"Nora Roberts - [O'hurleys 01] - The Last Honest Woman [TXT]" - читать интересную книгу автора (Roberts Nora)

yourself how life really worked.

Dylan struggled with the map beside him, held it in front while steering
with his elbows, then swore again. Yes, that had been his turn. He'd
just missed it. With a quick glance up and down the stretch of
rain-fogged road, he spun into a U-turn. The wipers might be pitiful,
but the Vette knew how to move.

He couldn't imagine the Chuck Rockwell he'd followed and admired
choosing to settle in the backwoods of Virginia. Maybe the little woman
had talked him into buying it as some sort of hideaway. She'd certainly
been hibernating there for the past few years.

Just what kind of woman was she? In order to write a thorough biography
of the man, he had to understand the woman. She'd stuck with Rockwell
like glue for nearly the first full year on the circuit, then she'd all
but disappeared. Maybe the smell of gas and smoking tires had annoyed
her. She hadn't been in the stands for her husband's victories or his
defeats. Most importantly, she hadn't been there when he'd run his last
race. The one that had killed him. From the information Dylan had, she'd
finally shown up at the funeral three days later but had hardly spoken a
word. She hadn't shed a tear.

She'd married a gold mine and turned a blind eye to his infidelities.
Money was the only answer. Now, as his widow, she was in the position of
never having to lift a finger. Not bad for a former singer who'd never
made it past hotel lounges and second-rate clubs.

He had to slow the Vette to a crawl to make it down the slushy,
rut-filled lane marked by a battered mailbox with Rockwell painted on
the side.

Obviously she didn't believe in spending much money on maintenance.
Dylan wiped his window again and set his teeth against each jarring
bump. When he heard his muffler scrape, he stopped cursing the rain and
started cursing Abigail. The way he saw it, she had a closetful of silk
and fur but wouldn't shell out for minimal road repair.

When he saw the house, he perked up a bit. It wasn't the imposing,
oppressive plantation house he'd been expecting. It was charming and
homey, right down to the rocker on the front porch. The shutters on the
windows were painted Colonial blue, providing a nice contrast to the
white frame. A deck with a double railing skirted the second floor.
Though he could see the house needed a new paint job, it didn't look
run-down, just lived-in. There was smoke trailing up from the chimney
and a bike with training wheels leaning on its kick-stand under the
overhang of the roof. The sound of a dog's deep-throated barking
completed the scene.

He'd often thought of finding a place just like this for himself. A