"Lee, Rachel - Lost Warriors" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lee Rachel)

Startled, he peered at her. "What do you know about that? "

She gave a small shrug and a smaller smile. "Dad mentioned it. He's right,
you know. There are some nasty things being said. I've heard some of them,
and I've only been back in town for a week."

"What've you been hearing?" Unconsciously, he leaned forward, his every
protective instinct aroused. Those guys in the hills had nobody who gave a
damn about them; somebody had to feel protective.

"Just grumbling." She sat up straighter and put a file to one side. "Some
of the troublemakers at the bars are talking about fixing wagons. That kind
of thing. Usually nothing comes of it. Usually."

Her brown eyes met his green ones straight on. "Can I do anything to help?
You always take food up there, don't you? Why don't you let me help you shop
for it later?"

"Why should you?"

As soon as the words were out, he wanted to recall them. They were a
challenge, an insulting challenge he really had no business throwing, except
that Wendy Tate's presence had left him feeling unsettled and unsure.

Wendy stood up abruptly, shoving her chair back so hard that it banged
against the wall. "You know, Yuma, I've had six years to think about a lot
of things. One of them was how bad a time I gave you that summer after I
graduated. Another one of them was you. You've got the natural temperament
of an ornery rattlesnake! You're right! There's no reason on God's earth
why I should help you with a damn thing! I'll be outside talking to the
guys: '

She slammed the door behind her.

Oh, hell, he thought, and threw a battered old paperback across the room.
Oh, hell!

How many years of this was he supposed to take? What was she-his personal
nemesis? Why couldn't she have stayed in la. the way most kids did these
days once they got away from home? Nobody came back to Conard County. .
nobody under thirty, anyway. Kids her age were supposed to be seeking the
bright lights and all the fun they could find, not burying themselves in
dusty old offices in the middle of nowhere with crusty old vets who were
hanging on to their sanity by mere threads.

He swore, but it didn't make him feel any better. It never did. Every time
he cursed he tasted soap, thanks to his mother and grandmother. Most people
got over that, but nat Yuma. Not him, with his outsize Quaker conscience and
the feeling that he'd failed at everything he'd ever been meant to accomplish.