“He’s had a stroke, or so I’ve been told.”
They climbed the stairs in silence. Number One’s butler opened the door and nodded solemnly.
“How’s my father?” Chantry Two asked as they entered.
“Not too good, I’m afraid, sir.”
They took the stairs two at a time. Chane couldn’t ever remember being inside his grandfather’s bedroom. It was enormous. Only the lamps nearest the bed were lit, leaving the rest of the room in darkness. Number One hung onto everything he had, whether it was money, oil, or electricity, which had just recently become available to those few who could afford it. Nothing was wasted. He hadn’t even allowed the upper floor of the house to be electrified because he was afraid it would cost more going uphill.
As they entered, the doctor looked up from taking his patient’s pulse.
“How is he?” Chantry Two asked.
“I’m not dead yet, so don’t start talking about me as if I’m not here,” Number One rasped. “Leave us,” he said, waving to the doctor, who straightened, raised his eyebrows at them and walked to the door.
“Don’t tire him,” he warned.
“Don’t tire him! Damnation! What the hell is he worried about? I’m dying. I’ll have all the time in eternity to rest.”
“Father—”
“If that charlatan is right, I don’t have long, so be quiet and listen. I’ve got some irons in the fire that need to be pulled out, or I’ll lose everything.” He frowned. “I know that doesn’t make sense, because I can’t take it with me, but I don’t want Laurey to get it. And you,” he said, pointing to Chane, “are the one who has to keep him from it.”
“Me?” Chane asked, glancing at his father in surprise. Chantry Two nodded in agreement.
“Yes, you! You’ve been living off the fat of the Kincaid land long enough! It’s time you earned the right to call yourself a Kincaid, dammit!”
“Father!” Chantry Two said, trying to calm the old man.
“Don’t ‘Father’ me. I wouldn’t have to depend on your son if you weren’t going off to Europe chasing that pretty face you married against my advice.”
Chantry Two scowled but remained silent. His father had never forgiven him for marrying Elizabeth. He said she was as empty-headed as a gourd, which wasn’t true. The old man didn’t trust any woman who could remain beautiful past the age of twenty-five. He considered it the work of the devil.
Number One glared at Chane. “I need your help.” A surge of warmth and apprehension filled Chane. As a boy he’d dreamed of hearing his father or even his grandfather say those words. But he knew from experience what providing that help could cost—all his time and attention for months, perhaps years, on end. His own plans and projects would have to be put on hold.
“What kind of help?” Chane asked cautiously.
“You know we’re only weeks away from starting construction to extend the La Junta railway line along the Santa Fe Trail from Colorado through New Mexico.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yesterday I got a telegram saying my superintendent had been killed. Bastard fell off a damned train, right under the wheels of the car following the coal bin.”
“Rotten way to go,” Chane said.
“Yes, it bloody well was.” His grandfather panted for a moment, breathless from the exertion. “I’ve never asked you for anything before, but I need your help. I need a man I can trust. This railroad is too important. I have too much riding on it.”
Chane understood. His grandfather’s empire was as flimsy as most empires. The majority of his vast holdings were lined up like dominoes. One wrong move could bring down every domino. His own budding empire was like that as well. The problem was, Chane wasn’t really interested in railroads—he’d done that already. What he wanted to do now was build a chain of luxury hotels from one end of the country to the other.
“I need you to take over my railroad project.”
“There are ten men in New York who’d do a better job than I—”
“Save your breath. I’ve thought of all the men you’re going to name. For one reason or another, they don’t have what I need in the way of executive ability.”
“Father’s got that. All your super needs is the know-how to marshal a couple thousand men.”
“He won’t be available. He’s taking your mother to Europe to see a specialist.”
“Colorado and New Mexico will still be there when he gets back. And,” Chane turned to his father, “what’s wrong with Mother?”
“They will, but my money won’t,” his grandfather said, ignoring Chane’s question to his father. “I’ve made certain commitments. My scouts have already recruited Chinese laborers who have boarded ships in Hong Kong headed for Los Angeles, men I’ve agreed in writing to pay by the day until the railroad is finished.” Number One leaned forward, fixing his piercing green eyes on Chane. “Alive, I’d find a way to keep them from collecting against me. But dead…the damned probate officer will take great delight in paying them every cent they claim they have coming. Bastards! And the Commodore has designs on the route I’ve surveyed. If his men get to Raton Pass first, I stand to lose everything I’ve invested. I’ll be the proud owner of Colorado’s longest stub line going nowhere. And your inheritance won’t be worth a plugged nickel.”
“My inheritance?”
“That’s right, my boy. I’m leaving you everything I own, if you promise to keep that bastard Laurey from taking it away from you.”
“But what about Lance and Stuart and the girls?”
“They’re of no use to me.”
Chane glanced at his father. “We’ll take care of them,” his father assured him.
Chane was too stunned to speak. His grandfather didn’t wait for a response. “I’ll call my attorney as soon as you leave and tell him to put everything in your name. The Texas and Pacific, all my holding companies—everything—in your name. Whatever you need will be at your disposal, whatever I have. But you’ve got to save that railroad.” He sagged back and scowled, his eyes glittering with challenge. “You might as well be warned. Laurey said I’d take Raton Pass over his dead body.”
“That’s acceptable to me, sir,” Chane said. They laughed together. Too late, Chane realized his mistake. Now, thanks to that quip, his grandfather assumed he had agreed.
Suddenly, Number One looked weak and tired, his smile forced. “The railroad’s your first priority, but there’s one other condition. You cannot marry anyone by the name of either Laurey or Van Vleet.”
Chane stiffened as Jennifer’s lovely image floated before him. “Sorry, sir, but my future is not for sale. Not even for ninety million dollars.”
“Bloody hell!” shouted the old man, shaking a feeble finger at Chantry Two. “Talk some sense into your son!”
A knock sounded on the door. “Come in!” growled Number One.
The doctor poked his head in. “Halbertson is here.”
“Send him in.”
Number One’s right-hand man stepped inside and walked diffidently across the room, looking unusually timid in the face of his employer’s impending death. Halbertson was tall and lean, with a stern face. His official title was secretary to Number One, but he was far more than that. He was more like a chief executive officer who carried out his employer’s policy decisions.
“We’ll be going, Father,” Chantry Two said, taking Chane by the arm and steering him out of the room. He paused at the door to say, “I’ll be back with Elizabeth.”
“I doubt you can tear her away from her society friends for the death of an old coot she doesn’t like anyway,” Number One called after them.
Chantry Two closed the door, and Chane asked, “Why is Mother going to Europe to see a specialist?”
“Female problems.”
“Serious?”
“It seems so to us.”
“I’m not going to sell him my right to choose my own wife,” Chane said stiffly.
“Why make a fuss? H
e’s not going to last long enough to impose that condition on you, now is he?”
“I don’t know.”
“How could he make it stick?”
Chane shrugged. “Why am I being given all this? Don’t you want your father’s estate?” Chane asked incredulously.
“To me it’s just that much more work to do. With your mother sick…”
Chantry regretted the need to lie to his son, but last night Elizabeth had pulled the rug out from under their marriage. And the truth was worse than the lie. He knew Chane had his own problems, but he didn’t have anyone else to turn to. His middle son, Lance, had never been a businessman and probably never would be. He’d passed the bar, only to end up as a lawman in a remote outpost in Arizona. He’d even married a young woman the family had yet to meet. Stuart was fresh out of Harvard and wet behind the ears. Chane was his father’s only immediate hope.
“We’re leaving for Europe as soon as we can get passage after the funer…” His words trailed off. “You’ll be on your own, but you’ll be fine.”
Chane had the awful feeling that he’d be anything but fine. Maybe his grandfather wouldn’t die after all, or maybe he could find a superintendent to build the railroad for him. Or maybe he should just refuse the inheritance. But the thought of ninety million dollars…
The eldest Kincaid shook his head. “I never thought it would come to this,” he said, touching his left side with his good hand. There was no sensation to let him know that the left side worked anymore. “Hell and damnation!”
Halbertson cleared his throat, obviously at a loss for words to comfort him. “I don’t need your comfort,” Kincaid growled.
“No, sir.”
“Sit, dammit! I can’t stand the sight of you towering over me like some damned vulture.”
Halbertson pulled up a chair and sat, his pencil poised over a stenographer’s tablet.
“I want you to see to it that my grandson doesn’t marry the wrong woman and end up dumping my estate into the hands of my enemies.”
Halbertson frowned. “But sir, I’m a businessman, not a marriage broker! How can I—”
“Just listen!” Kincaid interrupted. “You’ll be given all the help you need. Call Noonan. He has the contacts and the knowledge. Ask him to recommend someone.” Sudden weakness assailed him, and he closed his eyes and gasped for breath.
“Sir?” Halbertson asked. “Are you all right? Shall I call the doctor?”
“No, I haven’t much time. My son will be back here any moment with the whole damned family.” He paused, panting, wiping at his forehead, which was suddenly perspiring. “I don’t want my grandson to marry a Laurey or a Van Vleet. Do you understand that? Under no circumstances is he to give my hard-earned money to anyone by those names.”
“Yes, sir.”
Halbertson was not surprised. Kincaid had good reason to hate both families. The Van Vleet man, whose name he could never remember, Robert or Roland or something starting with an R, had seduced Kincaid’s granddaughter, Annabelle, when she was fifteen. Shortly after that, the unfortunate girl had entered a convent. And within three months she had managed to starve herself to death. Her body had been such a horrible sight, they’d had to close the coffin to spare family members undue pain. Kincaid believed to this day that his granddaughter’s death had hastened the death of his much-loved wife by a good five years. Mrs. Kincaid had absolutely doted on Annabelle.
As for Laurey, everyone knew he was a scoundrel. He’d sent his first wife to an early grave with his philandering. The children from the first marriage were all married and settled, but there was that granddaughter from the second union who was still available. Still, Halbertson wondered why Mr. Kincaid was so worried about that. The grandson knew his grandfather’s wishes, and surely he could find another eligible young woman to suit his taste. Perhaps this would not be such a difficult assignment after all.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Kincaid growled. “But Noonan tells me Chane is at this very time having an affair with one of them and preparing to court the other.”
“Goodness!” Halbertson said softly, cursing silently to himself.
Jason Fletcher stepped out of the cabriolet and turned back to the cabbie. “You sure you brought me to the right place?” he demanded in his tinny tenor voice. He wondered if the man had taken advantage of him because he could tell he didn’t know his way around the city. Sometimes Jason’s dishwater-blond hair, pale eyes, and drab appearance led people to misread him. Usually he could turn that to his advantage.
“This’s the place all right, mister. No mistakin’ it,” said the driver in a flat monotone.
Jason couldn’t imagine what a man who had enough money to build a house as big as a city block would need with his services. But he brushed off his new, already rumpled city-bought suit coat, stomped his boots on the sidewalk, and started up the steps that led to the massive front door.
“Hey, mister, ya gotta pay me.”
“Wait for me.”
“I don’t wait for nobody, mister. Pay me now.”
It was cold and dark, and Jason had no idea how soon another cab might come along this street. It was the kind of neighborhood where every man owned several carriages. He pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and ripped it in half. It was one he’d taken in a bank robbery last month in Kansas. There were plenty more where that had come from. He handed half to the cabbie and stuck the other half in his pants pocket.
“You’ll wait for me now, won’t you?”
The cabbie grinned. “Yeah, sure.”
Jason climbed the steps and rang the doorbell. A small man in a black monkey suit opened the door. “Yes?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Kincaid.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Reckon so.”
The man motioned him inside and closed the door. Without another word to Jason, he started up the stairs. Jason paced the entry hall, which was as big as most houses he’d been in. He couldn’t imagine why his cousin had recommended him for this job, or even what the job might be. But he figured he’d find out soon enough.
The little man stopped and looked back at him, irritated. “Follow me, please,” he said finally. Jason followed him up the stairs and into a bedroom that was dark except for one small lamp burning beside the bed. An old man lay in the bed.
“Mr. Fletcher?” The old man didn’t look too bad until he tried to talk. Only half of his face worked. It was strange the way part of it moved and the other part didn’t.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll get to the point, Mr. Fletcher. You’ve been highly recommended to me because you have a certain finesse in sensitive matters, and because you are unknown in this area.”
Jason held back a grin. Latitia was right. Money could buy anything.
“I have a job I’d like you to do,” the old man continued. “It may entail your going out West. I understand that would not be out of the question for you.”
“For a price,” Jason said.
“You’re a man of few words, Mr. Fletcher. I like that. My investigators tell me that you are very good at what you do.”
Jason shrugged. If only the old bastard knew what he was really good at! Latitia had planted good information about him in the enemy camp. That impressed him almost as much as the fact that these city men spent a great deal of their time and energy trying to outsmart one another. Himself, he just preferred to work as little as possible. That way he could spend the rest of his time doing what he liked best—tracking down slim, blond, blue-eyed girls, toying with them for as long as he wanted, and then killing them long and slow in his favorite way. Nothing else compared to that.
These city men liked to sneak around and trick people into killing themselves. Probably some sort of satisfaction there, but it escaped him what it might be. Jason liked to see the blood flow. He didn’t want to read about it in the newspaper. He wanted to see it and smell it.
“I’ll be quite blunt with you, Mr. Fletcher
. I do not want my grandson marrying Jennifer Van Vleet or Latitia Laurey. Do I make myself clear?”
Jason nodded. Very clear. Now he understood why Latitia had chosen him. “Yes, sir.”
“I pay well, young man. You’ll be put on salary, and the money will be wired to you every week, as long as you are doing the job. You just have to keep Mr. Halbertson advised of your whereabouts. Is it agreed?”
There would probably be an even bigger salary from Latitia. Jason nodded. “Agreed.”
Kincaid smiled. “Good. Now I think everything’s in place.”
“’Pears to be,” Jason agreed, smiling.
Chapter Six
After her bath, Jennifer dried her hair before the blaze crackling in her bedroom fireplace. She was impatient with the drying, the combing, the slow and careful removal of tangles. But once she had smoothed her mane of silver-streaked blond hair to perfection, it was like a silky curtain highlighting her flawless face. Her mother had loved her hair. She’d said it was a glory and a wonder to everyone who saw it.
Jennifer squared her shoulders. “Mr. Kincaid,” she said, glaring at the full-length mirror beside the fireplace. “I not only will not work with you, I will never see you again.”
She tried to imagine his response, but couldn’t.
“I’m sorry if this seems rude, Mr. Kincaid, but I am a prima ballerina. I have no time in my life for…” She paused. He hadn’t asked her for anything except to work for him. Flushing, she began again. “You may have gotten the wrong impression of me. Ballet comes first. All those rumors you hear about dancers aren’t true. We don’t even have time for love affairs.”
There was no telling what response he would have to that. She was glad Peter wasn’t home. She needed the time to figure out how she felt about Kincaid being the handsome stranger who rescued her twice, this robber baron, Chantry Kincaid.
Even Peter would have to concede that the man must have some redeeming qualities if he was willing to risk his life to save someone else’s. But even a terrible blackguard could do the right thing occasionally. As her grandfather used to say, “Even a stopped clock is right twice a day.”
The Lady and the Robber Baron Page 5
