If he were just angry, she could stand firm.
But if he got that you've-hurt-me-more-than-you'll-ever-know look, the one that said she'd disappointed him (again), she'd have a lot harder time holding her ground.
Oh, God, let him be furious, she prayed.
Smoothing a nervous hand down over her navy skirt, she hit bare skin before she meant to—and then remembered just how short the skirt was. She had put it on this morning as a measure of defiance; she'd realized some time before a sleepless dawn that Michael would go to Sam and she'd be called to account before the day was over. She was glad—glad—she was wearing the skirt. If nothing else, it alone would send Sam's blood pressure skyrocketing.
Okay—maybe it was too short. Seeing her reflection in the curved red side of the car, Shiloh winced at exactly how much of her figure it did reveal, and she tugged at it a little nervously.
And maybe the square neck of the boxy, white waist-length jacket was too low. And her huge square earrings too flashy. Sam would have plenty to distract his attention, enough to keep him through the roof for twenty or thirty minutes. He might even forget about Michael.
Ha. Dream on, honey, she told herself with a grimace, then turned to enter the bank and beard the lion in his den.
Marie Watson was her father's personal secretary; she was the first thing people saw if they ever got taken up to the second floor of the People's Bank, as she sat at a three-sided desk in the middle of a spacious office area upon which both the elevator and a set of stairs opened.
Three other women sat at three other desks scattered about the area, Marie's "office girls" they were called, although one was a grandmother who looked her age and generally acted it. She was the first to see Shiloh as she got off the elevator, and she smiled familiarly at the girl who'd been in and out of Sam's office for all of her life.
Then Marie glanced up, and for one minute, her brown eves held a wry sympathy.
"How are things in Dover, Shiloh?" she asked, smiling.
"Fine. Great. With any luck at all, I'll be back at work there within the next hour or two," Shiloh muttered. She thought bitterly that there wasn't much use for pretense; everybody apparently already knew Sam had yanked her to Sweetwater for some kind of chastisement.
"Sam sent for me," she announced anyway, her words as crisp and sure as she could make them.
Marie glanced down at the big telephone with its buttons and flashing lights. "He's on the phone, but I'm sure you can just go on in. He won't be much longer."
Permission granted to see the king—to face judgment, Shiloh thought fleetingly as she headed for his closed door.
Once inside the big office, she let her gaze wander over the room, doing her best to ignore the man behind the big cherry desk, the one with the telephone at his ear. It was a cool, calm office with a silver carpet that ran right into gray-blue walls. The heavy Austrian drapes were a rich cranberry red, and the same color formed the matting around each one of the grouped trio of pictures on the far wall.
One was of Sam's brother David, who had once been a partner but was long since dead.
Another was of Sam himself.
The third was of a little girl, one with huge, solemn brown pools for eyes and sherry-colored hair, rich with wine tints. That oil had been done of her when she was seven; maybe Sam would have liked it better if she'd stayed that malleable little girl.
But things change.
He was deliberately making her wait. The phone conversation had ended, and in the silence of the room, the sound of his pen scratching out some notation was the only one in the place. Well, she wasn't going to let him intimidate her before this discussion ever started.
With a jerk, Shiloh moved loudly, taking big steps over to the far wall, where a long narrow window looked out on the blue sky and, down below, the parking lot, where her car sat nosed against the rear of another building, the county jail, which actually faced the next street over.
Shiloh made a funny, snorting sound in the back of her throat. It was just like Sam to thumb his nose at the world and build a bank not fifty yards from a jail, as if daring somebody to cross him.
Looking down at the neat little boxed-in square of concrete where the cars sat, she thought suddenly that the parking lot was like her life: closed in. Tight quarters. It had been that way for a long time, but somehow, she hadn't realized it until she came home from the university. No, not even then. She'd not really noticed it until Michael began to talk about marriage.
"Well."
The one word from her father made her twist to see Sam, turned toward her now in the big leather swivel chair, surveying her with displeasure, his thin face under the heavy gray hair nearly delicate in appearance, almost saint like.
They were a lie, those looks and that refined bone structure. He was bossy, hard nosed, outspoken, a man who'd risen from a job in a tiny mill to become one of the controlling powers in this section of Mississippi.
"I thought I had asked you to call me before you left Dover so I'd know when to expect you," he said at last.
She shrugged. "Mr. Parsons said I could come immediately, so I did—there didn't seem to be any reason to call." Or to keep myself on edge the rest of the day, putting off this discussion, she thought to herself.
"I didn't see you this morning before I left the house," he said consideringly, eyeing the clothes she had on, "which is a shame, because I could have told you then that those clothes might be the rage with some magazine, but around here, in a small-town bank, they look trashy."
"It's the style."
"Where? Out in some damned fruity place like California?"
"I bought these in Memphis."
"Good God, what's the South coming to?" he said. Then he stood abruptly, a pencil-thin man in a smooth, well-tailored gray suit. Like the room, he seemed calm.
But Shiloh knew exactly what it would take to blow that cover; she figured he could maintain it about fifteen more minutes—until they got around to the real reason she was here.
"Aren't you responsible for Ledbetter's mortgages and loans?" Sam asked abruptly, and his right hand shot out to find the short stack of papers that had been stapled together and laid on his desk.
"Ledbetter . . . oh, you mean Noah Ledbetter out at the mill. Yes, I am."
"You want to explain why his notes haven't been renewed yet?" Sam flipped several pages, then held out the papers to her.
Hesitantly, Shiloh came forward, glancing first at her father's still face, then reaching to take the papers, searching for the place where he was pointing.
"Do you see the date? Ledbetter should have been in to sign this form nearly two months ago. He has to do it every year in March. He knows that," Sam told her.
"I know, too," Shiloh returned, calmly. "But he asked me to do some research for him, to see if the loan could somehow be refinanced for better terms."
"And did you?"
"He asked me, so—yes, I did." "And could it be?"
"No, not considering the amount of money he's borrowed and the way it's being invested," Shiloh answered steadily, then flipped the papers shut.
"And have you told him that?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Last month."
"Last month." Sam repeated her words, then rubbed his open palm down the side of his left cheek thoughtfully. "So he's had at least four weeks to come in and renew this loan. And that means Ledbetter's had two months where he got out of making his monthly payment."
"So? We'll still get it in the end."
"That's right. We will. But the point is"—and Sam leaned over the desk to tap the papers lightly with his forefinger—"Ledbetter thinks he's conning us. He's used the bank's own paperwork—this yearly finance statement—and the bank's own employee—my daughter—to buy himself two months of free time. He's pulled this stunt before, y'see, but not with me. Only with a gullible loan officer I once had."
"I'm not a fool," Shiloh retorted. "I know what he's doing. I c
alled him two weeks ago and advised him he had to come in and sign the yearly statement, so the payments could begin again."
"Or?"
“I didn't give him an 'or.' He said he'd be in before the month was out. If he's not, then I can pull the rug out from under him, I guess, stop payment on his checks, or something like that. But I won't have to. He knows the signature every year is just a technicality, a nicety. Legally, he still has to pay the bank. You know it, too."
Sam stacked the papers on his desk carefully, making one neat pile of paper. Deliberately, he laid his two gold pens side by side.
"Noah Ledbetter's father was my first boss," he told his daughter, his eves holding hers. "Stingy. Mean. He worked men until the)' dropped, for little or no wages because he could get away with doing it around here forty years ago. If he'd had his way, I'd have died workin' in that mill of his. But I got out. It liked to have killed him the first time he had to send Noah to me to ask for money. I gave him what he needed. At the time, me and my bank, we were all that saved his hide."
"I've heard the story before. Papa," Shiloh told him, putting the papers back down on his desk, on top of his stack.
"So you have." Sam slid both hands into the pockets of his pants, his actions crumpling up the sides of the coat and marring its sleek, chic lines. He evidently had no loose change today; if he had, he would have jingled it restlessly, in spite of all his best efforts not to. It was a habit he'd tried repeatedly to stop, mostly because he thought it took away from the image of the uptown banker he liked to promote.
It was the same reason he smoked his cigars on the sly, the same reason he kept a dictionary hidden in his desk drawer, to look up any new words he should know but didn't.
"But I'm telling you that Ledbetter resents like hell me having a hold over him. I'm fair. I play by the rules. And he's going to, too, even if he has to be made to do it. I may have been a dirt-poor worker and he may have been the boss's son, but things have changed. Even after all these years, I want him to remember that, whether he likes it or not. His business is in good shape, so you don't let him slide, Shiloh. You call him today—tell him he comes in and signs the note and makes this month's payment within the next twenty-four hours, or else."
"Or else what?"
He pulled his hands out of his pockets and said sharply, "You just tell him Sam Pennington says for him to get his butt down there. You're my daughter, Shiloh. I want to see some of me in you. I want to see you doing the right things. For once."
There was a long, stark pause while they glared at each other, then Shiloh broke away.
"It's too bad," she told him, her voice low and a little
I
shaky, "that you just can't be me. Or make me what you want. Maybe then I could go ahead and marry Michael Sewell. That's what this conversation is all about—not Noah Ledbetter."
Behind her, Sam sucked in his breath sharply. "All right, let's just wade into the whole damn mess. What in the hell do you mean, breaking off an engagement two months—just two months, for God's sake—before you're set to marry the man?"
Shiloh turned so quickly she knocked a pen off his desk and she faced her father furiously. "He didn't waste any time crying to you, did he? I bet he got to the office this morning before you did."
"What have you got against him all of a sudden? You were happy enough when he started courting you. You wanted to many him then. You know how I feel about him."
"About him ... or his bloodline? He's one of the Sewells—that's what's important, isn't it?"
Sam's blue eyes were snapping with frustration. "I never pretended that wasn't part of it. I want that for you. I want you to be more than the daughter of a one-time mill worker and a—a—"
"Don't say it," Shiloh cut in sharply. "Don't say it!"
There was a short, gasping silence while both of them breathed harshly, then she spoke more calmly.
These aren't the Dark Ages, Papa. You can't make me marry him."
Sam's face shadowed as he moved out from behind the desk. "Maybe we'd be better off if they were. Then I'd just chain you up and hand you over. Hell, it must be a real hardship to marry Michael Sewell. He's handsome, he comes from a fine old family, he's a head engineer for the TVA, he's going places."
"I don't love him," Shiloh said desperately, walking over to the window to clutch at its drapes.
"You're finding that out eight weeks before the wedding?" Sam snapped.
"I thought I could. Love him, I mean. But I was really trying to ... to please you." Her last words were so low they were nearly whispered, but her father caught them.
"Please me!" he returned incredulously. "hen have you ever tried to please me? Was it when you were seven and broke a whole set of dishes because I wouldn't let you keep a mongrel puppy?
"Or maybe you've tried to please me with the men you've been interested in—like the summer you were eighteen and decided you were going to run wild with Billy Bob Walker. Was that when it was, Shiloh?"
She said nothing, her face flushing, just staring out the window.
Then Sam drew another long, deep breath, and continued, more calmly, "I want what s best for you. I won't let you ruin your life out of sheer nerves, or last-minute jitters, or pure contrariness, whichever it is. Michael loves you. He called me half out of his mind this morning. He said you gave his ring back."
"I threw it back," Shiloh corrected. "And what did he say was my reason?"
Her father's thin cheeks flushed a little.
"He blamed me, as I recall. Said I'd pushed you too hard, that you were nearly hysterical last night."
Shiloh gave a short, choked laugh. "Oh, that's good. I was hysterical and it was your doing." Then she turned sharply, her eyes pleading. "Tell me—please tell me— you'll believe me when I give you the truth about what really happened."
Sam stared at her hard a minute. "Are you about to tell me that Michael, the man I've known for years, who's the son of one of my closest business associates, is a liar?"'
Shiloh let the curtain fall silently behind her as she hoisted away from the confrontation with her father, bitterness in her face. "You've already answered my question."
"Dammit, Shiloh—"
"I won't marry him," she said flatly. Just keep saying it, she told herself. He couldn't make her.
"You can't stand a man up eight weeks before the wedding unless you have a hell of a good reason. I'm waiting to hear—"
A sharp buzzing sound cut across his words as Marie signaled him on the intercom, and muttering to himself, Sam took three giant strides to the desk, pushed a button, and barked, "Yes? What? What is it?"
"It's nearly noon, sir. You can't wait any longer if you mean to be at your afternoon meeting in Tupelo with Mr. Griffin and his partners," Marie offered, a little apologetically.
"All right. Thank you." He straightened, glancing in irritation at his own wristwatch. "We can finish this talk tonight. I'll be home for supper. Laura said this morning you were planning on being there, too. We'll talk then. This is not over, d'you hear?"
He was already on his way out the door, saying something to Marie as he went. Suddenly furious, Shiloh went to the door to call after him, "Sam."
He stopped, turning warily. She took a deep breath.
"I won't marry him. Don't get to thinking that I'll change my mind between now and suppertime." There— it was said again, and this time, as if to confirm it, there were witnesses.
He shot a warning, shocked glance over at Marie, who sat frozen between the two of them, trying to pretend she had gone deaf on the instant.
"I said we'd discuss it tonight, Shiloh. And wear something decent for supper. I can't stand to see much more of that—that thing you've got on."
Nobody said a word in the still office area as Sam got on the elevator and its door closed silently behind him. Shiloh watched the shut door a minute before turning to the four quiet women. Marie's wide eyes were locked on her face.
"He took that rather w
ell, don't you . . . th-think?" Shiloh tried to say jokingly, but the words hung and sobbed in her throat, and terrified that she might cry, she slung her purse—the one she'd never put down—high on her shoulder and rushed out the door that led to the stairs. No time to wait for elevators.
Alone at the bottom of the steps, in the quiet well, she stood drawing deep breaths and fighting down the tears. Nobody—Sam, least of all—comprehended how hard it was for her to stand and fight.
She didn't want to; she wanted to please her father, just as she'd always wanted to. But this time, she knew. She would never be happy with Michael Sewell. Why couldn't she make her father understand that? It was her life; when would he realize that and be happy to let her live it?
But so far, she'd kept saying no. She might have given in before, but this time she had to keep fighting. This time, she had a cause so serious she couldn't quit—she hated Michael's guts.
The thought was so defiant and so strong that it made her feel that way, too, burning away her worries over displeasing Sam. She pushed open the back entrance door and emerged into the parking area. The early spring breeze that brushed her face with a clean welcome carried on it the yeasty smell of baking bread, compliments of Danny Joe Yearling's bakery two buildings down from the bank. Maybe she was hungry. Maybe she needed to eat. Maybe then she'd feel better.
Flinging the purse into the open door of the Porsche, Shiloh was about to follow it in when the whistle cut across the fragrant air and arrested her motion. Shrill and rednecky, it was a blatant wolfy sound that startled her into looking up.
"I got to tell you. honey. this is the best view I've had from this window in days. It makes up for all the other times I've been deprived of the creature comforts since I've been in here."
The sun's rays blinded her for a second or two, but even before Shiloh put up a hand to shield her eyes and clear her vision, she knew to whom the lazy, husky, drawling voice belonged.
Billy Bob Walker Got Married Page 3
