The Newcomer

Terry ignored her, still gazing at the street. “Rose is probably closer to my age,” he said at last. “Late twenties, don’t you think?”

“If that’s true, she must have been married very young,” Maggie said, “because the older girl is nine years old.”

“Do your notes say why she got divorced?”

Maggie looked with sudden interest at her brother’s blond head, glistening in the late-afternoon light from the window.

“Terry, what’s this all about? Why the big concern about Rose Murdoch?”

“I just like the look of her,” he said, coming back to sprawl on the couch again.

“Yes, I noticed that.” Maggie gave him a teasing smile.

“She seems like a nice person,” he said with studied casualness. “Is it so strange that I’d notice a good-looking woman?”

“When you’re in the middle of working on that book, you never seem to notice anybody.”

“Well,” he said, “I’m not working at the moment. I haven’t written a word in the past week, since we decided to come out here on this crazy project.”

“You should have rented that apartment down on the beach while they were working on your place.”

“I didn’t want you out here all alone, dealing with Natasha when she’s on one of her tangents. And I don’t care where I live as long as I can work. But I won’t be working anytime soon,” he added restlessly, “unless your big Scotsman gets some computer equipment installed up here.”

“He’s not my Scotsman!” Maggie said hotly.

Her brother arched an eyebrow, his face sparkling with amusement. “Why, Maggie,” he said, raising a cup in her direction. “If I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it.”

“What?” she said.

“You’re actually blushing. You’ve turned as pink as Rose Murdoch.”

Maggie frowned and swatted her younger brother with the file folder while he ducked aside, laughing. Then she began hauling her luggage into the bedroom with its snowy-white curtains and four-poster bed.

CHAPTER THREE

MAGGIE AND HER BROTHER unpacked and rested for a couple of hours in their separate rooms. By the time they went downstairs, it was about seven o’clock in the evening.

Doug Evans was behind the reception desk, on one of the tall stools occupied by his sister earlier in the day. He pored over an open ledger and punched numbers onto a computer keyboard, looking annoyed. Invoices and receipts littered the desk. Dundee lay partly upon the stack of papers, occasionally swatting playfully at the keyboard.

“Can’t make head nor tail of this damn stuff,” Doug muttered, giving them a distracted glance. “I really should take a computer course to update my skills.”

Maggie, who was a certified accountant in addition to holding an advanced degree in business, looked with interest at the masses of paper.

Though her job with Natasha Dunne had involved all kinds of strange and exotic duties over the years, Maggie Embree’s first love would always be computers and bookkeeping.

“Why don’t you hire somebody?” she asked.

“Who would I find in this town? Anybody who’s remotely qualified has a job already. The hotel books were in a mess when I bought the place, and computer software seems to change every ten minutes.”

“What would you say is your most immediate problem?” Maggie asked.

“Hell, who knows?” He glared at the screen. “We need somebody to work here for a few days, at least, and design a profit-and-loss statement, cost projections and decent spreadsheets, some kind of a plan for our future computer development…”

“Maggie could sort that out for you in ten minutes,” Terry said. “Give her a set of books and a good computer, and this girl’s a marvel.”

Doug gave her a quick thoughtful glance that made her feel awkward again. She forced herself to meet his eyes casually.

“Is there by any chance a dining room in the hotel, Doug?” she asked.

For a moment he seemed both startled and a little unsettled by her casual use of his first name. Then he shook his dark head and leafed though a messy pile of invoices.

“We serve burgers and snacks in the hotel pub, but that’s about all. Most of our guests eat their meals down the street at the Longhorn. Nora makes the best home fries in the state.”

“The Longhorn,” Terry said, grinning. “Now, that sounds interesting. You’ll love it, Maggie.”

She gave him a warning glance.

“My sister’s a big-city girl,” Terry told the man behind the desk. “Maggie eats alfalfa sprouts and sushi. I’ll bet she’s never had a plate of home fries in her life.”

“Is that so?” Doug laughed. “Well then, she’s got a terrific experience ahead of her.”

Maggie headed for the lobby door, with Terry ambling behind her.

“Look, quit talking to that man about me as if I’m not even there,” she muttered to her brother when they were outside on the darkened street.

“He seems interested,” Terry said innocently as they made their way toward the restaurant. “Don’t you think?”

“I couldn’t care less if he’s interested.” A few minutes later they reached the Longhorn. Maggie pushed open the door of the restaurant, relieved to step into the smoky warmth after the chill of the street.

“You don’t find our laird Douglas Evans just a tiny bit attractive?” Terry followed her to a booth near the window.

“Not a bit,” Maggie lied, sliding onto the vinyl seat. “But even if I did, I’d have to ignore those feelings,” she added.

“You would?” Terry smiled at a waitress in a checked apron who arrived to hand them a couple of gingham-patterned menus. “Why?”

“Because feelings like that would complicate the job I’ve come here to do.”

“Mags, you have no intention of doing that job. Unlike our Natasha, you’re not entirely crazy.” His eyes sparkled. “Just a wee bit smitten,” he said in a mock brogue.

Maggie ignored her brother’s teasing and frowned at the menu. “Do you suppose they have something like a salad? It seems this is all meat and potatoes.”

“You’d better get used to some dietary changes if you want to make any friends here,” Terry said mildly. “Look at this place, Maggie. It’s terrific.”

She glanced around at the restaurant, which could have been lifted directly from a fifties movie. But the effect wasn’t cutesy and artificial like similar establishments in Los Angeles. The Longhorn had a look of authenticity, as if thousands of people had sat in these booths over the years, ordered from the same menus, studied their reflections in the polished chrome napkin holders and played selections on the individual jukeboxes above each table.

“Isn’t it great?” Terry said.

“Yes,” she said. “The place has a wonderful ambience. And,” she added with sudden inexplicable sadness, “I’m afraid it soon could belong to Natasha Dunne, along with everything else in this town.”