Somebody to Love
Page 29
Her very human desire to be happy had deteriorated into frenetic escapism—through repeatedly changing careers and dating guy after guy after guy, getting serious about none, and flitting from one interest to the next, never settling on any one thing for long. She was always anticipating what she was going to do next instead of enjoying what she had in her hand. Her impulsive pleasure seeking had brought upon her the very thing she’d feared—pain and unhappiness.
Until archaeology.
Until Jericho.
Until she finally accepted what her heart had known all along. Digging down deep, looking for those roots had made her focused and profound, and for one blissful night, with Jericho, she’d skipped through the stars, drunk from the Milky Way, slid down the moon into the utmost pleasure of all.
“Walker decided not to take my trust money away,” she said. “Considering everything we’ve gone through, he said he understood why I quit. And hey, I’m back again.”
“Anything new on the movie front? I imagine Walker was worried that when word got out about what Winz-Smith had done, it would ruin the movie deal.”
“It didn’t ruin it at all.” Zoey smiled. “It’s set to go full steam ahead. Great-Great-Uncle August came out smelling like a rose. Seems he felt so terribly guilty over what our ancestors did that he dedicated his life to trying to eradicate influenza, but he ran out of Golden Flame shortly after the Spanish flu outbreak in 1918. That’s why he hid the map to where the Golden Flame was so that someone like Marcus couldn’t find it and misuse or destroy the plant.”
“Score one for Great-Great-Uncle August.”
“So all the blood that runs through my veins isn’t bad.”
“Nothing about you is bad, Zoey,” he said. “You can’t help it if you had an unsavory relative.”
“Zachariah was more than unsavory. He was mean and cruel.”
Jericho pulled an envelope from his back pocket. “I got the results back.”
Her heart flopped into her throat. While they were at the hospital, Jericho had asked if he could have his DNA tested so they could compare it to the hair he’d found on the tomahawk in hopes it could show if Granny Helen was right and he did descend from the Keepers of the Flame.
“It might not be a historic hair,” he said. “In fact, it could have been my own. Wouldn’t that be a laugh?”
“You didn’t open it already?”
“No,” he said. “I wanted to wait for you.”
She climbed down the ladder into the pit with him. “I’m here. Open it.”
He blew out his breath, slipped his finger underneath the sealed envelope. He stood there reading it for so long that Zoey thought she was going to explode.
“Well?”
“There’s a lot of stuff here about markers and haplotypes and alleles. Since we don’t know Little Wolf’s surname and can’t provide a genealogical paper trail, it can’t be considered fully conclusive, but my DNA matches the markers twenty-four out of twenty-five.”
“Which means?”
He raised his head, stared into her eyes. “I’m most likely related to Little Wolf, if that’s his hair we found on the tomahawk.”
“And I know I’m related to Clarissa.”
“Two related sets of friends who became lovers.”
“Except we did not die on that mountain.”
He came toward her. “No, we did not.”
“I feel like they’re living on through us.”
“They are.”
“I think Little Wolf and Clarissa would approve.”
“I know they would.” He swept her into his arms and kissed her.
She kissed him back with everything she had in her.
He broke the kiss after a long moment. “Before we get too carried away,” he said, “I’ve got something for you.”
“A surprise? For me?” She giggled, feeling light as a schoolgirl.
“Uh-huh.”
“What is it?”
“Close your eyes.”
She closed her eyes. Heard a rustling noise and a soft mewling. Her eyes flew open as Jericho put a Siamese kitten in her hand. “Eggy?”
“Not Eggy,” he said. “Eggy Two. I got him at the animal shelter.”
“Oh Jericho! He’s beautiful.” She wrapped an arm around Jericho’s neck and kissed him again.
“You’ve proven beyond a shadow of a doubt you can stick with whatever you set your mind to.”
“I set my mind to sticking with you. And Eggy Two and archaeology and—”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to convince me. I was there. I saw how you kept digging to unearth the truth.” He wrapped his arm around her.
The kitten snuggled in the curve of her neck and began to purr. Jericho kissed the top of her head, and Zoey’s heart filled to bursting.
“You know,” he whispered, “friends do make the very best of lovers.”
And as she gazed into the eyes of her beloved, Zoey McCleary knew that for her, it was absolutely true.
Want to know how
the legend of Cupid, Texas began?
If you loved this book, don’t forget to read
ONE TRUE LOVE
The first novella in the Cupid, Texas series by
New York Times bestselling author
LORI WILDE!
Available now in ebook from Avon Impulse!
An excerpt from ONE TRUE LOVE
Whistle Stop, Texas. May 25, 1924
I MET John Fant on the worst day of my life.
There he was, the most handsome man I’d ever seen, standing at the bottom of my daddy’s porch clutching a straw Panama hat in his hand, the mournful expression on his face belying the jauntiness of his double-breasted lightweight jacket and Oxford bags with sharp, smart creases running smoothly down the front of the legs. An intense, magnetic energy radiated from him, rolled toward me like heat waves off the Chihuahuan Desert. I felt an inexplicable tug in the square center of my belly.
His gaze settled heavily on my face. There were shadows under his eyes as if he’d been up all night, and there was a tightness to his lips that troubled me. A snazzy red Nash roadster sat on a patch of dirt just off the one-lane wagon road that ran in front of the house. It looked just as out of place as the magnificent man in my front yard.
My knees turned watery as the mustang grape jelly I canned last summer that hadn’t set up right, and suddenly, I couldn’t catch my breath. I hung on to the screen door that I was half hiding behind.
“Is this Corliss Greenwood’s residence?” he asked.
“Yessir.” I raised my chin and stepped out onto the porch. The screen door wavered behind me, the snap stretched out of the spring from too many years of too many kids bamming it closed. Without looking around, I kicked the door shut with my bare heel.
He came up on the porch, the termite-weakened steps sagging and creaking underneath his weight.
Shame burned my cheeks. Please, God, don’t let him put one of those two-tone wingtips right through a rotten board.
He was tall with broad shoulders, and even though he was whip-lean, he looked as strong as a prizewinning Longhorn bull. A spot of freshly dried blood stained his right cheek where he must’ve cut himself shaving. He’d shaved in the middle of the day, in the middle of the week? His hair was the color of coal and he wore it slicked back off his forehead. His teeth were straight and white as piano keys, and I imagined that when he smiled, it went all the way up to his chocolate brown eyes, but he wasn’t smiling now.
Mr. Fant had caught me indisposed. I must look frightful in the frayed gray dress I wore when cleaning. The material was way too tight around my chest because my breasts had blossomed along with the spring flowers. Strands of unruly hair were popping out of my sloppy braid and falling around my face. I pushed them back.
Another step closer and he was only an arm’s length away.
My heart started thudding. His masculine fragrance wafted over to me in the heat of the noonday sun, notes of leather, o
ranges, rosemary, cedar, clove, and moss. Perfume! He was wearing perfume. I’d never met a man who wore perfume before, but it smelled mighty good, fresh and clean and rich.
My daddy always said I would have made a keen bloodhound with the nose I had on me. A well-developed sense of smell can be good for some things, like telling when a loaf of warm yeast bread is ready to come out of the oven, and inhaling a snout full of sunshine while unpinning clothes from the line, but other times having a good sniffer could be downright unpleasant—for instance, when visiting the outhouse in August.
“Is Corliss your father?”
My throat had squeezed up, so I just nodded.
“I’m John Fant.”
I knew who he was, of course. The Fants were the wealthiest family in Jeff Davis County. Truth be told, they were the wealthiest family between the Pecos River and the New Mexico border. The Fants had founded the town of Cupid, which lay twenty-five miles due north in the foothills of the Fort Davis Mountains, and they owned the Fant Silver Mine where my father worked. Three years ago, when John had returned home with a degree from Maryland State College, his father, Silas Fant, had turned the family business over to his only son.
The screen door drifted open against my calf and I bumped it closed again.
He arched a dark eyebrow. “And you are … ?”
“Millie Greenwood,” I managed to push my name over my lips.
“How old are you, Millie?”
The way he said my name sent a shiver shaking down my spine for no good reason. It seemed a nosy question and I was within my rights to go back inside and shut the door in his face. It wasn’t proper for a young lady to have a prolonged conversation with a good-looking bachelor on her front porch without a chaperone present, but I answered him anyway. “I turned eighteen last week.”
He flicked a glance over my shoulder. “Is your mother home?”
I’d sent my brothers and sisters off blackberry picking so I could clean the house after Mama took a BC powder and went to bed to sleep off one of her migraines, but I didn’t want him to know I was basically alone. “She’s inside.”
“May I come in?”
“I’m not allowed to invite strangers into the house.”
“I’m not a stranger, I’m your father’s boss.”
That was true enough. I hesitated, uncertain of what to do next.
“I’m afraid I’ve got some very bad news,” he said in a soft voice. The expression in his eyes was far too kind. “This isn’t the sort of thing that should be discussed on the porch.”
I went sick all over when he said that. This time, when the screen door hit me in the behind, I didn’t close it, but instead held it wide open. “C’mon in.”
A fly came in with us, buzzed lazy circles around the sitting room. My chest was so tight that I was having trouble breathing and my head pounded hard. Was I gonna hafta take a BC powder myself?
I waved at the sofa. “Please have a seat, Mr. Fant, while I fetch my mother.”
He didn’t sit, just stood there, holding his hat.
I slipped down the short hall to the bedroom my mother and father shared and knocked lightly on the door. “Mama,” I called. “Mr. John Fant is in our sitting room.”
Less than a minute later, the door wrenched open. My mother wore only a thin chemise and her hair was all mashed up on the side. Her face was ghostly pale the way it got every time she had a migraine, but what scared me to death was the look of pure terror in her eyes. “John Fant is here? In our house?”
Mutely, I nodded.
The blue vein at the hollow of her throat pulsed fast. She ran her fingers through her hair and moved into the hallway.
I rested a hand on her shoulder. Her skin felt so cold. “Mama, you need to put on a dressing gown.”
“Yes, yes,” she murmured, disappeared into the bedroom, only to poke her head out again. “What was I looking for?”
“Dressing gown.”
The lump in my throat grew bigger with each passing second, and I struggled to keep my mind from leaping to conclusions, but dread settled into my bone marrow. I clenched my hands into fists, closed my eyes. Please, God.
Finally, Mama came back out, trying to cinch the belt of her faded pink floral dressing gown, but her hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t manage it.
“Here,” I said, and tied it for her.
“Thank you, Millie,” she whispered, and cupped my cheek with her palm.
I took her hand and led her to the sitting room. Mr. Fant was still standing, still held that silly Panama hat that he was turning around and around in his hands.
He nodded at my mother, his face somber. “Mrs. Greenwood.”
Mama drew a shuddering breath so deep that I felt it in my own body. “Mr. Fant.”
“Please, sit down,” he invited like it was his house instead of ours.
Mama sagged against me and made a soft mewling noise like a newborn kitten. I guided her over to the threadbare sofa. She wilted onto it and I perched beside her, making sure to sit on the grape jelly spot, permanently embedded into the fabric, so Mr. Fant couldn’t see the stain.
He pulled up a Hitchcock chair from the corner of the room and sat down in front of us.
Mama was plucking restlessly at the lapel of her dressing gown, like she was picking off lint. I touched her hand so she would stop.
Mr. Fant’s grim eyes met mine.
I curled my fingers into crabapple knots against my thighs.
He leaned over and laid his big palm on my closed fist. I was surprised to discover it was calloused like a workman’s. I expected a man of Mr. Fant’s status to have palms as smooth as a baby’s backside. If the situation hadn’t been what it was, I would have been both alarmed and excited by the feelings that his touch stirred, but considering the circumstances, I was just plain numb.
“Mrs. Greenwood, Miss Greenwood.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I have some tragic news.”
“Just say it!” I blurted, unable to stand the tension one second longer.
“There’s been a cave-in at the silver mine,” he said gently. “I’m so—”
“No!” my mother wailed before he finished speaking, clutched her head in both hands, and began rocking to and fro. “No, no, no!”
I felt my mind break away from my body and drift up toward the ceiling. I was outside myself, watching the whole proceedings from afar. You could have slapped a scalding hot branding iron against my bare foot and I wouldn’t have felt a thing.
“I deeply regret to inform you,” he went on stoically, but the pain in his dark eyes gave him away. This event had touched him profoundly. “That Mr. Corliss Greenwood has lost his life.”
About the Author
LORI WILDE is the New York Times bestselling author of more than forty-five books. A former RITA® finalist, Lori has received the Romantic Times Reviewers’ Choice Award, the Holt Medallion, the Booksellers Best, the National Readers’ Choice, and numerous other honors. She lives in Weatherford, Texas, with her husband and a wide assortment of pets. Lori teaches Romance Writing Secrets via the Internet through colleges and universities worldwide at www.ed2g.com.
Please visit her on the web at www.loriwilde.com.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins authors.
By Lori Wilde
Somebody to Love
The Christmas Cookie Collection
All Out of Love
Love at First Sight
A Cowboy for Christmas
The Cowboy and the Princess
The Cowboy Takes a Bride
The Welcome Home Garden Club
The First Love Cookie Club
The True Love Quilting Club
The Sweethearts’ Knitting Club
Available from Avon Impulse
One True Love
The Christmas Cookie Chronicles:
Carrie
Raylene
Christine
Grace
*Now available in print as
The Christmas Cookie Collection
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Excerpt from One True Love copyright © 2013 by Laurie Vanzura
SOMEBODY TO LOVE. Copyright © 2014 by Laurie Vanzura. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition JANUARY 2014 ISBN: 9780062218995
Print Edition ISBN: 978-0-06-221898-8
FIRST EDITION
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