“Nothing much,” Rorie said. “Getting the water pump for my car is going to take four days and it seems the only hotel within a sixty-mile radius is booked full for the next two weeks and—”
“That’s no problem. You can stay here,” Skip inserted quickly, his blue eyes flashing with eagerness. “We’d love to have you, wouldn’t we, Clay?”
Rorie spoke before the elder Franklin had an opportunity to answer. “No, really, I appreciate the offer, but I can’t inconvenience you any more than I already have.”
“She wouldn’t be an inconvenience, would she?” Once more Skip directed the question to his older brother. “Tell her she wouldn’t, Clay.”
“I can’t stay here,” she returned, without giving Clay the chance to echo his brother’s invitation. She didn’t know these people. And, more important, they didn’t know her and Rorie refused to impose on them further.
Clay gazed into her eyes and a slow smile turned up the edges of his mouth. “It’s up to you, Rorie. You’re welcome on Elk Run if you want to stay.”
“But you’ve done so much. I really couldn’t—”
“There’s plenty of room,” Skip announced ardently.
Those baby-blue eyes of his would melt the strongest resolve, Rorie mused.
“There’s three bedrooms upstairs that are sitting empty. And you wouldn’t need to worry about staying with two bachelors, because Mary’s here—she has a cottage across the way.”
It seemed inconceivable to Rorie that this family would take her in just like that. But, given her options, her arguments for refusing their offer were weak, to say the least. “You don’t even know me.”
“We know all we need to, don’t we, Clay?” Skip glanced at his older brother, seeking his support.
“You’re welcome to stay here, if you like,” Clay repeated, his gaze continuing to hold Rorie’s.
Again she was struck by the compelling quality of this man. He had a stubborn jaw and she doubted there were many confrontations where he walked away a loser. She’d always prided herself on her ability to read people. And her instincts told her firmly that Clay Franklin could be trusted. She sensed he was scrupulously honest, utterly dependable—and she already knew he was generous to a fault.
“I’d be most grateful,” she said, swallowing a surge of tears at the Franklins’ uncomplicated kindness to a complete stranger. “But, please, let me do something to make up for all the trouble I’ve caused you.”
“It’s no trouble,” Skip said, looking as if he wanted to jump up and click his heels in jubilation.
Clay frowned as he watched his younger brother.
“Really,” Rorie stressed. “If there’s anything I can do, I’d be more than happy to lend a hand.”
“Do you know anything about computers?”
“A little,” she said. “We use them at the library.”
“You’re a librarian?”
Rorie nodded and brushed a stray dark curl from her forehead. “I specialize in children’s literature.” Someday she hoped to have her own work published. That had been her reason for attending the conference in Seattle. Three of the top children’s authors in the country were slated to speak. “If you have a computer system, I’d be happy to do whatever I can...”
“Clay bought a new one last winter,” Skip informed her proudly. “He has a program that records horse breeding and pedigrees up to the fourth and fifth generation.”
A heavyset woman Rorie assumed was the housekeeper entered the kitchen, hauling a mop and bucket. She inspected Rorie with a measuring glance and seemed to find her lacking. She grumbled something about city girls as she sidled past Skip.
“Didn’t know you’d decided to hold a convention right in the middle of my kitchen.”
“Mary,” Clay said, “this is Rorie Campbell, from San Francisco. Her car broke down, so she’ll be staying with us for the next few days. Could you see that a bed is made up for her?”
The older woman’s wide face broke into a network of frown lines.
“Oh, please, I can do that myself,” Rorie said quickly.
Mary nodded. “Sheets are in the closet at the top of the stairs.”
“Rorie is our guest.” Clay didn’t raise his voice, but his displeasure was evident in every syllable.
Mary shrugged, muttering, “I got my own things to do. If the girl claims she can make a bed, then let her.”
Rorie couldn’t contain her smile.
“You want to invite some city slicker to stay, then fine, but I got more important matters to attend to before I make up a bed for her.” With that, Mary marched out of the kitchen.
“Mary’s like family,” Skip explained. “It’s just her way to be sassy. She doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“I’m sure she doesn’t,” Rorie said, smiling so Clay and Skip would know she wasn’t offended. She gathered that the Franklins’ housekeeper didn’t hold a high opinion of anyone from the city and briefly wondered why.
“I’ll get your suitcase from the car,” Skip said, heading for the door.
Clay finished his drink and set the glass on the counter. “I’ve got to get back to work,” he told her, pausing for a moment before he added, “You won’t be bored by yourself, will you?”
“Not at all. Don’t worry about me.”
Clay nodded. “Dinner’s at six.”
“I’ll be ready.”
Rorie picked up the empty glasses and put them by the sink. While she waited for Skip to carry in her luggage, she phoned Dan. Unfortunately he was in a meeting and couldn’t be reached, so she left a message, explaining that she’d been delayed and would call again. She felt strangely reluctant to give him the Franklins’ phone number, but decided there was no reason not to do so. She also decided not to examine that feeling too closely.
Skip had returned by the time she’d hung up. “Clay says you can have Mom and Dad’s old room,” the teenager announced on his way through the door. He hauled her large suitcase in one hand and her flight bag was slung over his shoulder. “Their room’s at the other end of the house. They were killed in an accident five years ago.”
“But—”
“Their room’s got the best view.”
“Skip, really, any bedroom will do... I don’t want your parents’ room.”
“But that’s the one Clay wants for you.” He bounded up the curving stairway with the energy reserved for the young.
Rorie followed him more slowly. She slid her hand along the polished banister and glanced into the living room. A large natural-rock fireplace dominated one wall. The furniture was built of solid oak, made comfortable with thick chintz-covered cushions. Several braided rugs were placed here and there on the polished wood floor. A piano with well-worn ivory keys stood to one side. The collection of family photographs displayed on top of it immediately caught her eye. She recognized a much younger Clay in what had to be his high-school graduation photo. The largest picture in an ornate brass frame was of a middle-aged couple, obviously Clay and Skip’s parents.
Skip paused at the top of the stairway and looked over his shoulder. “My grandfather built this house more than fifty years ago.”
“It’s magnificent.”
“We think so,” he admitted, eyes shining with pride.
The