My Man Pendleton(38)
Author: Elizabeth Bevarly

Oh, he really didn’t like the sound of that.

“And now,” his employer continued, “here you are.” For a long time, McClellan, Sr. only studied him in silence, as if he were trying to gauge the full measure of the man. Then, evidently having made a decision, he went on, “Seeing as I once paid a man that much money to leave my daughter when my family’s fortunewasn’t at stake, can you imagine how grateful I’d be to the man who married Kit now, thereby keeping the family fortune where it belongs—in the hands of the family?”

Pendleton swallowed hard in an effort to dispel the bitter taste that rose from the back of his throat at hearing his employer’s offer. The fingers curled behind his back fisted tighter as he realized he’d never wanted to hit anyone as badly as he wanted to slug McClellan, Sr. at that moment. The man didn’t deserve ninety-nine-point-four cents, let alone millions. To barter one’s daughter like so much furniture made the man worse than a common pimp.

As if he hadn’t already said too much, McClellan, Sr. added, “I can be a very generous man, Pendleton. Think about it.”

As if he’d be able to do anything but think about it. Naturally, Pendleton had no intention of lowering himself to McClellan, Sr.’s distasteful pandering. But he was too outraged at the moment to trust anything he might say aloud, so he only nodded dispassionately and said nothing. Hey, what was there to say? His employer was a slimy, heartless creep, and Pendleton was too much of a gentleman to call him on it. Either that, or Pendleton was too much of a spineless, simpering suck-up to call him on it. Whatever.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” McClellan, Sr. said with a slimy, heartless smile.

Pendleton responded with a spineless, simpering one of his own. “Yes, .sir. We do indeed understand each other.”You creep.

“Fine. Now remember what I said. And get out.”

Unable to follow that last order fast enough, Pendleton pivoted on his heel and hurried out of his employer’s office. As he went, he tried not to panic in the knowledge that it was barely nine A.M., and already his house had been overtaken by Kit McClellan and his morals compromised by her father. Call him an alarmist, but it seemed like the day wasn’t starting off well at all.

He could handle the McClellans, he assured himself as he made his way back to his office. There was no way McClellan, Sr. could expect him to marry Kit and save the family fortune, with or without a bonus for his trouble. This wasn’t medieval England, where fathers did that kind of thing, in spite of McClellan, Sr.’s obviously antiquated thinking on the matter.

And Kit couldn’t possibly be serious about being his roomie, Pendleton told himself further. Surely, it was just her unique sense of humor and simple boredom with her life—and not a chemical imbalance in her brain—that made her do the things she did. Surely, she would tire of wreaking havoc in his life soon, and then she’d move on. Surely everything would come to rights soon.

Unfortunately, Pendleton felt sure about none of those things. Except for maybe one. He could handle Kit McClellan. Surely.

Chapter 10

It was with some trepidation that Pendleton pulled up behind his big Victorian house in Old Louisville shortly after six that evening. He told himself the only reason he was shivering like a jackhammer was because of the constant rush of icy air that blew in through the tear in the roof of his car that even duct tape wasn’t able to mend effectively, and not because he was terrified of a slim, blond woman who couldn’t even make a sarong burgeon on her best day. Unfortunately, thoughts of Kit McClellan left him shuddering every time they braved entry into his muddled brain.

Just what the hell was he supposed to do with her?

He folded closed the doors on the dilapidated shed his real estate agent had called a garage, then made his way halfheartedly up the crumbling creekstones that bisected his small backyard. Once the weather turned warm, he had plans to rip out the stepping stones and replace them with a cobbled walkway that led from the back porch to the new garage he planned to build. Of course, that was going to necessitate building a back porch, too, one to replace the boxy wooden thing with a screen that was currently affixed to his house. For now, however, his yard, porch, and garage were much like his house. In need of major renovation. Kind of like his life, he thought further as he approached both.

He heard her long before he saw her and knew that Kit McClellan was still very much resident in his home. As he carefully negotiated the slick, mossy steps of his alleged back porch, a sound assaulted his ears unlike anything he had ever heard before. Only when he opened the back door and stepped inside did he finally realize what was causing the din.

To say she sang badly would have been like saying Josef Stalin lacked people skills. And the song…

“Oh, don’t you remember sweet Betsy from Pike,” was what it sounded like she was attacking. Then something about green mountains and a brother named Ike. Then egg yolks? He couldn’t really say. But the big yeller dog part was fairly clear, as was the spotted hog part. The rest… Well, he supposed he should be grateful he didn’t understand it all. Because that would mean he had some working knowledge of Kit McClellan’s repertoire. And the thought of such a possibility really didn’t set well with him at all.

“Hi, honey, I’m home,” he muttered as he entered his kitchen.

Immediately, he sensed that something was wrong. Well, something besides the fact that his house was currently the migratory receptacle for the rare, but unfortunately not quite extinct, yellow-headed, gravel-voiced hobnobber. And it wasn’t just because of the tasteful arrangement of table and chairs situated at the center of the room that hadn’t been there this morning when he left for work. It was also because of the smell emanating from one of the numerous copper pots cooking…stuff…on the stove. A smell that was quite extraordinary. Not unpleasant, mind you… Well, not too unpleasant. Just, um…

“Kit?” he called out to the house at large.

“Pendleton! Darling! You’re home!”

Darling?

“I’ll be right there! As soon as I fix your martini!”

Martini?

He told himself it was simple curiosity—and not crippling fear—that kept him rooted in place, gripping his briefcase as if it were the only thing that linked him to reality. Which was good, because when Kit entered the kitchen less than a minute later, he was certain reality was fast slipping away. In fact, he had to close his eyes for a moment, then open them again, to be sure he wasn’t hallucinating.