COWBOY CRESCENDO

by Cathleen Galitz

  * * *

  The Twin Oaks Hotel was virtually abandoned. Most, if not all, of the guests were watching the fireworks outside, and Abraham Danforth's political machine was gearing up to pass the proverbial hat around to solicit contributions to the cause. Heather had yet to meet the would-be senator, dubbed by the press as Honest Abe II. She doubted he would appreciate being upstaged in tomorrow's newspaper by a picture of her in a compromising position with his nephew.

  She slipped around to a back entrance of the old hotel. The door stuck initially, but Heather had enough adrenaline surging through her blood to force it open. Making her way down a dimly lit hallway, she searched for some secluded spot where she could pull herself together and put that soul-shattering kiss behind her. If she failed to locate an unoccupied bathroom, she'd settle for simply finding the wing of the hotel that had been reserved for the children. Just thinking of Dylan's heartfelt hugs had a calming effect upon her.

  One hallway led to another and before she knew it, Heather was completely lost. The place seemed to go on forever. With each step, the halls grew darker. Antique wall sconces that had been modernized with electrical wiring glowed with flickering lights intended to replicate candlelight. It was a touch too real for Heather, who was on the verge of turning around and retracing her steps when she caught a glimpse of someone at the far end of the corridor gesturing to her.

  She looked remarkably like the mysterious lady whom Heather had spied under the big oak tree back at Crofthaven on the day of their arrival. As this was a formal affair, Heather could have easily mistaken a modern floor-length gown for the period clothing she thought she'd seen the woman wearing that day. In the shadowy light, it was easy to imagine quite a lot of things, including the draft of cold air that raised goose bumps up and down the length of her arms.

  Nevertheless, Heather was drawn down that dark hallway.

  "Wait!" she called out as the woman disappeared around yet another corner.

  Hoping she was winding her way closer to the lobby, Heather gave chase. As she rounded the next corner, a scream died in her throat.

  In front of her appeared a young woman with dark hair, very pale skin and eyes rimmed with pain. The shadowy figure seemed to float in the air. A golden locket at her throat glinted in the flickering light. Having never seen a ghost before, Heather nonetheless recognized this apparition for what it was. Stumbling against the wall, she felt a drip of hot wax fall upon her shoulder from the wall sconce. She winced.

  As tempted as she was to run screaming back down that hallway, both Heather's voice and feet failed her at once. Her heart pounded out of control as the specter stared through her with sorrowful black eyes. Without moving her lips, she relayed a message to Heather.

  "Don't fail his little boy like I failed my charges…" The voice resonating in Heather's head lacked the Southern tone which she expected.

  "I don't understand," she whispered.

  "Don't fail the boy," the woman repeated, blowing a frightening puff of breath directly in her face. "Or your own heart."

  With that, she vanished altogether, leaving Heather to wonder if she hadn't imagined the whole ghastly encounter.

  * * *

  Seven

  « ^ »

  By the time Heather found her way back to the hotel lobby, she was questioning her own sanity. What other explanation could there be for a delusional encounter with the other side? Considering that she had been nursing a glass of ginger ale for most of the night, it certainly couldn't be attributed to alcohol. Heather supposed it went without saying that a hotel as steeped in history as Twin Oaks was bound to evoke eerie feelings in its guests, especially one overwrought by the prospect of falling in love with her employer.

  That the same sad-faced woman would appear to Heather both at Crofthaven and Twin Oaks seemed further proof that her imagination was playing games with her. All that nonsense about not failing her charge and her heart was probably just her subconscious sorting through her conflicted emotions. Between overloaded hormones and better judgment.

  The only other explanation was one that chilled Heather's blood and left her visibly shaking as she accepted her first glass of alcohol all evening from a bored-looking waiter. She tossed it back like a seasoned drunk and set the empty glass back on the fellow's tray in one fluid motion. Scanning the premises, she hoped the fireworks display was coming to an end, marking the official end of a long evening. She, for one, was ready to call it a night.

  A deep masculine voice intruded on her thoughts. "Most everybody's still outside in case you were wondering."

  Heather wheeled around and bumped into a solid wall of masculine chest. Craning her neck, she peered into the eyes of a tall, well-built stranger. That his brown eyes beheld her with amusement left her feeling both disadvantaged and tongue-tied. She hoped he wasn't expecting a response from her.

  "It won't be long," he continued, "before Abraham Danforth makes his speech. After that, the party should begin to wind down, except for the diehards, who are certain to be here until the sun comes up."

  Heather hoped nobody expected her to stick around that long. She was even willing to use Dylan as an excuse if it would get her out of here any sooner. Ever since they had arrived in Savannah, family members had been so eager to spend time with him, and he had been so preoccupied with his cousin Peter, that her services had scarcely been needed. Nonetheless, all Heather wanted to do right now was head back to Harold and Miranda's house and fall into bed. With any luck, the entire night would seem like a bad dream by morning.

  Her voice was as shaky as the hands she hid behind her back. "Will you be among them?" she ventured to ask. "The diehards, that is?"

  "Yes, ma'am," the man said in a strong, slow drawl. "I expect I will."

  He didn't strike Heather as someone inclined to excessive partying. Yet he had just admitted that he would remain at the fund-raiser with the last of the diehards. She couldn't help but wonder why he was there. Alert as he was in scanning the premises without drawing attention to the fact, the man's emotions appeared as tightly coiled as her own. Feeling an odd sense of kinship with him, she offered him her hand along with her name.

  "Michael Whittaker," he rejoined, growing suddenly solemn. "Good Lord, your hand is as cold as ice. Are you all right? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

  "Funny you should put it that way…"

  Heather's bones suddenly turned gelatinous. Michael reached out to grab her by the elbow. Concern illuminated his dark eyes as he led her to the nearest love seat and positioned himself next to her.

  "What happened?"

  Heather shook her head. "You'll think I'm crazy."

  "I doubt that."

  The hard look that accompanied those terse words provided Heather a strange sense of comfort. Still, she hesitated to relay the vision that congealed her blood and left her babbling to herself. Thinking back to that dark, haunted hallway, she took necessary precautions before baring her soul.

  "You aren't by any chance a reporter, are you?"

  The smile that broke across the man's distinctive features assured her that he found the very idea preposterous.

  "A security specialist. Who better to trust?"

  Indeed. What harm could there be in sharing a ghost story with a stranger at this late hour? What difference would it make even if he thought her mad? In a few short days, she would be a thousand miles away from here, well on her way to ridiculing herself for being frightened by a figment of her imagination.

  Heather let her breath out slowly and took a chance on a stranger's seemingly benevolent curiosity.

  "As a matter of fact, I think I did just see a ghost—if that's what you'd call it."

  Seeing no sign of derision in Michael's manner, she continued haltingly.

  "She was a young woman. Dark but not particularly menacing. And she was intent on delivering a message to me."

  Michael leaned forward. "What message?"

  Bolstered by the intensity of
his interest, Heather described the strange clothing the woman was wearing and relayed her message word for word.

  "I can't exactly say that I saw her speak those words, but I distinctly heard each one conveyed loudly and clearly in my mind. It's the second time I've seen her," she admitted. "First from a distance standing beneath a huge tree on the outskirts of Crofthaven, and right here at Twin Oaks not ten minutes ago."

  "Miss Carlisle," he declared without hesitation.

  It was Heather's turn to look startled.

  "You know her?"

  "Not exactly," Michael assured her with a crooked smile. "But the woman you described sounds exactly like the same mysterious lady who accosted me a few days ago asking me for directions to Crofthaven. I was several miles away from there at the time. After pointing her in the right direction, I thought I heard her mutter the single word father before she simply faded away."

  Since Heather discerned neither malice nor ridicule in his words, she asked him to elaborate. The circumstances and settings of the appearances were sharply different, but the details regarding the specter herself were chillingly similar—right down to the gold locket worn on a chain about the ghost's long, white neck.

  Giving her a reassuring hug, Michael apologized for having pressing business that he had to attend to.

  "Are you sure you'll be all right?" he asked before he excused himself.

  Heather gave him a wobbly smile. "I'll be just fine as soon as I get some fresh air to clear my head."

  * * *

  Toby was sorry Heather had run off before he'd been able to catch up with the reporter who made the mistake of interrupting the most romantic moment of his life. Undoubtedly she would have enjoyed seeing him grab the man by the strap around his neck and rip the film from his camera.

  "Get lost, you disgusting little parasite," Toby told him before giving the fellow a kick in the pants for good measure as he slunk away into the shadows muttering about inquiring minds having "the right to know."

  By the time Toby turned around to assure Heather that she need not worry about appearing in print any time soon, she was long gone, leaving him to search the crowd, all the while cursing the notoriety of the Danforth name.

  * * *

  He was unprepared for the surge of jealousy that exploded in his heart and flowed like molten lava through his veins at the sight of Heather enveloped in another man's arms. That Michael Whittaker looked nothing like wimpy Freddie Prowell did little to dampen the urge to ram a fist right through the other man's dark, handsome face. Toby had heard rumors that the man was ruthless, but he hadn't thought that reputation extended to the opposite sex. Years of hard physical labor outside a fancy gym would more than make up for the difference in their size. Toby might not be as big as his uncle's bodyguard, but he damn sure was a match for anybody when his testosterone kicked in.

  He was just about to take his tuxedo jacket off and roll up his shirtsleeves when Michael Whittaker saved him the trouble by abruptly leaving. Heather wandered off in the opposite direction. Toby was familiar enough with Twin Oaks to know that a secluded terrace lay outside the very door through which she left. Perhaps it had been an innocent embrace explainable by any number of simple circumstances, he thought.

  He curbed his impulse to make a scene. If Heather had been so distraught by the thought of their kiss gracing the pages of some sleazy tabloid, he imagined photographs of him involved in fisticuffs over her wouldn't set well with her, either. Nor with the rest of the Danforth clan for that matter.

  Toby had no desire to ruin Uncle Abe's big night any more than he wanted to probe the intense feelings that his son's nanny evoked in him. Having openly professed to be done with women forever, he couldn't understand his own volatile reaction to seeing Heather with someone else, especially considering what a short time he had known her. Envy wasn't something that often came calling on Toby. His ex-wife bitterly claimed he didn't have a jealous bone in his body. Sheila's outrageous attempts to goad him into a green-eyed fit, intended to affirm her desirability more often than not, left her looking foolish in public and incensed in private.

  Even now, news of Sheila's involvement with an international playboy only made him thankful that he and Dylan had escaped her exploits relatively unscathed. Unscathed, that is, if one didn't count his little boy losing his speech and his heart.

  As desperately as Toby wanted to believe that it was merely gratitude he felt for Heather for helping his son, the kiss they shared beneath the fireworks shattered that illusion once and for all.

  What had he done by initiating such a kiss?

  Toby no more wanted a long-term relationship with a woman than he wanted to be tied to a life of leisure in Savannah. And yet the likelihood of being able to ignore his feelings for Heather once they returned to Wyoming was slim to none. Going back to a look-but-don't-touch relationship would tax all his powers of self-control. Hell, he'd nearly taken both Freddie and Michael's heads off this evening for just having the audacity to talk to Heather, dance with her and hold her momentarily in their arms. Considering that he prided himself on being levelheaded and generally unruffled, it didn't bode well for his willpower.

  He and Heather definitely needed to talk. The relative privacy of the terrace where she had retreated was as good as any place to initiate a conversation that was bound to be awkward at best—a conversation that could well pry the lid off Pandora's box. Toby wavered.

  "There you are!"

  Marcie Mae's voice rang out over the growing din in the room. Grabbing him by the arm, she tugged him in the opposite direction of the terrace demanding nothing less from him than his undivided attention.

  "Thank you," Toby said.

  "For what?" she wanted to know.

  "For saving me from myself," was his enigmatic reply.

  For the duration of their conversation, Toby kept an eye turned toward the dark doorway where Heather presumably sat in silence alone.

  * * *

  Taking up residence in a dimly lit corner, Heather did her best to work the ghost-induced chill from her bones. She wished she had thought to bring a shawl, but considering the time of year and the humid climate of the location, she hadn't dreamed one might be necessary. The ornate bench on which she sat was as cold to the touch as her encounter with the ghostly apparition. Heather had read that pockets of chilly air often announced that an unearthly creature was present, but never had she imagined the lingering effects of such an icy encounter upon her own human body. She longed to slip into a tub of steaming water and wash the whole experience down the drain before snuggling under the beautiful antique comforter on the bed that awaited her back at Harold and Miranda's home.

  "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, but you bear a striking resemblance to someone I used to know."

  The unexpected comment startled Heather from her reverie. Assuming the remark was directed at her, she looked to find the guest of honor himself, Abraham Danforth, had wandered upon her solitude. He was easily recognizable from the publicity posters scattered throughout the gala.

  But he was not talking to her.

  "Would her name happen to be Lan Nguyen?" asked a distinctly feminine voice.

  The woman who stepped out of the shadows was diminutive in stature, no taller than five feet four inches in heels. Her dark hair glistened in the moonlight. Heather knew who Abraham was, but the woman was a complete stranger to her. Neither of them seemed to know Heather was there.

  "Yes. Yes, it was," the older man responded. "How did you know?"

  "Because I'm her daughter, Lea. Your daughter, Mr. Danforth. The child you abandoned in Vietnam."

  Heather gasped silently. She hadn't intended to eavesdrop, and she wished there was some way to leave without interrupting. As it was, she hoped she wouldn't be called upon to administer the Heimlich maneuver upon poor Abraham. For once, the silver-tongued orator was at a loss for words.

  Heather looked furtively around. She wondered if any reporters were within earshot. O
r if one was perhaps setting Abraham Danforth up? Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Michael Whittaker slipping onto the terrace from a hidden door. She hoped she hadn't misplaced her trust in the man. When he motioned for her to remain quiet, she gladly deferred to his silent request.

  Since Abraham hadn't bothered to dispute the claim, Heather wondered if the exotic beauty might not be speaking the truth. All this talk about fathers and their estranged children stirred up feelings in Heather that she was working hard to put behind her. Guests appeared to be conspiring with ghosts, breathing fire into Heather's ever present sense of guilt. As bitter as her relationship with her father had grown over the past couple of years, Heather couldn't imagine the courage it would take to walk up to a perfect stranger and introduce herself as his daughter. James Burroughs might have played the absentee patriarch for years and been a stern taskmaster, but Heather could nonetheless take comfort in knowing of whose flesh and blood she was conceived. She imagined life for abandoned Amerasian children must be incredibly difficult. How justifiably angry this young woman must be if she believed her accusations to be true.

  Heather wondered how Abraham would ever explain to his grown children that they had a half sister. Or to the press, for that matter. Could his political aspirations survive such a shocking revelation?

  When Abraham spoke again, his voice sounded like it was being dragged through broken glass. "Lan … survived? She survived the attack on her village? I thought she was dead. I—"

  Lea didn't let him finish. "My mother is dead now."

  Despite the defiant tone of her voice, she swayed on her feet. Michael Whittaker stepped out of seemingly nowhere to catch her when she fainted. Heather heard him mumble something softly in her ear before Abraham Danforth regained his composure and took control of the situation.

  "Take her home, Michael," he said, sounding sincerely concerned. "Stay with her until I contact you. Until we can sort this out."

  Heather couldn't imagine when that would be. Michael had mentioned that he was a security consultant. She hadn't guessed that he was actually Abraham Danforth's personal bodyguard. There was only one thing she knew for certain as the man of the hour visibly struggled to tamp down his emotions. By the time he was ready to return to the fund-raiser, he was composed again. The woman who introduced herself only as Lea was in good hands for the moment.