Read Online A Gentle Rain by Deborah F. Smith - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Deborah F. Smith
Tags: Fiction, General, Romance, Contemporary, Domestic Fiction, Contemporary Women, Inheritance and succession, Florida, Ranch life, Connecticut, Ranchers, Heiresses, Birthparents, kindleconvert, Ranch Life - Florida
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preparations I turned to Sedge, fighting emotion. He appeared to have the same problem. He cleared his throat. "I'll wait here at the hotel until you arrive safely in the wilds of north-central Florida, my dear." He nodded to the file Malcolm laid on the hatchback's driver's seat. "Your maps. Your motel is ten miles east of the Thocco ranch. You have a room with a kitchenette, reserved for a month."
"I attempted to book you in a closer accommodation," Malcolm added. "But there were only a pair of bed-and-breakfast inns in the nearest small town, Fountain Springs, and neither of them was rated by Zagat or even Triple A."
"Horrifying," I deadpanned.
Malcolm nodded.
I looked at Sedge. "Does my motel allow birds?"
"It does now. Whittenbrook Properties bought it. It discreetly belongs to you."
"No, it discreetly belongs to Kara Whittenbrook." I held up my driver's license. "I'm Karen Johnson. A tad overweight, according to this fake license, but otherwise aptly described."
"I took the physical details off your Connecticut license," Malcolm said. "They're quite accurate."
I scowled at him. Sedge distracted me with a gentle touch. "You have my private cell phone number, for emergencies."
"Yes." Tears stung my eyes. "I think I can be quite self-sufficient for a few weeks in the wilds of suburban Disney World. But thank you."
"My dear, I can only repeat what I've said already. Do not tell anyone who you are. You have no idea what your birth parents may feel, say, or do. You might do them more harm than good by injecting yourself into their simple lives. And I cannot guarantee anything about the man who employs them. By all accounts he takes good care of his own disabled younger brother, and he has no criminal record. That's all I could learn in a short period of time. Perhaps he's a good person, or perhaps not. If he knew who you are he might try to play on your sympathy."
"I can handle him."
Mr. Darcy settled himself atop the headrest of the hatchback's front passenger seat, flattening his four-foot length to avoid the ceiling. I took my place next to him at the steering wheel. I rolled the driver's window down manually and gazed out at Sedge and Malcolm. The sky above their heads had begun to clear, making an azure backdrop for the hotel's blooming dogwoods and azaleas. Perhaps the South was a lovely Technicolor region, after all. "I'll call."
"Do," Sedge said gruffly. Malcolm, looking verklempt, gave a little wave.
I revved the hatchback's fuel-efficient engine. "We're off," I said to Mr. Darcy. We exited the hotel's curving driveway and turned up Peachtree Street through a gauntlet of high-rises and shopping strips. Nary a peach tree, anywhere.
"What, what?" Mr. Darcy said in a campy British accent, cocking his head. He stared at the passenger-side floor, where a paperback book lay atop my hemp macrame purse. Cross Creek, by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. A famed 1930s memoir of life in the Florida forests. No doubt, he liked the colorful cover of a quaint fish camp beneath moss-draped oaks.
"It's a famous book," I explained. "And Rawlings won a Pulitzer for her novel, The Yearling. Don't read that one, Mr. Darcy, it'll make you cry. She was very observant about inland Florida and its people. You could say she was the Jane Austen of Florida."
"Mon Dieu," Mr. Darcy said.
We headed south.
Ben
The love shack
It was not the kind of thing a man wants to hear a woman say to him in bed. "Sugar?" Paula said gently, rubbing my bare back with one hand. "You've been off your game the past few weeks. Distracted, that's all. Are you sure there's nothing on your mind that's affecting your ... libido?"
My brother was dying, but I hadn't told a soul, yet. And didn't intend to. You start talking about death, you draw death to you. Or to the people you love. I always thought about Mama and Pa.
I raised my left hand with the bandaged forefinger upright. "That new gray mare bites something different on me every week."
Sitting beside
"I attempted to book you in a closer accommodation," Malcolm added. "But there were only a pair of bed-and-breakfast inns in the nearest small town, Fountain Springs, and neither of them was rated by Zagat or even Triple A."
"Horrifying," I deadpanned.
Malcolm nodded.
I looked at Sedge. "Does my motel allow birds?"
"It does now. Whittenbrook Properties bought it. It discreetly belongs to you."
"No, it discreetly belongs to Kara Whittenbrook." I held up my driver's license. "I'm Karen Johnson. A tad overweight, according to this fake license, but otherwise aptly described."
"I took the physical details off your Connecticut license," Malcolm said. "They're quite accurate."
I scowled at him. Sedge distracted me with a gentle touch. "You have my private cell phone number, for emergencies."
"Yes." Tears stung my eyes. "I think I can be quite self-sufficient for a few weeks in the wilds of suburban Disney World. But thank you."
"My dear, I can only repeat what I've said already. Do not tell anyone who you are. You have no idea what your birth parents may feel, say, or do. You might do them more harm than good by injecting yourself into their simple lives. And I cannot guarantee anything about the man who employs them. By all accounts he takes good care of his own disabled younger brother, and he has no criminal record. That's all I could learn in a short period of time. Perhaps he's a good person, or perhaps not. If he knew who you are he might try to play on your sympathy."
"I can handle him."
Mr. Darcy settled himself atop the headrest of the hatchback's front passenger seat, flattening his four-foot length to avoid the ceiling. I took my place next to him at the steering wheel. I rolled the driver's window down manually and gazed out at Sedge and Malcolm. The sky above their heads had begun to clear, making an azure backdrop for the hotel's blooming dogwoods and azaleas. Perhaps the South was a lovely Technicolor region, after all. "I'll call."
"Do," Sedge said gruffly. Malcolm, looking verklempt, gave a little wave.
I revved the hatchback's fuel-efficient engine. "We're off," I said to Mr. Darcy. We exited the hotel's curving driveway and turned up Peachtree Street through a gauntlet of high-rises and shopping strips. Nary a peach tree, anywhere.
"What, what?" Mr. Darcy said in a campy British accent, cocking his head. He stared at the passenger-side floor, where a paperback book lay atop my hemp macrame purse. Cross Creek, by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings. A famed 1930s memoir of life in the Florida forests. No doubt, he liked the colorful cover of a quaint fish camp beneath moss-draped oaks.
"It's a famous book," I explained. "And Rawlings won a Pulitzer for her novel, The Yearling. Don't read that one, Mr. Darcy, it'll make you cry. She was very observant about inland Florida and its people. You could say she was the Jane Austen of Florida."
"Mon Dieu," Mr. Darcy said.
We headed south.
Ben
The love shack
It was not the kind of thing a man wants to hear a woman say to him in bed. "Sugar?" Paula said gently, rubbing my bare back with one hand. "You've been off your game the past few weeks. Distracted, that's all. Are you sure there's nothing on your mind that's affecting your ... libido?"
My brother was dying, but I hadn't told a soul, yet. And didn't intend to. You start talking about death, you draw death to you. Or to the people you love. I always thought about Mama and Pa.
I raised my left hand with the bandaged forefinger upright. "That new gray mare bites something different on me every week."
Sitting beside
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