Smoketree

CHAPTER Two



Cass pulled up before a huge wooden building with a peaked, wood-shingled roof. In a scramble of long denim-clad legs and sunburned arms she unloaded my baggage and settled it in the dust by a short flight of wooden steps leading to the deep porch in front of the building. Then she dragged a hand through her long hair and sent me a wry smile.

“I hope you don’t mind being left to your own devices for a moment. It’s rude of me, I know—but I’d really like to go after my horse.”

I slid out of the station-wagon and closed the door. I had every intention of answering her, but Cass had already turned her back on me as if the matter were settled.

“Uncle Nathan!” she shouted toward the building, then spun on her boot heel and jogged off toward the huge rustic barn some one hundred yards away.

I turned resolutely toward the big house. It was built of massive round logs chinked together with rose-colored mortar, lending it a sort of pastel warmth. A wooden shingle sign labeled the house SMOKETREE. I approved of the properly rustic atmosphere and stark simplicity. It reminded me of an Andrew Wyeth painting crossed with an Ansel Adams photograph. The shell of a huge old oak stood close to the side of the porch. The famous smoking tree. No bees, though.

The heavy front door swung open on giant hinges and framed a man in the shadowed interior. His thick hair was iron-gray, lightening to the snowy thatch some men are fortunate to possess in later years. His weathered face was creased with living and character and inherent warmth. I liked him instantly.

He stepped off the porch and reached for my hand, enfolding it in calluses and strong fingers. His voice was thick as molasses, drawling a genuine welcome.

“Ma’am, I’m Nathan Reynolds. I must apologize for my niece. Ordinarily we welcome guests a little better than dumping them on the front doorstep.” His blue eyes twinkled. “Welcome to Smoketree anyway.”

I felt safe with my hand in his and regretted it when he released it. “Cass was worried about her horse.”

The creases deepened around his eyes. “How’d she find out about Preacher?”

“We met your wrangler on the way in. ”

“Ah.” Nathan nodded. “That horse’ll put her in a tizzy if he even gets a fly bite.” He smiled, easing the situation instantly. “Come along then, Miss Clayton, I expect you’re ready for a rest. New York City, isn’t it? Long way from home.” His question was obviously rhetorical as he gathered up my bags and headed toward a distant cabin. I kept up with him only by virtue of a pair of very long legs.

“I reckon you fashion ladies get to spots all over the world.” His smile was warm as good bourbon. “You must have seen a lot of things.”

I agreed automatically, wondering just how much Vanessa had told him when making my arrangements. Delivering me to a cabin almost hidden in a copse of pines, he set my bags down in the center of the front room and gestured. “Sitting room, bedroom and bath. Meals are served in the Lodge unless you wish private service here, or make other arrangements. Smoketree is particularly respectful of the privacy of its guests. There’s a brochure in your bedroom listing all the facts and points of interest. Just ask Cass or me if you have any questions.”

I dumped my shoulder bag onto the table and collapsed in a padded leather chair. Genuine leather. I wondered, fleetingly, if Nathan had raised the cows himself. “Only you and Cass?” I smiled at him. “What about the wrangler?”

“Harper?”

“Cass called him the glue for Smoketree.”

Nathan smiled in a mixture of amusement and paternal pride. “Harper’s a good boy. He practically grew up at Smoketree, when he wasn’t on the rodeo circuit. I reckon you could call him the glue for this place; he sure makes it easier for me.” He nodded. “Ask him anything at all, Miss Clayton. Harper Young knows absolutely everything that goes on around here. ”

I yawned, then clapped a hand over my mouth. “I’m sorry—”

Nathan Reynolds laughed without offense. “You look tuckered out. Why don’t you get some rest? You’ve got time before supper.” He excused himself and went out, while I rubbed absently at my gritty eyes and hoped the time at Smoketree would be well spent.



I napped heavily and woke from the depths of a dream so real it made me physically ill. I sat upright in my bed and shivered, hugging myself against the images. And then I realized I was in Arizona, at Smoketree, not in a California hospital with glass in my head and arms.

“Damn!” I exclaimed. “I thought the dreams were supposed to stop—” But all the psychiatrist had ever said was that they would, not when.

I climbed out of bed stiffly, disoriented from the dream as well as jet-lag. And then I caught my reflection in the mirror above the vanity. A bleary-eyed, tousle-headed woman of twenty-eight, hardly ready to face a dude ranch full of strangers.

The nap had pressed my bangs away from my face, baring my forehead with its purple welt. On anyone else the scar, once healed, would be a thin pale line. On me, a keloid-prone Scandinavian blonde with very fair skin, the thing showed plainly. Makeup did cover some of its offensiveness, but I always knew it was there. A few of my fellow models had taken care to remind me.

I sighed and pushed the bangs back into place. Enough self-pity. I was hungry, and supper waited. I washed my face, pulled on a tweed jacket over my sweater and took myself up to the Lodge.

The big front door stood open under a yellowish porch light. I stepped into the roomy foyer. It was densely populated with an impressive collection of antlered trophy heads mounted on the wooden walls. Deer, elk, antelope and moose loomed at me out of the shadowed interior; moose, I wondered, in Arizona? Well, perhaps the hunter had brought the trophy back from another state. Then I came face to face with a bristly, snarling creature I’d never seen before; a printed card tacked beneath the beast labeled it “javelina.” I decided, after a brief study of its malevolently glassy eyes, I much preferred it on the wall than in its natural state.

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.