hill and was shaded by oak trees, which were huge by Central Texas standards but would be called merely scrubs by East Texans. And the Texas mountain laurels, with their purple clusters of flowers, lined a tall fence that meandered along the foot of the hill some distance away.
“You folks go on in,” Ralph said. “I’ll get the bags.”
As Gabe helped Belle up the steps to a large veranda that ran half the length of the house, a blood-curdling scream came from inside. An older woman in tie-dyed purple garb came running from the house and threw herself at Gabe.
“Oh, Gabriel! Thank heavens you’re home. Do something! Do something!”
“Good lord, Mother!” a younger blond woman said as she charged outside, a large German shepherd at her side and a tiny, yapping Yorkie dancing behind. “We have a guest.”
“Calm down, everybody!” a third woman yelled. “I killed it with the broom!” This one, smaller and darker than the first two, hurried out still clutching the red-handled straw broom.
“Exactly what did you kill?” Gabe asked as he extricated himself from the screamer.
“A puny, little scorpion,” the executioner said. “Wasn’t even full grown.”
“But you know how I hate those awful things, Gabriel. It was in my bathroom. Why, I almost stepped on it. And the awful creature reared up and was about to attack me. I do believe it hissed at me.”
“Mother,” the blonde said, “it wasn’t going to attack, only defend. And scorpions don’t hiss.” The tall woman stuck out her hand to Belle. “Hi, I’m Skye Walker, Gabe’s sister. Welcome to Bedlam.”
Belle smiled at Skye and returned the firm handshake. Skye, who looked to be about Belle’s age, was dressed in jeans, sneakers and a faded blue jersey that advertised dog food. Even though her fair hair was cut short and she wore very little makeup—maybe lip gloss—Skye was stunning.
“Belle,” Gabe said, “this slightly hysterical woman is my mother, Flora Walker.”
“Oh, my dear,” Flora said, capturing both Belle’s hands in hers, “we’re so delighted to have you here while you recover. You have the most magnificent cheekbones. And I love your eyes. They’re the exact color of storm clouds. You must let me paint you.”
The woman with the broom cleared her throat loudly. “I’m Suki, Ralph’s wife. Now, everybody stand back, and let’s get the poor girl in off the porch. She looks a mite peaked to me. Ralph, take them bags to the guest quarters.”
“Wait!” Flora stepped in front of Ralph. “Don’t take them up yet. Have Manuel spray in there first.”
“Manuel is over at the kennel,” Skye said. “And he just sprayed two days ago.”
“Then he didn’t do a very good job. We have an infestation of scorpions.”
“Mother, one baby scorpion isn’t an infestation,” Gabe said.
“Where there’s one baby, there’s another. Or more. Those little beasties are prolific breeders.” Flora grabbed Belle’s arm. “You must be very careful, dear. Don’t put on your shoes without shaking them. They love to hide in shoes. I’ve lived here for over thirty years, and I’m still not used to them.”
If Belle had been in better form—and less polite—she would have laughed at Flora’s theatrics. “Thanks for the warning. But I’m familiar with scorpions—and worse…beasties. I’ll be careful.”
Gabe’s mother repinned the long braid that had slipped from its coil atop her wispy tendrils of gray-blond hair. “Why are we standing here on the porch? Let’s all come inside and get Belle settled. Gabe, dear, it’s good to have you home.” She tiptoed to kiss her tall son’s cheek, then sailed inside, leading the way.
Gabe glanced at Belle, shrugged his shoulders and smiled.
“I’d like to tell you that things aren’t always so chaotic around here,” he whispered, “but I’d be lying.”
“Gabriel, what terrible secrets are you whispering to our guest?” Flora asked. “Belle, would you like something to drink? The sun is over the yardarm as they say somewhere or the other. You know, I’ve never been exactly sure what a yardarm is. In any case, we can offer you coffee, tea, a soft drink or something stronger. But I suppose that you shouldn’t be drinking alcohol since you’ve been ill, though I don’t imagine that a bit of wine would hurt. We have some excellent local wines, you know. I’m fond of the white zinfandel myself. And we have all kinds of juice. Orange, apple, grape.”
“Mother,” Skye said, “you’re dithering.”
“Oh, sorry. I suppose I am.” Flora touched Belle’s arm. “I do that when I get excited. Most of the time I’m calm as a cucumber. Or is that cool? I meditate, you know. Keeps me centered and serene.”
Rather than be irritated by Flora’s dithering, Belle found herself fascinated—and a bit charmed. The woman seemed to radiate a joie de vivre that enveloped everything in her sphere.
“I like white zinfandel myself,” Belle said.
“Wonderful.” Flora clapped her hands. “A kindred spirit. Suki, do we have plenty of zinfandel?”
“I reckon so. There’s a case in the basement. Maybe two.”
“Oh, wonderful. Gabriel, you’ve had several phone calls from the office. Your secretary is fit to be tied.”
“Martha is always fit to be tied,” Skye said. “Belle, how about I show you to your room before the wine starts to flow? You might want to freshen up and rest a bit from the flight.”
“That would be great, thanks.”
The dogs accompanied them to the stairs. Skye scooped up the Yorkie. “This is Tiger. Rub his tummy, and he’s yours forever. And this fellow is Gus.” She stroked the shepherd’s head. “He’s my sidekick and is very protective of me.”
Belle held out the back of her hand to the large dog. Gus sniffed, then looked up at Skye, who nodded before he licked Belle’s hand. “German shepherds are like that. My family had one when I was a kid. Tripoli used to sleep at the foot of my bed, and he saved my bacon a couple of times.”
“We also have a couple of cats around—and assorted other creatures from time to time. I hope you’re not allergic to animals.”
“Nope,” Belle said. “Gabe already asked me. I grew up around all sorts of critters from bullfrogs to Brahma bulls.”
Skye stopped at a door upstairs. “This is the guest room. If you need anything, just give a yell. Come down when you’re ready.”
BELLE’S ROOM TURNED OUT to be rooms—a suite with a sitting room, bedroom and bath. With its soft gold-washed walls and hardwood floors, the suite, like the rest of the house she’d seen so far, looked as if a decorator had done it. The furnishings, done in creams, golds, soft blues and persimmon, were an eclectic mix of country French and contemporary with a few rustic pieces thrown in for interest. The result was quite beautiful. And expensive, she guessed. The Persian rugs looked like the real deal, and the artwork on the walls, from
