made from bundles of twigs and sticks. There was a faded, but clean-looking, Indian blanket on the bed. The dresser was in its prime about the time of World War II, and two large paint-by-number oils were framed in rough wood and hanging on the walls. One was an Indian chief in full feather; the other, a spotted horse in a red desert. A wooden rocking chair, its seat made of taut cowhide with the hair still on, sat in a corner.
Irish sighed and hauled her things inside. “Home, sweet home.”
She checked the sheets and the bed. And the locks.
The sheets were crisp and fresh-smelling, the mattress amazingly lump-free and comfortable. The bathroom fixtures were old but immaculate. And most important, the locks were sturdy. The place wasn’t the Plaza, but the price was right, and it would do.
After she hung up her clothes and put her other things away, Irish changed out of her new outfit into jeans, a white T-shirt and a chambray shirt. A pair of sport shoes felt like heaven compared to the new high-heeled boots, which didn’t look too bad considering the punishment they’d had. A quick repair to hair and makeup and she was ready to meet Cherokee Pete.
Sounds of the chain saw came from the shed, and Irish figured that Kyle was back at work on another bear or a bow-legged cowpoke. She went inside the store and hesitated only a moment before she tiptoed upstairs. She didn’t want to disturb the old gentleman if he was still sleeping.
Following the noise of a TV, she went toward an open door off the landing, noting as she passed that the large painting on the wall there was an excellent copy of a Remington. And much more attractive than the Indian and spotted pony on her walls.
The room she peeked in was a large library. Straight ahead was a huge stone fireplace with another of the Remington copies hung on it and several Southwestern pots and such on the mantel. Two large leather couches flanked the fireplace and a coffee table, made from a slice- of a huge tree, sat between the oxblood couches. Additional pots and a statue of a breechclouted brave, much more finely wrought than the wooden ones downstairs, stood atop the table. Other wing chairs and leather club chairs with ottomans were grouped around the room. The place looked more like a gentlemen’s club than the upstairs of the junky trading post below.
Floor to ceiling shelves in polished wood took up most of the available wall space, and they were filled with books. Her gaze followed the bulging shelves until they came to an alcove at one end of the room, to a hospital bed beside a window, to a pair of dark eyes watching her.
She smiled. “Hello. I’m Irish Ellison. May I come in?”
“Looks like you’re in already. Come closer and let me get a good gander at you. These old eyes ain’t what they used to be. Irish, you say? Never heard nobody named that except it was a nickname.”
“It’s my real name. My mother was mostly Irish and a romantic,” she said as she crossed the room to the bed.
He reminded her of an older, more wiry version of Willie Nelson. His hair was thinning on top, but the sides hung in long gray braids. The skin over his high cheekbones was leathery and wrinkled, but his dark eyes flashed with vitality, and Irish doubted if they missed much.
He held up a remote control and pressed it. The TV sound died. “I’m Pete Beamon, but everybody calls me Cherokee Pete. Called me that as long as I can remember. Half Cherokee from my mother’s side. M‘wife was Irish. Honey-colored hair and blue eyes she had. Beautiful woman, like you. Been gone forty-three years next November. She was a schoolteacher. Taught me how to read after I was grown. We started collecting these books over fifty years ago. Come, sit down here.” He pointed to an easy chair beside his bed. “Tell me what a pretty gal like you is doin’ in these parts.”
“Don’t let me interrupt your—” Irish glanced to the wall where the television was and startled. Instead of a single TV, a bank of six screens were mounted there. Two were blank, but two showed the interior of the store downstairs, and two others scanned the outside grounds. “But that’s—”
“Surveillance. These old eyes don’t miss much. You take a hankerin’ to my grandson?”
Irish cleared her throat and tried not to squirm. “He’s—he’s very attractive, but I’m not interested.”
Cherokee Pete gave a little bark of laughter. “That’s not what I saw. I like the cut of you, Irish Ellison. Could tell that right off. Tell you what. You marry my grandson, and I’ll give you a million dollars.”
Three
Irish laughed at the old man’s joke. “He’s a handsome devil. Don’t tempt me. Anxious to be rid of him, are you?”
“I’m anxious to have some great-grandkids before I kick the bucket. Not a single one of my grandsons is married. Ain’t natural. Kyle tells me you’re going to read to me some.”
“If you’d like.”
“Course I’d like,” Pete said. “Just cause I’m older’n dirt don’t mean I can’t appreciate the company of a beautiful young lady.”
“What would you like for me to read?”
Pete picked up the book lying on the bed beside him and handed it to her. “I’d like to hear the rest of this. I was near ’bout finished when my eyes played out. Need new glasses, but it will be a while before I can get to the eye doctor now that I busted my hip. Kyle says he’ll take me in a couple of weeks.”
Irish looked at the big volume. “John Grisham’s newest. You a fan of his?”
“He’s right good when I’m in the mood for his kind of book. I read purt near everything from shoot ‘em ups to philosophy. My grandkids know I like readin’ so I get a lots of books for Christmas and the like. Marker’s where I left off.”
She opened the book at the page where the tasseled leather strip lay and started to read the last few chapters.
Kyle stood at the door and listened to Irish’s beautifully modulated voice as she read to the old man. John Grisham had never sounded so exciting to him.
Or so sexy.
He didn’t pay much attention to the words of the narrative, only her tone, which oozed over him like warm buttered honey. When a bit of dialogue came, she changed her voice slightly to take on the character, then switched back to the slow, sensual utterances.
At last she paused, then said, “The end.”
Grandpa Pete cackled. “A million dollars! Yes, siree, a million dollars. No. Make that two million.”
Irish laughed, and Kyle rushed in before his grandfather started writing out a check. Pete was very generous with people he liked. “I see that you two are getting along,” Kyle said.
“Like a house afire,” Pete said. “This one’s a keeper. Danged if she can’t make that book come alive as good as one of them New York actresses.”
“I heard,” Kyle said. “You are very good. Ever consider acting?”
“Early on,” Irish replied. “I majored in drama for two years, but I dropped out of college and went into modeling instead.”
“Modeling?”
