Christine Rimmer - A Hero for Sophie Jones

by Christine Rimmer

  She asked carefully, "Are you … all right?"

  He faced her again. His eyes had a strange, hot light in them.

  Sophie thought she understood what he felt. "You've wondered about your family home, haven't you? You wanted to come and see for yourself what happened to it."

  He didn't answer, only went on staring at her with those burning dark eyes.

  She began to feel uncomfortable. "What is it? Have I got it all wrong?"

  He shook his head. "No, not at all. The truth is, you've figured me out."

  It was a lie.

  Sin Riker knew exactly what had happened to his family home.

  He owned it. The sale had been finalized two weeks before.

  And now, he intended to claim what was his, to buy out this innocent and eliminate the peculiar enterprise she called the Mountain Star.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  « ^ »

  Sin stared into those gorgeous brown eyes—eyes utterly lacking in guile. Eyes that said she simply wanted to know about him.

  What the hell was it about her?

  She wasn't his type at all.

  He found himself thinking of Willa, with her black hair like a swatch of silk and her brittle, knowing laugh. Willa Tweed was his kind of woman: clever, ambitious—and sexy as hell. A talented interior designer, Willa had handled the decorating of several office buildings for him. She'd kept his interest for over a year, both in and out of bed. She'd seemed the perfect match for him, so he had asked her to marry him.

  And yet, when she'd called the whole thing off, he hadn't found it difficult at all to let her go. Which, he supposed, was just more proof of his total lack of character.

  As if he needed more proof.

  The Jones woman's generous mouth bloomed in an artless smile. "I understand completely," she assured him. "I love this place. If I ever had to leave it, I know I'd be drawn back again—just to see it, to know that it's still here."

  Watching her smile, listening to her sympathize when no sympathy was called for, Sin knew he should call a halt right then. She betrayed herself so easily. Those eyes of hers didn't know how to lie. And she was warming to him, starting to like him. She had a sunny, trusting nature. In no time at all, she would be telling him all about herself—all the facts of her life that he already knew.

  There was no point at all in indulging in this flirtation with her.

  Except that he couldn't seem to stop himself.

  "Hello, are you in there?" Sophie teased. To her, it seemed as if Sinclair had been standing there, regarding her intently, saying nothing, for about half a century.

  He gave her a rueful smile. "I'm here, all right."

  "Good."

  They shared a warm glance, standing there side by side against the steel sink. Sophie recalled how she'd lectured herself about him, up in the hayloft during the second reel.

  But now that all seemed so silly. She wanted to get to know him, and she could think of no reason why she shouldn't.

  Especially now that she knew his name.

  Sinclair Riker. She still couldn't quite believe it.

  Since the first time she'd heard the sad story of the Rikers, Sophie had wondered about them, felt for them really, to have owned this beautiful piece of land and then to have lost it. For the boy, Sinclair, her sympathy had gone even deeper. He'd been so young to lose so much. Her heart went out to him.

  "Your name is Sophie—isn't it?" His tone chided, but very gently.

  And Sophie felt a little ashamed. Here she'd been so suspicious of him, and yet she was the one who hadn't even provided her name. "Yes. Sophie. Sophie B. Jones. Most folks just call me Sophie B."

  "B for?"

  "Bernadette."

  He made a low noise in his throat. "Don't tell me. It was your grandmother's name, right?"

  She shook her head. "Why would you think that?"

  "Because it was my grandmother's name."

  "You're kidding."

  "No." His gaze swept over her from head to toe. "So if it wasn't your grandmother's name, then whose?"

  "My mother chose it. From an old movie. The Song of Bernadette, starring Jennifer Jones. Ever heard of it?"

  He shook his head.

  "Bernadette was a nun, I believe. In the movie."

  "A nun," he murmured. "I should have known."

  For that, she made a face at him. "I remind you of a nun?"

  "Did I say that?"

  "You didn't have to."

  He leaned her way then, and lowered his voice. "I have to admit, I asked around a little."

  She wasn't surprised. "About the ranch?"

  He nodded. "Everyone I talked to seemed to know all about Ms. Sophie B. Jones and the Mountain Star Resort."

  She wrinkled up her nose. "I hope they only said nice things."

  "Only terrific things." He reached out and took her hand. His touch sent tiny, lovely tingles all through her. With great care, he wrapped her fingers in the crook of his arm. It felt absolutely wonderful to have him do that—as well as absolutely right. "Come on. Show me what you've done with my father's ranch."

  Beyond the barn doors, the August moon shone down through the pines. A gentle breeze stirred the branches, creating haunting plays of shadow and silvery light. Somewhere off by the small creek that wound over the property, they could hear the night songs of crickets and frogs.

  "It is a beautiful place," Sinclair said.

  In lieu of a reply, Sophie squeezed his arm, then suggested, "How about the stables first?"

  Before he could answer, two figures materialized out of the shadows not far from the barn doors.

  "Sophie B.," a male voice said.

  Sophie felt Sinclair's lean arm stiffen under her hand. She gave that arm another squeeze. "It's all right. These are friends."

  The two came into the light: a man and a woman—well, a boy and a girl, really. Neither could have been much out of their teens. Sophie felt pretty sure of their names. "Hello, Ben. And Melody." Each carried a bedroll and a backpack. Even in the kind light of the moon, their jeans and T-shirts looked worn.

  Melody laughed. "We scared you, huh?"

  "Never," Sophie replied.

  "We meant to get here for the show, but we were too late."

  More likely, they didn't have the money for the tickets. Sophie would have let them in anyway, but they were proud kids, kids who didn't like taking charity—especially not for non-necessities like movies.

  Sophie shrugged. "Maybe next time."

  "Yeah. Next time. Cool."

  Sophie knew what they wanted. "Campground's open, as far as I'm concerned."

  Ben looked relieved. "Thanks. We're really beat. Come on, Mel."

  They hoisted their packs and started off in the opposite direction from the main house. Sophie called after them. "Stop in and say hi to Myra tomorrow, why don't you?"

  Melody called back, "Thanks, Sophie B. You're the best."

  Sinclair spoke. "The 'campground' is open?" His tone seemed to mock her.

  Sophie turned to look at him. But the moon was behind him. His face lay in shadow. She couldn't see his expression. "I call it a campground," she said, "but it's really just a nice, grassy spot with trees all around. On a mild night like this one, it's a great place to spread a sleeping bag." She pointed. "It's just over that rise there."

  "Those two have nowhere else to go, is that it?" There was a definite chill in his voice, she was sure of that now.

  She answered gently. "I don't know if they have anywhere else to go. All I know is that they need a place to stay for tonight and I can provide that easily."

  "If you let people move in on you, you're just asking for trouble."

  She didn't believe that and she never would. "They'll be on their way in the morning."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "It always works out that way. The street people who come here know how to behave."

  "You've been lucky."

  "I suppose I ha
ve," she admitted. "But it's not only that."

  "Oh, no? What else, then?"

  She shot him a grin. "I have to tell you, I never let skeptics like you get to me."

  "All right, then." His voice had changed again, lost its cold edge. "Why won't you share your secret—if it's more than plain luck?"

  "Because you'll only laugh if I tell you."

  "No." He put his hand over hers. "I won't laugh. I swear."

  His touch sent those shivers zinging through her all over again. She couldn't help relenting. "All right. In my experience, people tend to fulfill my expectations of them. So I always make it a point to keep my expectations good and high."

  He said nothing for a moment. Then he let out a breath. "As I said, you've been lucky."

  "Call it luck if you want to. But it works for me." She tugged on his arm. "Now, come on. The stables are waiting."

  They went down a slate path, beneath the leafy shelter of a double row of maples, until they came to a rambling woodsided building from which a series of linked corrals branched off. Inside the stables, Sophie turned on the lights and they walked between the rows of stalls.

  Sophie said, "I know your father used to raise horses here. Morgans, mostly, weren't they?"

  "Yes. We lost them all, though. They took them away when they kicked us out of the house."

  Another wave of sympathy washed through her. How could he have borne all those losses at such a young age? "It must have been awful for you."

  He studied her face for a moment. "As I said…"

  "I know. It was a long time ago."

  Sophie paused to stroke the forehead of a friendly roan gelding and explained that none of the horses belonged to the Mountain Star. "We run a boarding service for people who don't have the space to keep their own horses. Some of the owners allow guests at the main house to ride their animals, under certain conditions—and for a fee, of course."

  "Certain conditions?"

  "Caleb Taggart, who runs the stables for me, has to check them out first, see if they know how to ride and how to treat a horse."

  Right then, Caleb, who was six feet five and broad as an oak, appeared from the apartment he'd fixed up for himself off the tack room. He loomed huge and imposing before them. "Everything okay, Sophie B.?" He looked at her guest with stolid wariness.

  "Everything is fine." She performed the introductions and the two men shook hands.

  "Caleb helps me keep the grounds in order, as well as running the stables," she explained a few minutes later, when they were on their way to the main house. "He's a genius with horses."

  "A large genius," Sin added. "And he seems very protective of you."

  "He is." She grinned. "Both large and protective. He's worked for me from the beginning, which was five years ago."

  They stopped at the edge of the wide, sloping lawn in front of the main house. Sophie told him more about the Mountain Star. "I have a fifteen-year lease on five acres—the crucial five acres we're standing on, which includes the main house, the barn, the stables and corrals, and the guest house, too, where I live. The local teachers' association owns it all—or at least they did."

  His shadowy gaze was on her. "They did? Past tense?"

  Something in his tone bothered her, though she couldn't have said what, and a small tremor of alarm skittered through her—a sudden sense that all was not as it should be.

  But then she told herself not to overreact. She felt apprehensive about this particular subject, that was all. It had nothing to do with Sinclair.

  She'd received the notice from the San Francisco bank just a week before, and since then she'd been trying not to stew over what it might mean to the Mountain Star. She'd asked around, but the sale had been accomplished through intermediaries, and no one seemed to know much about the new owner.

  She explained, "Some corporation owns the ranch now. In San Francisco, I think. I got a letter about it just last week. It said to send the lease payments to a Bay Area bank, and make the checks out to something called Inkerris, Incorporated."

  "Inkerris, Incorporated?"

  "Yes. Have you heard of it?"

  He shrugged, which she took to mean "no."

  She sighed. "I have to admit, I wasn't surprised to hear about a new owner."

  "Why not?"

  "The teachers' association has been wanting to sell for a long time. They bought the ranch because they had a plan to build tract homes here. But somehow the plan never got off the ground. That's when I came in. They wanted some kind of return on their investment. I made them an offer."

  Two serpentine boulders flanked the base of the walk that led up to the main house. Sophie perched on one, smoothed her skirt and wrapped her hands around her knees. "It's worked out great for me. I have the run of the rest of the place—all nine hundred and ninety-five acres. A lot of the guests like to hike. And the folks who board their horses with us appreciate the convenience of being able to just come in, saddle up and ride for miles without seeing any houses or highways."

  Sinclair stood over her, his hands in his pockets. "It does sound like a good deal for you."

  "It has been. Too bad the teachers' association didn't feel the same way."

  "You couldn't expect them to hold onto a losing investment forever."

  "Of course not." She looked up at him, and they shared a smile. "I only wished that they would."

  In a sleek, easy motion, he dropped to a crouch before her, so he was the one looking up. "You love it here, don't you?"

  She nodded, thinking again how unbelievably good-looking he was, a dark angel, so lean and fine. "I've been fortunate," she said, "to have all this, though I know it isn't really mine. I would have bought it myself—if I could have afforded it. But I'm never likely to get that kind of money together." She smoothed her skirt again. "Oh, well. Maybe in ten years, when my lease is up, whatever corporation owns it then will let me renew."

  Thinking about the tenuous nature of her hold on the Mountain Star always bothered Sophie. And lately, since the letter from the San Francisco bank, it disturbed her more than ever.

  She looked off, beyond Sinclair's shoulder. In the center of the lawn, she could see the fountain. Caleb had put in a good deal of work on that fountain, cleaning out rusted pipes so it would work again. At its center stood a statue of a little girl, holding out her skirt to capture the shimmering streams of water as they cascaded down. The little girl was laughing—even by moonlight, her delight came across. Sophie loved that statue, and the sight of it cheered her.

  Pointless to worry, needless to fret, her aunt Sophie always used to say…

  "Hey." The man before her reached out. His fingers whispered along the line of her cheek. She forgot her worries—she even forgot the laughing little girl—as she met his eyes again.

  Incredible, she thought, how good it felt, to have him touch her. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.

  So strange. She felt so close to him. As if they'd known each other forever, as if they had a history of shared experience, as if she'd long ago grown accustomed to his touch.

  Accustomed, but never weary of it.

  Oh, no. She could never grow weary of his touch. Featherlight, it was. And at the same time, like a brand. Burning…

  Gentle as a breath, he touched her hair. Right then, his eyes seemed full of timeless mystery as the Sierra night around them. "Do you really think that's likely?"

  What were they talking about? She couldn't for the life of her remember. "Do I think what's likely?"

  "That you'll convince some faceless corporation to renew your lease when your time here runs out?"

  She knew it wasn't. Only a combination of good fortune and good timing had made the Mountain Star a reality. She shook her head. "But I have what I want now. And as for the future—a girl can dream, can't she?"

  "Absolutely." Once more, his fingers touched her cheek. And then they fell away. He rose above her again, with the same seamless ease of movement as before. S
he felt regret, as if some precious impossible intimacy had been lost.

  And then she stood as well, smoothing the back of her skirt as she did. "Shall we go in?"

  He frowned.

  She knew immediately what that frown meant: he didn't want to go in.

  And no wonder. There were probably hard memories for him in that house. The old story went that the boy, Sinclair, had been the one who found his father's body—in one of the two attic rooms, dangling from a rafter beam.

  "Would you rather just skip the house?" she suggested gingerly.

  "Of course not." His voice had turned cold as a night in midwinter. "Let's go." He held out his arm for her again. After a moment's hesitation, she took it. They started up the walk, past the bubbling fountain with its laughing little girl, toward the house where the man beside her had spent the first six years of his life.

  Riker cottage, as the house had always been called, was a steep-roofed structure built of natural stone, with redbrick trim in the dormers and around the window casements. Sinclair said nothing as they went under the brick-lined arch that framed the front door.

  Sophie had learned already that he was a man prone to silences. But his silence now had a strange edge to it, an edge she didn't like at all. She almost suggested for the second time that they not go in. But she knew from his response a moment ago that it would do no good.

  There was nothing else for it. She reached for the iron latch on the heavy oak door.

  The door opened on a large central foyer. From there, a switch-back staircase led up to the guest rooms. Twin parlors branched off to either side.

  Sophie showed Sinclair the ground floor first. In the east parlor, they found two guests playing chess. Sinclair nodded when she introduced him to the chess players—a brief, aloof nod. Her guests seemed to take no offense to his coldness. They bent over their game again right away. But it did bother Sophie—because she sensed his chilly manner was only a cover-up for distress.

  He did not want to be here, she knew it. She could feel it in her bones. He said nothing when she showed him the library, where his father's books still stood in the tall, glass-fronted cases.