Iron Cowboy by Diana Palmer Read Free Book Online Page B

“I’m not telling.”
    He pursed his lips, considering. “You haven’t lost your illusions about life, yet,” he mused, noting the odd flicker of her eyelids when he said it. “I’d say you haven’t hit your mid-twenties yet, but you’re close.”
    He’d missed it, but she didn’t let on. “You’re not bad,” she lied.
    He stuck his hands in the pockets of his slacks and looked at the sky. “No rain yet. Probably none for another week, the meteorologists say,” he remarked. “We need it badly.”
    â€œI know. We used to have this old guy, Elmer Randall, who worked at the newspaper office helping to run the presses. He was part Comanche. Every time we had a drought, he’d get into his tribal clothes and go out and do ceremonies outside town.”
    â€œDid it work?” he asked with real interest.
    She laughed. “One time after he did it, we had a flood. It almost always rained. Nobody could figure it out. He said his grandfather had been a powerful shaman and rode with Quanah Parker.” She shrugged. “People believe what they want to, but I thought he might really have a gift. Certainly, nobody told him to stop.”
    â€œWhatever works,” he agreed. He checked his watch. “I’d better get home. I’m expecting a phone call from Japan.”
    â€œDo you speak the language?”
    He laughed. “I try to. But the company I’m merging with has plenty of translators.”
    â€œI’ll bet Japan is an interesting place,” she said with dreamy eyes. “I’ve never been to Asia in my whole life.”
    He looked surprised. “I thought everybody traveled these days.”
    â€œWe never had the money,” she said simply. “Grandad’s idea of international travel was to buy Fodor’s Guides to the countries that interested him. He spent his spare cash on books, hundreds of books.”
    â€œHe taught history, you said. What was his period?”
    She hesitated as she looked up at his lean, handsome face. Wouldn’t it sound too pat and coincidental to tell him the truth?
    He frowned. “Well?”
    She grimaced. “World War II,” she confessed. “The North African theater of war.”
    His intake of breath was audible. “You didn’t mention that when I ordered books on the subject.”
    â€œI thought it would sound odd,” she said. “I mean, here you were, a total stranger looking for books on that subject, and my grandfather taught it. It seems like some weird coincidence.”
    â€œYes, but they do happen.” He moved restlessly. “Did he have autobiographies?”
    â€œYes, all sorts of first person accounts on both sides of the battle. His favorite subjects were German Field Marshal Erwin Rommel and General George Patton, but he liked the point of view of the 9th Australian Division, as well as British General Bernard Montgomery’s memoirs.”
    â€œI asked the high school age son of one of my vice presidents which of the generals he liked to read about when he was studying history. He said they hadn’t taught him about any individual officers. He didn’t even know who Rommel was.”
    The allusion to vice presidents went right by her. She smiled sheepishly. She’d only graduated from high school two years before, and he didn’t know that. “I didn’t, either, from high school courses,” she confessed. “But Grandad was good for a two-hour lecture on any subject I mentioned.”
    He pursed his lips, really interested. “Who was the last commander of the British Eighth Army before Montgomery in North Africa?”
    She chuckled. “You don’t think I know, do you? It was Auchinleck—Sir Claude. He was a big, redheaded man, and his wife was from America.”
    His eyebrows arched. “You’re good. What was Rommel’s wife called?”
    â€œHer name