Meadowlarks by Thomas Holladay (novels to improve english TXT) 📗

getting tricky. Kirby couldn't see much past this ribbon of black with snow piled high on both sides of the highway. He'd seen a deep canyon on the left, visible between peaks of plowed snow. He slowed a little, too easy to speed in his father’s Bentley. He turned on the headlights.

Why in hell would she live up here?

There were bowl games being played today and he couldn’t get a signal on the damn radio. The 18 speaker Bespoke Audio System was worthless up here. He had money on Michigan but that game wasn’t until tomorrow.

No worries there.

Michigan would win that game beyond the spread.

His father’s Bentley was okay but he missed his Mercedes. What a long streak of bad luck that had been. Lester had been all business that day when Allison had ushered them into his office.

Omar scared the crap out of her.

Kirby had told her Lester was pitching a story idea.

He’d signed over the title to the Mercedes, given Lester the keys and politely ushered them to the elevator. That had put him back in Lester’s good graces for the bowl games.

Bring me some good luck.

He rounded a wide curve and put trees into his rearview mirror. The long stretch of road in front of him ended with streetlights.

A town.

It didn’t look like much of a town. He crossed a low bridge and read the sign, Bridgeport.

Great.

It had been a long drive and his eyes ached. He'd seen nothing but bright sun on snow since the top of Sherwin Grade, nearly a hundred miles. Clouds had been closing in since he'd crossed Lee Vining Summit.

He slowed and cruised into the small town, looking at both sides of the road. The Sportsman’s Inn was there on the left, right where Carolyn had said. He turned across the narrow highway and parked in front.

The Sportsman’s Inn was a quaint, two story wooden building with authentic frosted windows. Snow had been cleared to within a foot of the high boardwalk and it must have been a sunny day. Kirby’s foot slipped on a patch of ice getting out of the car and his elbow slammed into the doorsill.

“Dammit!” Sharp pain bit his elbow. He pushed onto both feet.

Being careful where he stepped, he opened the trunk and pulled out his suitcase. He locked his car, climbed four wooden steps and entered a small, warm lobby.

A pretty lady smiled at him from behind a wood paneled counter. Her ample boobs pushed her cowboy shirt to the max, buttons ready to pop. His eyes lingered.

“Welcome to the Sportsman’s Inn.” Her cheeks blushed red. Her teeth beamed whiter than snow behind dark red lipstick, all framed by curly, strawberry blond hair. Her bright blue eyes speared into him, unflinching, surprising.

He hadn’t expected to find anything so fine way up here in the middle of nowhere. “I hope you have a room.”

Her eyes held his.

Jesus.  

“This is the off season. We’re loaded with empty rooms.” She opened an old fashioned registry and turned it toward him, no computer in sight.

He set his suitcase down and signed in. “You take American Express?”

“I’m not supposed to.” Her light blue eyes reached to the back of his skull, dancing around in there. “For you, I’ll make an exception.” She spun the registry and read it. “Tom Kirby, I like that. I’m Mona.” She offered to shake hands.

“Hi.” He shook hands.

She held on, still looking into him, lips slightly parted.

Jesus.

She finally let go and looked at the registry. “L.A. I knew it. Where’s Fairfax?”

“On the west side. That’s my office address. I’m here on business.”

“Here in Bridgeport?” She turned and reached up for a key at the top of an old mail-slot wall behind the desk. Her shirt tail slipped out of her tight fitting jeans, fine white skin and a slender waist, athletic legs and butt.

Jesus.

She turned back, handed him the key and blushed again. Her eyes stayed on bold. She had no way of knowing the second button on her tight fitting shirt had come undone.

His eyes lingered again.

She wasn’t wearing a bra.

Jesus. 

“Here in Bridgeport?”

What? 

“Is your business here in Bridgeport?”

“Ah. No.” He stared boldly at the fine white skin between her boobs before looking back into those light blue eyes.

She liked being looked at.

“One of my authors lives up Sonora Pass. Isn't that nearby?”

“Right around the corner. The turnoff is only nineteen miles north. You’ll see the sign for the marine base.”

“Marine base?”

“Mountain Warfare Training Center. It’s three miles up Sonora Pass Highway.”

He had to say it. “I never expected to find someone like you in a place like this. You’re luscious. You have room service?”

“That depends.” She blushed bright red, eyes still locked on bold. She leaned across the counter to look at his suitcase. Her top button came undone.

Too fine.

“How heavy is it?”

He wanted to tell her his handheld urine dispenser weighed ten pounds when fully loaded.  “My suitcase? I can carry that.”

“That’s a relief.” She stood back, realized she was unbuttoned and turned away to correct the situation.

“I was hoping you could bring up a bottle of Canadian Club and some ice.”

She turned back and smiled. “A pint, a fifth, or a quart?” No blush this time.

WELL AFTER DARK, WITH thin clouds spreading the glow of a three quarter moon, Willis had plenty of light, a good night for deliveries. He’d finished making the clock and polishing the boy’s new saddle with Christmas still two days off.

He carried the boy's saddle over one shoulder and the heavy wooden box under his other arm, walking wide of their house, keeping in the shadows, careful not to be seen. He set the wooden box with the clock weights on the stump near the barn door and reached for the key. He opened the door, left the key in the lock and carried the saddle inside.

The clerestory barn windows let in enough light for him to climb the ladder into the loft where he hid the saddle behind stacked bails of hay.