coiled on top of her head to make her look older, more sophisticated.
At the footbridge she paused, and her eyes sought the roof of the house where she was headed. She knew she must have been there before, but she remembered it no more than the home she had lived in until she was almost four years old. She stepped up onto the big split logs. High water had washed the far bank, causing the logs to tilt downward and barely clear the rushing water. “Don’t be afraid, I’ll hold your hand,” whispered the voice from the past. A feeling of homesickness for that distant time caused her to pause on the footbridge and look back at the house.
Sadie’s laugh and Mary’s squeals came drifting down to her. Up at dawn, Sadie moved about the kitchen as if she had found heaven. She was making bread and she sang happily to entertain her daughter. John Austin was drawing a picture in the dirt for Pud. The sight of her young brother brought Summer back to the present. And to her need to speak to Sam McLean.
The trail to the ranch house was sandy and up-hill. By the time Summer reached the top and the house came into view, she had a thin coat of perspiration on her brow. Cockleburrs caught at the hem of her dress and she stopped to pick them off, wipe her face, and push the damp curls from her cheeks. Pausing, she stood listening to a scolding bluejay and studied the ranch house. It was a square building made of heavy stone in the style of a Spanish hacienda. A wide veranda held in place by axe-hewn timber pillars was hung with baskets of flowers trailing their bright blossoms from the beams. Massive live oaks shaded the house from the strong sunlight, throwing black shadows on its stone walls. It was beautiful, peaceful.
She walked on slowly, feeling the sun hot on the back of her neck. Excitement stirred inside her. Be calm! she commanded herself. She had to appear calm.
The floor of the veranda was made of stone set deep in the earth. The shade of the veranda, the cold stone floor and wall, made coming in from the outside a cool retreat. A heavy wooden door with wrought-iron hinges stood open, and she could see a spacious room running the width of the house. Overhead, huge, ancient-looking timbers supported the ceiling connecting it to the stone walls, directing the eye to a massive fireplace. Bright Mexican rugs dotted the stone floor, and large, deep chairs, a couch, several tables and a glass-fronted secretary furnished the room.
She hesitated in the doorway. It was so quiet it was eerie. She took a deep breath.
“Mr. McLean.” Her voice didn’t come out very loud and she called again. “Mr. McLean.”
There was nothing to break the silence but her voice. She moved into the room and toward the door beyond. She peered down a long hallway into the first open door. A large trestle table and handsome cabinets filled with dishes and silver assured her that Mr. McLean was not poor.
A large black cook-stove dominated the kitchen. Behind it, arranged neatly, hung an assortment of pots and pans. From the rafters hung bunches of dried spices, chili peppers and colorful gourds. A skillet was left burning on the fire, greasy smoke filling the air.
Instinctively, Summer went for the stove, her eyes searching for something with which to grasp the hot handle of the skillet. Seeing nothing, she bunched her skirt in her two hands and moved the pan to a cooler part of the stove. Standing back, she let her skirt fall back down around her ankles. In spite of the quiet, she had the feeling she was not alone. Swinging around, she jumped with surprise, her hand going to her mouth.
Someone was standing in the gloom at the far end of the room, standing quite still and watching her. While she stared, the figure moved and materialized slowly, became a tall man with a dark shirt and pants, straight black hair and a lean, swarthy face, whose right cheek was badly scarred. There was something about the outline of him, the way he held his head,
At the footbridge she paused, and her eyes sought the roof of the house where she was headed. She knew she must have been there before, but she remembered it no more than the home she had lived in until she was almost four years old. She stepped up onto the big split logs. High water had washed the far bank, causing the logs to tilt downward and barely clear the rushing water. “Don’t be afraid, I’ll hold your hand,” whispered the voice from the past. A feeling of homesickness for that distant time caused her to pause on the footbridge and look back at the house.
Sadie’s laugh and Mary’s squeals came drifting down to her. Up at dawn, Sadie moved about the kitchen as if she had found heaven. She was making bread and she sang happily to entertain her daughter. John Austin was drawing a picture in the dirt for Pud. The sight of her young brother brought Summer back to the present. And to her need to speak to Sam McLean.
The trail to the ranch house was sandy and up-hill. By the time Summer reached the top and the house came into view, she had a thin coat of perspiration on her brow. Cockleburrs caught at the hem of her dress and she stopped to pick them off, wipe her face, and push the damp curls from her cheeks. Pausing, she stood listening to a scolding bluejay and studied the ranch house. It was a square building made of heavy stone in the style of a Spanish hacienda. A wide veranda held in place by axe-hewn timber pillars was hung with baskets of flowers trailing their bright blossoms from the beams. Massive live oaks shaded the house from the strong sunlight, throwing black shadows on its stone walls. It was beautiful, peaceful.
She walked on slowly, feeling the sun hot on the back of her neck. Excitement stirred inside her. Be calm! she commanded herself. She had to appear calm.
The floor of the veranda was made of stone set deep in the earth. The shade of the veranda, the cold stone floor and wall, made coming in from the outside a cool retreat. A heavy wooden door with wrought-iron hinges stood open, and she could see a spacious room running the width of the house. Overhead, huge, ancient-looking timbers supported the ceiling connecting it to the stone walls, directing the eye to a massive fireplace. Bright Mexican rugs dotted the stone floor, and large, deep chairs, a couch, several tables and a glass-fronted secretary furnished the room.
She hesitated in the doorway. It was so quiet it was eerie. She took a deep breath.
“Mr. McLean.” Her voice didn’t come out very loud and she called again. “Mr. McLean.”
There was nothing to break the silence but her voice. She moved into the room and toward the door beyond. She peered down a long hallway into the first open door. A large trestle table and handsome cabinets filled with dishes and silver assured her that Mr. McLean was not poor.
A large black cook-stove dominated the kitchen. Behind it, arranged neatly, hung an assortment of pots and pans. From the rafters hung bunches of dried spices, chili peppers and colorful gourds. A skillet was left burning on the fire, greasy smoke filling the air.
Instinctively, Summer went for the stove, her eyes searching for something with which to grasp the hot handle of the skillet. Seeing nothing, she bunched her skirt in her two hands and moved the pan to a cooler part of the stove. Standing back, she let her skirt fall back down around her ankles. In spite of the quiet, she had the feeling she was not alone. Swinging around, she jumped with surprise, her hand going to her mouth.
Someone was standing in the gloom at the far end of the room, standing quite still and watching her. While she stared, the figure moved and materialized slowly, became a tall man with a dark shirt and pants, straight black hair and a lean, swarthy face, whose right cheek was badly scarred. There was something about the outline of him, the way he held his head,
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