McCrory's Lady Read Online Free
Author: Shirl Henke Henke
tilt of her head. Under any other circumstances, he would have been fascinated with finding such a woman in a saloon.
Colin doffed his hat and echoed, “I'm a long way from home, yes.”
“Arizona Territory?”
He nodded. “I'm looking for two men with a young woman. She's blonde—American like you.”
A flash of disappointment swept over her. “I haven't seen any Anglo women, except for one who works for me—and her yellow hair comes out of a bottle.”
“You might've seen the men then,” Colin said patiently.
“Come upstairs to my office and we'll talk. It's tea time—or if you prefer, I even have some decent whiskey.” She turned and he followed, after setting his empty beer glass on the scarred bar and tossing a coin down to pay for the drink.
As they climbed the stairs, he studied her with curiosity. Her diction was smooth and her voice clear and well modulated. She was tall for a woman, with a handsome figure, slim but well rounded in all the right places. When she ushered him past the open door, he stepped into another world.
The saloon had been big for a Mexican mining town, ornate and prosperous; but it was a bygone prosperity, as worn and faded as the garish carpet on the steps. Her office was as elegant as its owner, with a spinet desk in one corner and a pair of comfortable armchairs across from it. Between them sat a low tea table with a brightly polished silver service on it. But the walls were what held his fascinated attention. They were lined with books, shelved from floor to ceiling.
“This looks like a bloody library back in Edinburgh,” he said, a trace of his long-faded burr returning to sharpen his voice.
Maggie laughed delightedly. “Do I detect a hint of the highlands in your voice, Mr.—?”
“McCrory. Colin McCrory. I was born there but I've lived in Arizona most of my life. And you are?”
“Maggie. Maggie Worthington and I've lived just about everywhere in my life,” she answered brightly, motioning for him to have a seat across the table. “What's it to be? Tea or some of your own fine Scotch whiskey?”
He cocked one thick eyebrow and his golden gaze locked with her fathomless blue one. What was it about this woman? “Tea? You don't sound like a Sassenach, even if your name does,” he said as he walked across the room, his eyes scanning the titles along the shelves. “Shakespeare, Dryden, Keats, Swift. Even Mr. Dickens. Your taste in literature is as Sassenach as your tea. I'll have some.”
“Jonathan Swift was born in Dublin, in case you didn't know it. And if you'll peruse the other walls, you'll see Cervantes, Rabelais and Dante, not to mention a generous sampling of literature from your adopted country.”
He shrugged and a half smile touched his lips. “What, no Bobby Burns?”
She pulled a well-worn copy of Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect from a shelf and handed it to him, along with several volumes of Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson.
“I'm suitably impressed. I didn't think anyone west of Aberdeen had even heard of Fergusson, Miss Worthington.”
She sat down and poured two cups of tea with a flourish as he joined her. “Lemon or milk?”
“Lemon.” He handled the Havilland cup with consummate skill.
Maggie studied his hands, long strong brown fingers, tapered with clean nails, in spite of the calluses. “I acquired the tea time habit from my partner, Bart Fletcher, who really is a Sassenach,” she said, inhaling the fragrant brew the cook had steeped. She studied him through thick dark lashes as she sipped her tea.
“You seem to be a woman who knows what goes on around here. I stopped in several places down the street. The locals all thought if anyone could
Colin doffed his hat and echoed, “I'm a long way from home, yes.”
“Arizona Territory?”
He nodded. “I'm looking for two men with a young woman. She's blonde—American like you.”
A flash of disappointment swept over her. “I haven't seen any Anglo women, except for one who works for me—and her yellow hair comes out of a bottle.”
“You might've seen the men then,” Colin said patiently.
“Come upstairs to my office and we'll talk. It's tea time—or if you prefer, I even have some decent whiskey.” She turned and he followed, after setting his empty beer glass on the scarred bar and tossing a coin down to pay for the drink.
As they climbed the stairs, he studied her with curiosity. Her diction was smooth and her voice clear and well modulated. She was tall for a woman, with a handsome figure, slim but well rounded in all the right places. When she ushered him past the open door, he stepped into another world.
The saloon had been big for a Mexican mining town, ornate and prosperous; but it was a bygone prosperity, as worn and faded as the garish carpet on the steps. Her office was as elegant as its owner, with a spinet desk in one corner and a pair of comfortable armchairs across from it. Between them sat a low tea table with a brightly polished silver service on it. But the walls were what held his fascinated attention. They were lined with books, shelved from floor to ceiling.
“This looks like a bloody library back in Edinburgh,” he said, a trace of his long-faded burr returning to sharpen his voice.
Maggie laughed delightedly. “Do I detect a hint of the highlands in your voice, Mr.—?”
“McCrory. Colin McCrory. I was born there but I've lived in Arizona most of my life. And you are?”
“Maggie. Maggie Worthington and I've lived just about everywhere in my life,” she answered brightly, motioning for him to have a seat across the table. “What's it to be? Tea or some of your own fine Scotch whiskey?”
He cocked one thick eyebrow and his golden gaze locked with her fathomless blue one. What was it about this woman? “Tea? You don't sound like a Sassenach, even if your name does,” he said as he walked across the room, his eyes scanning the titles along the shelves. “Shakespeare, Dryden, Keats, Swift. Even Mr. Dickens. Your taste in literature is as Sassenach as your tea. I'll have some.”
“Jonathan Swift was born in Dublin, in case you didn't know it. And if you'll peruse the other walls, you'll see Cervantes, Rabelais and Dante, not to mention a generous sampling of literature from your adopted country.”
He shrugged and a half smile touched his lips. “What, no Bobby Burns?”
She pulled a well-worn copy of Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect from a shelf and handed it to him, along with several volumes of Allan Ramsay and Robert Fergusson.
“I'm suitably impressed. I didn't think anyone west of Aberdeen had even heard of Fergusson, Miss Worthington.”
She sat down and poured two cups of tea with a flourish as he joined her. “Lemon or milk?”
“Lemon.” He handled the Havilland cup with consummate skill.
Maggie studied his hands, long strong brown fingers, tapered with clean nails, in spite of the calluses. “I acquired the tea time habit from my partner, Bart Fletcher, who really is a Sassenach,” she said, inhaling the fragrant brew the cook had steeped. She studied him through thick dark lashes as she sipped her tea.
“You seem to be a woman who knows what goes on around here. I stopped in several places down the street. The locals all thought if anyone could