Brown-Eyed Girl by Virginia Swift Read Free Book Online

first time, the sound of Margaret’s door chime, a sound that made her feel as if the person ringing the bell expected someone a hell of a lot more gracious and stately and important to answer the door. She was sweat-soaked, disoriented, and noticed she’d spilled coffee on her T-shirt on the way up the stairs. But then she remembered that the real lady of the house had been dead for three years. Whoever was at the door had come to see Professor Sally Alder, sweaty spandex, coffee stains, and all.
    Her heart gave a flop, but then she reminded herself that there was absolutely no reason in the world Hawk Green would come to see her. In fact, if he was even aware that she was coming back (was he? Had Delice or Dickie or Mary or anybody told him?) he was probably using his excellent brain to work out ways of not running into her, in a town of twenty-five thousand people where the numbered streets ran out at about Thirtieth.
    Don’t think about Hawk . Had he changed much? Had he gotten fat like Dickie, or would he still be tough and sinewy and rangy in the hips? Would he have wrinkled in nice crinkles around the eyes like Delice, or would he have furrows in his forehead and commas around his mouth, like Sally? Would he have that beautiful hair, long and thick and black, or had his hair begun to thin? How would he think she was looking? Oh God.
    As she went downstairs, Sally eyed the big splotch of coffee on her T-shirt and missed a step and almost fell flat. Catching herself, she took a breath, opened the door, and peered through the storm door glass into the watery-eyed, chin-challenged face of Egan Crain.
    â€œSally, old girl,” Egan chirped, brandishing a cellophanewrapped bouquet of purple-dyed daisies straight from the Safeway. “Heard you’d been sighted at the Wrangler last night. Simply smashing to have you back!”
    As long as she’d known him, which stretched back just about to the bicentennial, Egan Crain had used terms like “old girl” and “simply smashing.” He’d still not managed to perfect a real British accent (which would have made it impossible for any American to understand a word he said) but he had apparently not given up working on his half-perfect impression of an English twit.
    Egan had been born, educated, employed, and empowered in the state of Wyoming, but he came by his claim to Brithood semilegitimately. His great-grandfather had been an earl of some kind who had gone to Dubois to try his luck at ranching in the 1880s, and had managed to last through the terrible winter of 1886–87. Lord Crain had left his heirs a serious spread in the valley between the Absarokas and the Wind Rivers. Lady Crain, Egan’s great-grandmother, had been a German girl with Hanover blood. Everyone remarked that Egan bore an unmistakable resemblance to his cousin, H.R.H. the Prince of Wales, and that the biggest problem with Egan was that he didn’t realize that the resemblance was unfortunate.
    Sally opened the storm door and stepped out on the porch, permitting Egan a stiff, near-miss hug. They had been graduate school gossip acquaintances rather than hugging buddies before, and Egan had always been good for the latest dirt. But he must figure that the Dunwoodie Center had brought their relationship to a new level.
    â€œThanks for the flowers, Egan,” she said. “I’d invite you in, but I just got here last night and don’t quite know what the house rules are yet.”
    â€œQuite all right, my dear,” he twittered. “I mean, I think it’s up to you, something about possession and nine-tenths of the law don’t you know, but I wouldn’t want you to go to any bother.”
    She stood staring at him a beat too long, then realized that it was probably a good idea not to antagonize him before she’d even figured out why she felt like doing it.
    â€œActually, I’ve just come by to welcome you on behalf of the