The Case Of The Bad Luck Fiance Page 3

  As an extra bonus, they’d been seated behind a woman with a pair of out-of-control young’uns.

  Now safely on the ground in Colorado Springs, Tristan waited patiently in the aisle for the young mother. The baby riding in a carrier had screamed nonstop during the flight, unlike the little boy who’d been having the time of his life. All during the flight he’d played peek-a-boo with Tristan over the seat back, raced up and down the aisle, got himself locked in the bathroom, riled up the attendants, crawled over and under seats, and generally raised Cain. The boy’s mama wasn’t the most popular person on the airplane, and as she blocked the aisle while gathering an apparently endless number of tote bags, books, toys and blankets, she became even less so.

  “See?” William whispered next to Tristan’s ear. “You’ll get married, have a bunch of rug rats, and they’ll be just like that.”

  “Hush, son.”

  William grinned smugly.

  Behind Tristan, a line of passengers made disgruntled noises, shuffling noisily. Poked in the back, Tristan swung his head around and eyed a red-faced businessman who clutched an overcoat, briefcase and garment bag. Tristan reckoned it was old-fashioned to check baggage anymore. All the passengers were laden like pack mules. The only thing Tristan carried was his hat.

  “Jacob, honey,” the frazzled young mother pleaded.

  “Get your blankie, honey. Let’s go meet Daddy.”

  Poked again by the briefcase, Tristan scowled. He asked, “Need a hand there, ma’am?” Without waiting for her answer, he plucked a diaper bag and a pair of bright totes from her hands. “Grab up your young’uns.”

  For a moment she appeared startled, then gave him a watery smile and scooped up the baby. Balancing the bulky carrier, she grabbed Jacob’s hand. The little boy began yelling for his toys.

  “I’ll get your toys, short stuff. Go on with your

  mama.”

  The briefcase poked Tristan in the back again. Looking over his shoulder at the impatient traveler, Tristan said, “Mister, if that case knocks my kidneys one more time, I’m gonna show you a whole new way to carry it”

  The man’s florid face turned darker as he looked up and up until he met Tristan’s eyes. He glanced at William, who wasn’t as tall or bulky as his father but still had to stoop while standing in the plane. The man held the briefcase tighter to his chest Wondering what in tarnation all these folks were in such a hurry for, Tristan shuffled aside and ordered William to gather toys and coloring books.

  “Rug rats,” William said. “This is what the house will look like with a bunch of rug rats running around.”

  Ignoring him, Tristan checked beneath the seats to make sure the little boy hadn’t dropped anything else. He disembarked the airplane.

  Inside the terminal, he stopped short. Dozens of people milled around the gate. Passengers from the flight swept past him as if the huge crowd were perfectly normal. He stared at men and women holding sound equipment and cameras, and didn’t think this was normal at all.

  “Look, Dad, reporters. I bet they’re waiting for a movie star.” William stood on tiptoes, eagerly searching the crowd. “See anybody famous?”

  “Where’s the lady and her young’uns?” A man with a camera jostled him without so much as an excuse me, mister. City folks. Always in a hurry, always attending to important matters that seemed to change in importance from minute to minute. He could live to be a hundred and never understand.

  He noticed the focus of the reporters’ attention puttering down the main concourse. An electric cart pulled a train loaded with dignified-looking men and women dressed up in Sunday best. Cameras flashed and video recorders flared with lights as the reporters surged toward the approaching cart. From the shouted questions, Tristan guessed the people on the electric cart were airport and airline officials and the hubbub had to do with expanding the practically brand-new airport terminal.

  “Jacob?”

  Tristan nudged his son toward the source of that anxious cry. He spotted the young mother from the plane. He pushed his way through the crowds and maneuvered around the banks of chairs to her side. Recognition lit her eyes, but tears made them glitter.

  “I can’t find my—Jacob!”

  Tristan dropped the totes and diaper bag on a chair next to the baby now fast asleep in its carrier. He put a hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Where’s your husband, ma’am? Thought you were meeting him.”

  “He’s late!” She loosed a wail and clutched his arm with both hands, her fingernails digging into the cloth of his suit jacket. “I only took my hand off him for a second! Jacob!”

  “Little runt couldn’t have gotten far,” William said. He dropped the load of toys on a chair.

  Tristan pried her hands off his arm and turned to search the crowd. “Wait here for your husband. We’ll find your boy. William, you look over that way.”

  He pushed through the knots of people. He peered under the long rows of chairs and behind the flight checkin desk. Then, over the heads of the reporters, he spotted Jacob. The boy had discovered the moving walkway running down the middle of the concourse. He crouched at the base, watching the loop of black handrail disappear into the works.

  Tristan swung wide of the reporters and aimed for the boy.

  “Jacob!” the young mother screamed.

  Jacob startled and tumbled onto his behind. Then he scrambled to his feet, taking off into a stubby-legged run directly in front of the trundling cart. The cart driver was paying attention to the reporters, the reporters heeded only the dignitaries, and the boy focused on his frantic mother. No one except Tristan saw the impending disaster.

  One, two, three long strides, his boots thudding hard against the flat carpet, Tristan aimed for the boy. A woman screamed, then another. He snatched the boy’s arm—he didn’t weigh more than a minute—and Tristan’s momentum caused him to nearly fling the boy over his head. One more long stride.

  The cart driver slammed on the brakes. The bumper smacked Tristan in the leg.

  His bad leg. Jagged pain burst from deep within the muscles. Feeling the knee buckle, he shifted in midstride, absorbing his weight onto his good leg. He wrapped an arm around the boy and hugged him to his chest, trying to keep him still so they both didn’t go down in a heap. That would be a fine thing; keep the kid from getting run over, then crush him into jelly under his rescuer’s body. He twisted, seeking balance, but his boot heel slipped and he sat hard. His teeth clacked and flashes of white light blinded him.

  The boy ended up seated on Tristan’s lap, his big eyes wide and curious, perhaps wondering if this were fun or not.

  “Jacob!”

  Tristan flinched away from the screech nearly in his ear. The young mother grabbed Jacob and he began to howl.

  With a bit of privacy Tristan might have howled himself. Last year a Brahman-cross bull named Jeepers Peepers hadn’t been satisfied with flinging Tristan off his back and over a wall. The bull had climbed the wall after Tristan and tap-danced on his leg. The experience of having bones turned into a jigsaw puzzle had convinced him he was too doggone old for rodeoing.

  As he was too old for getting run over by an electric cart. He blew hard through his mouth until the throbbing in his thigh mellowed to bearable. No real harm done, he knew. The leg always reacted like a yippy mutt to any knockabout.

  William helped him to his feet. Eyes wide, the boy whispered, “Are you all right, Dad?”

  “I’m fine,” he said, testing his leg. No harm done, except to his dignity. Camera flashes flared in his face, and he flinched. “Lost my balance, that’s all. Let’s go.” He wanted his luggage and rental car, then to be far away from this nutty airport.

  A bald man in a dark blue suit blocked Tristan’s path. He spoke, but all Tristan caught was “mayor.” Another fellow, about the same age but with all his hair and a face like a bulldog, turned out to be the governor of Colorado.

  Resigned, Tristan clutched his hat to his chest. “How do, sir. Governor. Now, excuse me
, I have—”

  “You’re a hero, son!” The mayor clapped Tristan on the shoulder and turned him to face the cameras. “Isn’t this an amazing day? We came here to speak of airport expansion and find a hero in our midst. What’s your name, son?”

  “I’m no hero, sir.” Squirming, he felt the heat rising on his face. People were asking his name and where he was from. Egged on by the elected officials, he answered questions. His face felt ready to burst into flame, but he noticed William was having a ball. The teenager mugged for the cameras and made sure he got into every shot.

  During a lull, William announced, “Dad’s already famous!”

  “How’s that, young man?”

  Beaming, William puffed his chest. “Ever seen that rodeo clip they always show on the television sports shows? The one with the bull climbing over the wall after the cowboy?” He clapped Tristan on the shoulder. “That’s my dad.”

  Tristan wanted to melt into his boots and disappear. He and that poor skier shown on “Wide World of Sports” wiping out during a jump—world famous for getting tromped.

  Then the governor was inviting him to lunch, and a pretty lady was giving him the sweet eye. Having had enough—too much—Tristan jammed his hat on his head.

  “You folks are kind and all, but we have an appointment. Excuse me. Nice meeting you, fellows.” Shrugging off all attempts to stop him, he grabbed William by the elbow and strode away. Each step sent a shard of fire through his thigh and hip, but he kept walking, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the city folks.

  “Hey!” William trotted to keep up. “I want to have lunch with the governor. What’s wrong, Dad? You saved that kid. You’re a hero.”

  “Hero,” he grumbled. A man didn’t have to be a hero to get knocked onto his butt. He thrust the baggage claim tickets at William. “You fetch our luggage. I’ll pick up the car. Don’t be dawdling, now.”

  He claimed his rental car, a sporty little Grand Am. Once they found it in the parking lot, William whistled, eying the cherry red car with greedy anticipation. “Can I drive, Dad?” He flung their bags in the trunk then slammed the lid.

  “Not a chance.”

  “I’m a better driver than you.”

  Tristan wanted to argue, but he had little affinity for machinery, especially wheeled machinery, so William probably spoke the truth. The boy adored anything mechanical and had been driving around the ranch since he was ten. “You don’t have a license. Get in.” He handed over a map. “You’re the navigator. Don’t get us lost.”

  Tristan and William fitted their lanky frames into the small car. William yanked at his tie, loosening the knot.

  “Leave it on, son. We’re not traveling far.”

  “I can’t believe you’re doing this.” With a hand on the tie knot he watched his father as if checking to see if he was serious. “I bet she’s fat.”

  “You’ve seen her pictures. She isn’t fat.”

  “Could be somebody else’s picture. I bet she’s fat and snaggle-toothed and got pimples.” He straightened the tie, then opened the map of Colorado Springs. “She’s probably old with bad breath and a squeaky, scratchy voice. And only one arm.”

  Tristan chuckled at the imagery. Megan loved sports, especially tennis, plus she was the resort recreational director. He doubted she was fat, or one-armed. Even if she’d fudged with the photographs, it didn’t matter. The woman he’d come to know was lively, exuberant and funny. She’d always be beautiful in his mind, no matter what she looked like.

  William’s attitude, however, didn’t amuse him in the slightest. In fact, it was growing downright wearisome. The boy delighted in teasing his father, but ever since Tristan had arranged to meet Megan face-to-face, his teasing had acquired a dark edge.

  “You’ll like Megan. She’s got a sense of humor.”

  “Yeah, right. That way.” William pointed at the road. “We want to go north on Powers Boulevard.”

  Tristan concentrated on driving. William found a rock and roll station on the radio and turned it up loud. He harmonized with Don Henley singing about forgiveness. Tristan kept his remarks about William’s cracking voice to himself. In the last six months the boy had shot up six inches, almost catching up to his feet; adolescence gripped him hard. Which accounted for the sour attitude, Tristan assured himself, since all boys went through a growly phase.

  When they reached downtown Colorado Springs, William said, “Turn left here.”

  “Here?” Some danged fool had put up a statue right in the middle of the intersection. He gripped the steering wheel with both sweaty-palmed hands.

  “Here. Left, Dad, left!”

  He inched around the broad base of the statue, and the light changed to red. People honked their horns at him, and William yelled at him to go, go! A kid in a soupedup four-by-four jumped the light and nearly smacked the Grand Am in the nose. Tristan took his chance and goosed the accelerator. He made it around the turn and breathed a long sigh of relief. In the rearview mirror he eyed the life-size bronze man on horseback. What a crazy place to put a statue. City folks!

  “Smooth, Dad. Should have let me drive.”

  “Hush, son.”

  He followed William’s directions to the highway and soon left downtown behind.

  He drove start and stop through Old Colorado City before the road widened into a proper highway above Manitou Springs. Judging by what passed in his peripheral vision, he knew he was missing some spectacular scenery. By the time he began climbing into the mountains, he had to roll down the window and let the cool wind take the sweat off his face.

  Once in the mountains, William sat up straighter, keeping up a running commentary about the sights. He laughed about a sign on a gift shop reading Bust, Colorado, Population Zero. He expressed amazement over the size of houses in the town of Woodland Park. Rock formations brought comments about the sport of rock climbing, a subject about which Tristan knew nothing—it amazed him how William seemed to know all the terms. Past Woodland Park the country stopped looking mountainous and more like hill country, so Tristan and William were both astonished when they reached Ute Pass, which had an altitude listed as more than nine thousand feet.

  Tristan spotted the big wooden sign for Elk River Resort.

  “Think they have fishing here?” the boy asked.

  Turning onto the long, curving dirt road leading to the lodge, Tristan answered that Megan promised a trout stream and a nearby reservoir.

  Over a hill and around a curve, the rolling hills gave way to rocky forest, and through the trees he spotted the main building, fronted by a tiered flower bed. The peeled log construction of the lodge reminded him of his granddad’s hunting cabin, except it was about fifty times bigger. A rack of elk antlers hanging over the door looked like Granddad’s, too, but not so big. He followed signs to parking in the rear.

  He parked and left the car. The wind wasn’t blowing here as it had been in the city, but it was quite a bit cooler. Patches of snow were visible under the trees. He inhaled deeply, sensing the thinness of the air and smelling the pine-fresh sweetness. He watched a couple in ski clothing unloading a car, and another wearing tennis whites headed into the lodge. Swinging his head in amazement, he grinned. Folks in Colorado didn’t seem to pay much heed to the weather or season when it came to dress and recreation.

  He settled his hat on his head and checked his suit coat and trousers for debris. “Comb your hair, son.”

  “If I look too good, she’ll take me over you.”

  “Straighten your tie, too.”

  William barked a hearty laugh. “You’re shaking, Dad! Wait’ll I tell Granddad how you’re all chicken to meet a woman. Big old Tristan Cayle is yellow. Ha!”

  “Keep it up, son. You might not grow old enough to get your driver’s license.” But the boy spoke the truth—Tristan’s hands trembled, his knees had gone shaky and his mouth had filled with dust.

  What did he know about courting? After his wife had died, he’d found li
ttle time for thinking about settling down with another woman. He’d gone a few rounds with rodeo groupies, but none of them were serious. Now he was here, about to meet the woman who filled his dreams and had come to own special real estate in his heart, and panic fluttered in his chest.

  Pulling a mock-fearful face, William swiped a comb through his dark hair. His eyes sparkled with devilment.

  Tristan straightened his shoulders, drew in a deep breath and headed for the wooden stairs leading to the multitiered deck on the back of the lodge.

  Behind him, William whistled a dirge.

  He entered the lobby. His fears about gold filigree, stuffy employees in tuxedos and froufrou fussiness proved unfounded. Despite the size, the lobby and adjoining lounge had a homey air, warm with wood, low-slung furniture and .a central fireplace made of native stone. Employees wore white shirts and black trousers, and were smiling as they went about their business.

  “Tristan?”

  The soft, hesitantly girlish voice hauled him up short. With visions of William’s fat, bad-breathed, snaggle-toothed, one-armed woman flashing through his head, he turned around slowly, his boot soles squeaking on the polished pine plank floor.

  Brown hair, as shiny as ribbons of dark honey, framed a face dusted with apricot freckles. Large blue-gray eyes sparkled to rival the sun, and a generously wide mouth smiled in heart-stopping welcome. She was tall and thin, with slender legs climbing to forever.

  He’d been waiting a long time for this meeting, but his throat tightened up so he couldn’t speak. Photographs, always of her squinting into the sun, failed to do her justice. In the flesh, she glowed. He swallowed hard.

  “It’s me, Tristan. Megan.”

  “I know,” he managed to say. Remembering his manners, he swept off his hat and extended his right hand. She placed her slim fingers against his, and he stared in wonder at the differences between her dainty hand and his calloused paw.