Особое чувство собственного ирландства. Пат Инголдзби

making it, okay. The people around here still want me as their peacemaker and I’m glad to oblige.”

      His drawl held the faintest edge and she must have picked up on the sharpness because the corners of her lips tightened ever so slightly.

      “Must be nice to be wanted,” she murmured.

      “You ought to know,” he countered softly. “See ya’ around, Clem.”

      He turned away from the booth to leave and noticed Betty heading toward them with her pad and pencil.

      As he started toward the exit Quito jerked his thumb back at Clementine’s booth. “Treat her right, Betty. She’s used to the best.”

      Clementine tried not to look at the man as he left the café, but her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own and she watched his tall, solidly built body ease past the glass door and out of sight.

      “Good mornin’, miss. You havin’ breakfast this mornin’?”

      Sighing with a sadness she dared not examine, Clementine turned back to the waitress hovering at the edge of her table.

      “Just coffee and toast. And maybe a little jam—any kind will do,” she told the waitress.

      Betty quickly scribbled the order down then cast a faint grin at Clementine. “You must be new around town. I’d remember someone as pretty as you.”

      Clementine flushed at Betty’s compliment. “Thank you. I used to live in this area for a while. I’m just back for a short visit.”

      Curiosity raised Betty’s eyebrows. “Oh. You lived here in town? I live on Fourth. Little yellow house with a mesquite tree in the front yard.”

      Clementine shook her head as she told herself she was going to have to get used to this. People were naturally going to be asking her why she was here, how long she planned to stay and where she’d been. The best thing she could do was to be honest.

      “I didn’t live here in town. My parents owned the house south of town—the white stucco with the red tile roof. It’s on the mountain.”

      Since there was only one house that fit that description, Betty’s mouth formed a silent O. “You mean the Jones house?”

      Clementine nodded. “I didn’t know if anyone would remember. It’s been a long time since we were here.”

      Betty was flat out amazed. “Remember? Why, honey, everyone remembers you Joneses.”

      “Hey, Betty! Are you gonna talk all day over there or are you gonna pour me some coffee?”

      The waitress glanced over at the man sitting on a bar stool. Even though his griping appeared to be good-natured, she stuck her pencil behind her ear and said, “Gotta go, miss. I’ll bring that toast right out.”

      After Clementine ate breakfast she drove down main street and parked her black sports car in front of a log structure with a sign hanging over the door that read Neil Rankin, Attorney at Law.

      Small sprinklers were dampening the patches of grass in front of the building. To the right-hand side of the steps stood a huge blue spruce tree. The pungent scent from its boughs was fresh and crisp to Clementine’s nostrils and she could only think how different this little corner of the world was from Houston and many of the poverty-stricken places she’d visited in the past couple of years. The sky was clean and sharply blue. The scents of evergreen, juniper and sage laced the dry air. And the men were just as rough and tough as any Texan on the streets of Houston. Especially one, she thought. The one with a badge on his shirt and a gun on his hips.

      Feeling as though every last bit of air had drained from her lungs, she slumped back against the seat and passed a trembling hand across her forehead.

      Why are you so upset, Clementine? You knew you were going to run into the man sometime during this stay. You knew you were going to have to look upon his face again.

      Drawing in a ragged breath, she tried to push the voice away and gather her shaken senses.

      She turned her gaze on the passenger window and stared out at the town where she’d once walked and shopped. Above the roofs of the buildings, in the far, far distance, the peaks of the San Juan Mountains were capped with snow and as she studied their majestic beauty, her thoughts turned backward to a time when she and Quito had walked along a quiet mountain path. Even though it had been summer, patches of snow had lain in the shadows and in the meadows dandelions as big as saucers had bobbed in the warm sun. She and Quito had lain down in the grass and the wildflowers and made love. The trees and the sky had been their canopy and the earth had been their bed. She’d fallen in love with him that day and her life had never been the same since.

      Several minutes passed before Clementine was composed enough to leave the car and enter the lawyer’s office. The front area of the building was modestly decorated with plastic chairs and a coffee table loaded with magazines. In the center of the room, close to a door marked Private, was a wide desk with an Hispanic woman seated behind it. A nameplate on the corner said her name was Connie Jimenez.

      As Clementine approached the desk, the woman continued to chat on the telephone. After two long minutes, she hung up and quickly apologized.

      “Sorry about that. Some people think they can butt their way into anything.” The middle-aged woman had black, slightly graying hair and she smiled at Clementine with a sincerity that was real, not like the phony lip movement she saw back in the city. “What can I do for you?”

      “I’m Clementine Jones. Neil told me to drop by this morning. Is he busy?”

      Connie rolled her eyes as if to say Neil Rankin wouldn’t know what real work was. “He’s probably in there throwing darts.”

      Clementine’s brows arched upward. “Why? Is he angry?”

      Connie laughed. “Angry? Are you kidding? I’ve never seen that man even raise his voice. He’s practicing his dart game for a tournament down at Indian Wells. That’s a local bar and grill. First prize gets you free beer for a year.”

      She motioned toward the door marked Private. “Go on in. I just made him a fresh pot of coffee. And there’re doughnuts, too.”

      “Thanks,” Clementine told her and knocked lightly before she opened the door to Neil Rankin’s office.

      As Connie had predicted, the lawyer was drinking coffee and throwing darts at a board on the wall.

      “Come in,” he called as he walked over to the dart board and plucked one from the center of the target. “I’ll be right with you.”

      “It’s only me, Neil.”

      The sound of her voice caused him to jerk with surprise and he quickly turned and hurried over. The smile on his face said he was truly glad to see her and she was relieved. It was no secret that the relationship between Neil and Quito had been a long, close one. She couldn’t blame Neil if he hated her for hurting his friend.

      “Clementine! How great to see you!”

      Neil was a tall man with a handsomely chiseled face. Compared to Quito’s rugged build, he was slender, but well put together and his dark blond hair was naturally streaked and fell across his forehead in a boyish fashion. He’d been single when she’d been living here and from the looks of his empty ring finger he was still that way. It was hard to believe some woman hadn’t snared him before now, she thought. But then, maybe he’d been burned as she’d been burned. Maybe he never wanted to think about the word love.

      He took both her hands and gave them a warm squeeze. Clementine couldn’t help but smile at him. “Hello, Neil.”

      Neil positioned a cushioned chair in front of his desk and helped her into it. “I was just drinking my morning coffee. Let me get you a cup,” he said.

      She’d already had two cups at the Wagon Wheel, but now that she was here she wanted to appear sociable. “That would be nice. Thank you,” she told him.