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

He climbed back down, stepped outside and shouldered the wooden box. He returned to the loft and hid the box with the saddle. They’d never look there, not with Christmas two days off.

He climbed back down, locked the barn door and returned the key to its niche.

Lights still shown from inside the house as he walked wide of the garage. From this far away, not even their dog could sense him. He’d carry the clock down on Christmas Day, set it up before supper and get back to the Perch before the moon. Hopefully, it would be a quiet Christmas.

What a blessing that would be.

He stopped in the upper meadow and looked toward the village, toward Sonora Pass, toward the outside world. A cold chill rushed across his shoulders and down his back. He knew not how or why, but he knew someone was coming, someone from far outside this special domain.

TOM KIRBY HAD COMPLETELY drained his energy by Christmas Eve morning. Moaning Mona had just left, not wanting her step-mother to know she’d spent the night.

Jesus!

He'd never known so fine a lady. Hard to believe she'd still been a virgin.

Not anymore.

He squirmed under the covers, getting into that comfort zone. He smiled, remembering. He'd never had a virgin before. All his previous ladies had been more experienced but none could compare. Mona did it better than any of the rest.

He dozed off.

He woke at 9:15am with a bolt, already late. He got up, wrapped a towel around himself and took two steps to the wall sink. After shaving and brushing his teeth, he hurried down the cold hallway to relieve himself and take a shower.

This place must be a hundred years old, no toilets in the rooms. At least he had this bathroom to himself. While the plumbing and tile looked relatively new, the use of a common shower and toilet had long since vanished from all but the oldest and smallest hotels. This place was more like a bed and breakfast.

What a dump.

Kirby never wore anything but business suits so dressing casual meant no tie. He hurried downstairs, wanting to see her, but the entry desk and dining room were empty.

Cozy.

He sat in a booth at the frosted picture window, near where a quarter scale train and village had been set up around a nicely decorated Christmas tree. Luckily, the trains weren't running and the deserted dining room was quiet.

An attractive, thirty something redhead pushed through a double-swinging stainless steel door and smiled, coming his way. “Morning, Mr. Kirby. Need a menu?”

“I feel like steak and eggs. Can you do that?”

“Scrambled, sunny side up or over.” She didn’t write anything down.

Kirby hoped she could get it right, hick town like this. “Basted.” He hoped she knew what that meant.

“Whole wheat or rye?”

“Rye, not burned.” Rye always came back burned or stale.

“Hash browns or house potatoes?”

“House, of course, and plenty of coffee.”

“Juice?”

“Got cranberry juice?”

“Sure thing.” She scampered back into the kitchen with a butt as tight as her little sister’s. She couldn't be Mona's mother.

Outside, across the highway, a shade went up from inside Ken’s Sporting Goods, great for last minute shopping.

“Here you go, Mr. Kirby.” The waitress delivered juice, steaming coffee and a full creamer.

Kirby sucked down the juice, cold and tasty. “Met your sister, Mona, when I checked in last night. What’s your name?”

“Mona? She’s my step-daughter. I’m Joanne. Welcome to the Sportsman’s Inn.” She smiled and bobbed her head toward the kitchen. “This time of year, I’m cook, waitress, and bottle washer.” She backed toward the kitchen. “I work days. Mona works nights. We both work dinners.” She turned away and disappeared into the kitchen.

Only half of the newly plastered dining room ceiling had been painted, a work in progress.

Ah.

Newspapers had been neatly stacked on a nearby table. He crossed quickly and found the sports section of the L.A. Times. He returned to his table, sipped coffee and found the college basketball scores.

“Dammit.”

UCLA had already lost in a pre-conference basketball tournament.

I need to quit this gambling crap.

Easy enough.

Some guys had gambling addictions but not Tom Kirby. He could quit any time he wanted, string together a few wins and slam the door, go out a winner.

“Here you go.” Joanne set a large platter in front of him, a thick New York steak, three eggs basted to perfection, sliced potatoes fried with onions and green peppers. “Toast’ll be right up.”

“Can I get some more juice?”

“Cranberry?”

He nodded and she hurried back toward the kitchen, tight little butt.

Maybe get a threesome.

The steak cut tender and tasted smoked, pink inside, just the right seasoning. The eggs tasted farm fresh. When she returned with juice and lightly browned rye toast, he said, “Looks like a good restaurant for being so far out.”

“You sound surprised.” She smiled, sincere, not offended.

“What’s your dinner menu like? I might come back tonight with a couple of guests.”

“Folks seem to like it.” Her brows shot up, remembering. “Have an unopened box of flash-frozen California lobster tails in the freezer.”

“Umm.” The medium-rare steak tasted delicious. “Do I need reservations?”

“How many?”

“Me, one of my authors and her kid.”

“I think we can handle that.”

After breakfast he ran upstairs, grabbed his overcoat and hurried back down through the small lobby, still no sign of Mona. He stepped out into the cold, pulled on his overcoat and crossed the empty highway under a slate gray sky. He climbed onto the boardwalk and entered the sporting goods store.

A bell tripped at the top of the door, opening and closing. A few seconds later, a frail man in his seventies stepped from behind drawn black curtains in back, a little stooped at the shoulders. He turned behind a glass-front counter with fishing reels, fishing tackle and hunting knives, looking across at Kirby. “Morning. Merry Christmas.” He stared at Kirby over the top of wire-rimmed reading glasses.

“It is, isn’t it?” Something about a good night of sex always left Kirby friendly. Three mountain bikes sat in front of the store. “Got any