Al’s face twisted in pain, and his blue eyes clouded. “Mary, that’s all over. It was over before this happened, even. I was just crazy for a while there, I guess,” he concluded simply. “I can’t think of no other explanation.”
Mary nodded. She gazed at her husband, searching inside herself for the old bracing anger, but it seemed to be gone. All she felt was sorrow for what they’d lost, and an aching flood of pity for the pale shrunken man across from her.
“I guess you were,” she said finally. “But you’re paying an awful price for it, aren’t you, Al? Just awful.”
“I sure am,” he said without emotion. “I’m livin’ in hell, an’ I’ll be here for another two years. Does that make you happy, Mary?”
She shook her head. “Not a bit,” she said truthfully. “Not one bit, Al. It makes me sad.”
Her husband lifted his haggard face and gazed at her with a flare of emotion in those tired blue eyes. “You always were a strange one, Mary,” he said with an attempt at a smile. “After what I put you through, most women would just be laughin’ to see that I got what I deserved.”
“There’s nothing funny about this,” Mary said. “Not for any of us.”
“It’s real bad, isn’t it?” he asked after another awkward silence. “The ranch an’ all. There’s just no money, is there?”
Mary shook her head.
“That’s why I wrote an’ asked you to come up, Mary,” Al said finally. “I want you to go ahead an’ sell. Get Vern to fax the real estate papers up to the prison office here so I can sign the forms, okay?”
Mary stared at him, stunned. “Al…” she whispered. “Al, what are you saying? You want to sell the ranch?”
He shifted restlessly on the hard wooden chair. “Hell, Mary, what else can we do? You’re entitled to half of what we’ve got, but the only money’s in the land. An’ I can’t hardly mortgage it while I’m in prison, can I? How am I gonna make mortgage payments from a jail cell? So you go ahead an’ file for divorce, an’ we’ll sell the ranch so you can get your money.”
She stared at him blankly. “Divorce?”
Al returned her gaze. “Divorce, Mary,” he said gently. “You got all the grounds in the world. Just go ahead. I’m not gonna put up any fight. You can get rid of me an’ have some security for yourself. God knows you deserve it, after all these years. Maybe,” he added wistfully, “after the ranch sells, you’d wanna go up an’ live in Connecticut somewhere, close to Sara an’ the grandkids. Wouldn’t that be nice, Mary?”
Mary licked her lips, still gazing blankly at him. “But…but what about you?” she whispered finally. “After you…after you get out? I can’t picture you living anywhere but right there on that ranch, Al. Why, you were born there, and so was your father.”
“An’ my grandfather,” he added quietly. “But those ol’ boys, they were better men than me, Mary. I guess the Gibson family had to run aground sometime, an’ I sure did it up with a bang, didn’t I?”
Mary shivered at the self-hatred in his voice. “You made some mistakes, Al,” she said quietly. “God knows, we all make mistakes in our lives. I think that spending two years in here is enough of a price to pay. I don’t think you should lose your ranch. And I don’t know if I’m ready to think about divorce right now, either.”
Al stared at her, his eyes darkening suddenly with emotion. “What’re you tellin’ me, Mary?” he whispered, his voice husky. “Are you sayin’ you still…you still want me?”
Mary shook her head. “I don’t know, Al,” she said honestly. “You hurt me real bad, and I won’t deny it. Maybe you even killed any feelings I could have for you anymore. But I still need some more time to think about things. I don’t want other people making my decisions anymore. And I sure don’t want to sell the ranch if we can hold on to it.”
“Mary…oh, God, girl…” He reached across and grasped her hand, his big shoulders heaving as he struggled to regain control of himself.
Mary squeezed his hand, then extricated her own gently. “But it’s not going to be easy, Al,” she said in a businesslike tone. “There’s all those bank loans, and Cody Hendricks says we’ve got to start showing a strong profit before he can give us a new line of credit for operating capital.”
“Pretty tough to show a strong profit with beef prices at an all-time low,” Al said bitterly.
“That’s what I told him. But Cody’s got a point, too, Al. He’s the bank manager, and he’s got his own job to think about. He can’t keep carrying the Flying Horse at a loss to the bank.”
Al gave her another ghost of that old cheerful grin. “Imagine my little Mary talkin’ to bank managers about profit margins an’ operatin’ capital.”
Mary flushed under his warm admiring gaze. “We do what we have to,” she said briefly.
“Does Cody have any ideas?”
Mary shook her head. “Not really. But he’s given me some time to work things out, as long as I sell the calves next week and buy down the interest on the loans. And I keep thinking there’s an idea somewhere…something at the back of my mind that would solve all these problems if I could just manage to grab on to it…”
Al shook his head sadly. “That’d be real nice, girl, but those things are usually just dreams. In real life, problems don’t tend to get solved that easy.”
Mary nodded, accepting the truth of his words.
“What’s the weather been like?” her husband asked shyly. “Is it gettin’ real cool an’ crisp in the mornin’s, these days?”
Mary’s heart ached for him all over again. She looked into his face, seeing the hunger in his eyes for news of home, of the rolling green acres that he loved.
Finally she swallowed the lump in her throat, gripped his hand again and began talking. “It’s real nice, Al. The calves are looking good, and you know what? That bay mare, Sunshine, she surprised us all by dropping a little pinto colt just last week. Even Manny was shocked.”
“No kiddin’!” he said, his eyes lighting. “Can you imagine that? I never even knew she was in foal.”
For a long time they talked, and their words carried both of them away from the drab room and its sad occupants, into the sun-washed past and far away to a green and silent place that existed only in their memories and their dreams.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AMANDA DROVE along a tree-lined country lane, gazing with concern at the billowing gray clouds drifting above a distant line of hills. The afternoon was dark and leaden, heavy with the threat of rain and a brooding gloomy atmosphere that reflected her despondent mood.
Of course, her despondency had little to do with the weather. Amanda was tense and edgy these days, filled with enough self-doubt to cloud even the brightest day.
Much of her unhappiness sprang from her relationship with Edward, who had arrived several days ago and didn’t seem in any hurry to leave. In fact, Amanda could not recall Edward Price ever being so relaxed and patient, so obviously willing to wait for what he wanted.
And he was leaving no doubt at all that he wanted Amanda. She knew him well enough to realize that he’d embarked on this mission with all of his customary single-minded ambition, and he hadn’t the slightest intention of taking no for an answer. Although Edward seemed easygoing and calm, in a placid holiday mood, Amanda sensed that this was just another part of his overall game plan.
They knew each other so well, Amanda thought ruefully, watching as a couple of heavy raindrops splattered against her windshield.
She knew exactly what Edward was thinking and planning almost all the time. On the other hand, he also understood her well enough not to press, to be sociable and casual while tempting her with offhand remarks about the luxurious condo he planned to buy in New York, the high-powered job he was prepared to offer her, the trips they’d take to Rome and Paris to review the latest fashions.
And there was no doubt that Amanda was tempted.
There was something familiar, predictable and reassuring about Edward. With him, A
manda slipped back into their old relationship of mentor and protégé, discovering with relief that she could still make him laugh. She entertained him with pointed witty stories about her clients, delighting him with her sophistication and the brittle charm she’d cultivated so well.
But she was also troubled by something that seemed to be lacking in their new relationship, some essential ingredient that had once sparkled and danced between them, charging the very air with excitement and sexual tension. Amanda missed that volatile feeling of promise and breathless abandon.
But then, she and Edward still weren’t sleeping together, and that made such a big difference….
Amanda’s forehead creased and a small pucker formed between her brows. She skimmed past the gate to Brock Munroe’s property, annoyed by the warm flush that touched her cheeks and prickled at her throat when she remembered her unsettling evening with the rancher, the astounding things he’d said and the anger she’d felt.
At least Edward was a better companion than that oaf, Amanda told herself scornfully.
Edward Price would never tell people bluntly that he hated their apartment. Instead, he’d praise them with a few gracious, well-chosen words, making them feel like the most talented decorators in the world. Then, when they were safely out of earshot, he’d jeer to his companions about the tacky decor, making everybody laugh with brilliant barbed witticisms at his hosts’ expense.
Amanda gripped the wheel, suddenly chilled by her thoughts of Edward and the way he treated people. Strangely, these things had never bothered her before because he was so exquisitely polite, so beautifully well-mannered that he never insulted anyone openly, never made them feel less than wholly welcome and admired.
Only those who were close to Edward Price knew what he really thought about people. Amanda had always been so tremendously flattered to be one of Edward’s intimates, to be the person in whom he confided most of his feelings and opinions.
But now, for some reason, she found that she wasn’t nearly as thrilled by Edward’s intimacy and his confidences. In fact, a lot of the time she was downright irritated by him, and often surprised him with the sudden coldness in her eyes, the tart edge to her voice when she answered some sarcastic remark.
Amanda slowed for the gate to the Flying Horse, Mary Gibson’s ranch, still brooding over Edward and the surprising new complexity of their relationship.
The problem, she decided, was that she hadn’t yet invited him back into her bed. That simple fact was no doubt the source of all the tension and edginess that she felt between them.
Edward was absolutely right, Amanda told herself. She was being silly about the whole thing. Why not just relieve their mutual pressure by going to bed with the man? After all, she’d lived with him for almost four years, and she hadn’t been with anyone else since she left him six months ago.
No wonder she was feeling so ragged and fragile….
Tonight would be different, Amanda decided with sudden firmness, pulling up and parking by Mary Gibson’s ranch house just as the heavens opened and the rain began to pour down.
She’d go to bed with Edward tonight. Better yet, she’d invite him to leave the hotel, move his things over to her place for the rest of his visit, see if they could recapture the wonderful feelings they’d once had when they shared an apartment and a bed.
The decision made her feel better immediately. By the time she gathered her pink-striped packages from the back seat and sprinted up the walk toward the kitchen door she was laughing, shaking raindrops from her dark hair when Mary answered the doorbell.
“Hi, Mary,” Amanda said, giving the other woman a hug and following her into the big ranch kitchen. “My goodness, it’s pouring out there. I almost—”
Her smile faded and she fell abruptly silent, looking at Luke Harte, who lounged casually by the table, booted feet extended, denim jacket hung on a chair back. He nursed a mug of coffee and looked up at her without smiling.
“Hi, Luke,” Amanda said, feeling awkward. “Having a coffee break?”
The young man’s dark eyes moved over her face and body with a slow intent gaze that fell just short of being insolent.
“Just visitin’ with Mary,” he said in his quiet cowboy drawl. “She gets real lonesome in here by herself all day long.”
“I suppose she does,” Amanda said, still unnerved by his steady gaze. “But,” she added with forced cheerfulness, “I’ve brought some entertainment for her. I finally found that gray silk blouse, Mary,” she added, turning to the woman who stood by the counter piling donuts onto an oval dish. “And another one, too, that I thought you might like, and the rust-colored jumpsuit I told you about last week.”
Mary’s eyes brightened. “Oh, good,” she said with childlike enthusiasm. “Amanda, I’m getting to be such a clotheshorse. I love this stuff.”
Luke got to his feet and shrugged into his jacket. “See you, Mary,” he said over his shoulder as he ambled to the door. “I’m workin’ on that truck some more. I’ll be right outside in the garage if you need me,” he added pointedly with a glance in Amanda’s direction.
“Oh, don’t worry, Luke,” Amanda said, struggling to make her voice light and joking. “I’m sure Mary will be all right. It’s been weeks and weeks since I attacked anybody in their own kitchen.”
Luke said nothing, just looked at Amanda coolly for a moment before he opened the door and stepped out into the driving rain.
Mary seemed unaware of the sudden tension in the room. She was setting out a mug for Amanda, along with cream and sugar and the fragrant plate of fresh sugar donuts.
“Mary, you’ll make me fat,” Amanda protested laughingly. “You’re such a good cook, and I always eat like a pig when I have a chance to get these home-baked things.”
“I wish you’d come for a meal sometime,” Mary said shyly. “If you think my baking’s good, you should taste my barbecued brisket.”
“I can just imagine,” Amanda said wistfully. But she was chilled by the mental image of herself and Mary eating together, with Luke Harte’s watchful dark face across the table….
“So, Mary,” she said, sitting down and reaching gratefully for the steaming coffee mug. “What’s been happening with you lately?”
“Well, I went to see Al on the weekend,” Mary began, flushing slightly, her obvious tension belying the casualness of the words.
“Really? How was he?”
“He was real sad,” Mary said quietly. “Not at all like he used to be. It must be so hard, being locked away in a place like that.”
Amanda shivered at the thought. “Oh, Mary,” she said impulsively, clasping the older woman’s hand and squeezing it gently, “it must have been hard for you, too.”
“It was.” Mary fell silent for a moment, then continued. “Al wants to sell the ranch. He says we should get a divorce, sell the ranch and split up the money so I can have my share. He thinks I should go up to Connecticut, find a place to live somewhere close to my daughter and her family.”
Amanda stirred her coffee nervously, wondering what to say. “How about you?” she asked. “Is that what you want, Mary?”
Mary shrugged and got up, moving across the room to pick a couple of dead leaves from a geranium in a yellow pot on the windowsill. “I don’t know what I want,” she said without turning around. “Sometimes I think it’d be so nice just to get away from all these problems, but other times…”
“Other times?” Amanda prompted gently.
“I don’t know,” Mary said again, returning to her chair. “Anyhow,” she added with an attempt at a smile, “I likely don’t have any choice. If I don’t come up with an idea soon to make some money on this place, we’ll have to sell it to satisfy the bank. So it’ll be out of my hands anyway.”
“Oh, Mary…” Amanda began.
Mary shook her head and made another attempt to smile. “Well, that’s enough about me,” she said, adding, “I stopped at Brock’s place yesterday.”
Amanda paused
halfway through the donut and looked up, her mouth full, blue eyes questioning.
“Poor Brock,” Mary said, not noticing Amanda’s reaction. “He’s in such a mess. He’s renovating his house, you know.”
“I know. He mentioned it to me.”
“Well, he sure could use some help. The poor boy, he’s done a beautiful job so far, but he’s got to make some decisions about decorating now, and I think he’s stuck.”
Amanda felt a treacherous stirring of interest. “What’s his house like?” she asked.
“Oh, the Munroe place is a beautiful old house. Caspar Munroe—he was Brock’s great-grandfather—built that house more than eighty years ago, and he didn’t spare any expense, believe me.”
“Two-storey?” Amanda asked wistfully. “One of those that’s all made of stone, with an upper balcony?”
Mary nodded. “And a long shady front veranda with big pillars, and all kinds of golden oak inside, wainscoting and plate rails, staircases and newel posts, and wide, wide door moldings…”
Amanda stared dreamily off into space. “Hardwood floors?”
“Every room. And a huge fieldstone fireplace, big enough to roast a steer in, and lovely crystal chandeliers that were shipped down from St. Louis, piece by piece, before World War I…”
“Oh, God,” Amanda said, shivering. “What’s he doing to it?” she asked abruptly. “What kind of renovations, Mary?”
“Well, the place has gotten pretty run-down over the years. I think Brock’s putting in a whole new kitchen and replacing a lot of the old lath and plaster that’s falling to pieces. And the heating system, too, I believe. Most of that’s done already. But now he has to decide if he’s going to…”
“You know, I just hate this kind of thing!” Amanda interrupted, her eyes dark with emotion. “I can’t bear the way people modernize and destroy the ambience of those gorgeous old houses. There ought to be some kind of law.”
“Oh, I don’t think Brock’s destroying his house,” Mary said mildly. “He’s doing a real nice job, actually. He’s just not sure about wallpaper designs and cupboards, that sort of thing.”
New Way to Fly Page 11
