt upright. “I remember you now! You’re the Jazzmine Girl—for Jazzmine Cosmetics.”

“Yes.”

Triumph gleamed in her eyes. “
You
were the one dating that actor—what was his name?—oh yes, Pierce. Tucker Pierce.”

I set down my glass with a sharp thud against the tablecloth. I glanced at Nathan Reynolds and managed to keep my tone light. “I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m still a little tired from the flight. Perhaps I can get something to eat later.”

He was genuinely concerned but made no effort to detain me. It took John Oliver to do that.

He rose as I did. “Kelly, it’s not necessary for you to leave.”

“I’m tired,” I repeated.

“I read about it. ” His eyes were level. “It was in all the magazines, all over the TV…”

I felt the first flare of anger and resentment. “I know that. I know perfectly well what kind of publicity it got.”

Cigar smoke rose in a twisting gray trail. “I believe they said it was an accident.”

“There
was
another driver involved,” I conceded.

His wife slapped her hand down with a smack against the surface of the table. “
I
remember! He was killed in that grisly accident in California—” Her eyes widened and she stared at me. “
You
were driving. It was
you
behind the wheel. Wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said, “it was.”

I looked at Lenore’s surprised face, then her husband’s placid one, and finally I looked at Nathan Reynolds. He was observing me with a mixture of concern and compassion. That, more than Lenore’s avid interest and Oliver’s calm self-assurance drove me from them all.

I fled the room, the foyer with its beasts, the Lodge, and stumbled down the porch steps.

Right into the arms of Harper Young.

He caught me by the arms swiftly, surely, and kept me from falling flat on my face. I regained my balance and thanked him breathlessly, embarrassed by the scene. I could feel the heat in my face as I tried to pull myself back together, and all the while he watched me.

“What’s after you?” he asked at last.

“Nothing,” I said instantly, and realized almost as instantly the answer wouldn’t hold up. Not when he’d witnessed my flight from the Lodge.

“You just got here,” he said in a wry drawl. “Leaving so soon?”

Automatically I brushed fingers through my hair, making certain the scar was covered by my bangs. “I’m just tired, and not all that hungry. Thanks for catching me.”

“Feel like talking about it?”

I swung around to look at him again. “No,” I said in surprise. “There’s nothing
to
talk about.”

He smiled faintly, though most of it was hidden beneath the thick moustache. “As you say, ma’am.”

Color and heat rose again. I summoned a politely distant smile, knowing perfectly well he saw right through me. He had that direct, knowing gaze that stripped away the facade I was trying to rebuild. “Mr. Young—”

“Harper.”

I sighed. I
was
tired, but I was also hungry, and even as I told him I had no appetite, I felt the rumble in my stomach. I opened my mouth to make my final farewell, but he stepped in before I could say a word.

“You’re that model, aren’t you?” He answered his own question with a nod of his wide-brimmed hat. “Yep. Cassie told me about you. About how you make all that money for having your picture taken.”

The accusation—or observation—was so old it had whiskers. “Right,” I agreed. “I make a million each time the shutter snaps. ” I turned to walk away from him, knowing an explanation would make no difference.

And yet he seemed to want one. “What’s it like, being a model? Is it true what I hear?”

I paused and glanced back. His smile broadened irritatingly. His tanned face was lean and mobile, appealing in a dark gypsy sort of way. He was intensely male, with all the accompanying male characteristics and attitudes that make the breed so frustrating much of the time.

I appraised him a moment, and smiled right back. “I doubt very much what you’ve heard has anything to do with the truth. But I also doubt you’d want to hear what it’s
really
like.”

He shrugged. “Try me some time. Set me straight.”

“Right.” I laughed. “You’d be bored stiff in thirty seconds.”

“Maybe.” He glanced toward the Lodge. “Supper’s waiting. You sure you’re not hungry?”

I thought about going back in and facing the Olivers so soon after my abrupt departure. I
was
hungry, but all my instincts told me not to go. Not yet. Courage is such a fickle thing.

“I’m sure,” I told him. “I’m going to bed.”

He watched me a moment longer, the lean face suddenly implacable, and then he tipped his hat and left me standing in the dirt.

At midnight I gave up trying to sleep. I had stared at the dark ceiling over my bed for a very long time, trying to shut off my over-active mind. Nothing worked. Sleep was nowhere near. Perhaps it was a residue of jet-lag; perhaps it was the scene with the Olivers at the dinner table. Perhaps it was simply that I couldn’t forget I was the one responsible for Tucker’s death, as Lenore had so dramatically reminded me. The worst of the crying had been over for weeks; now I stared dry-eyed into the darkness of my cabin and wondered why I had been left behind. God knew the accident had been bad enough to kill us both. Perversely, it hadn’t.

I finally decided on a venture outside, hoping the cold mountain air might clear my mind. I pulled on jeans and a heavy Irish sweater over my pajama top, as well as my tweed jacket that bunched up over the thickness of the sweater. I tugged at it until it was more comfortable, then stepped into fuzzy bedroom slippers and went out the door. I locked it behind me.

The evening was chilly, clear and crisp as only mountain nights can be. Away from the diffused glare of city lights, the stars glowed in a black sky and the air sang with pine scent. My cabin was set apart from the others. The Olivers were the closest, some fifty yards away. No light shone from there and only faint illumination from the Lodge found its way through the darkness to me. But the moon shed enough light to see by.

I blew out a breath and saw it cloud briefly in the air. Then I hugged my ribs and started walking, scuffing through the dirt in my slippers. Not the best footwear on a cold mountain night, but I didn’t care.

I had no goal, I just wanted to walk. Eventually I wandered down toward the barn and went around it, stopping short as I saw the metal rods of a white-painted arena gleaming ghostlike in the darkness. I hadn’t noticed it on the ride in. It stood on the flatlands below the barn.

The arena drew me like a magnet. I draped myself against the cold metal fence and hung there, relaxing and conjuring up a vision of horses circling the rounded rectangle in a bid for freedom. But the cold seeped through my blazer and my chin, resting against the top rod, felt frozen solid. My toes were complaining. I sighed and pushed off the rails, more than ready to head back. My mind was no easier but I felt a little more tired than before. It was something.