“What will your donation be?” Layne asked as politely as possible, tearing her eyes away and sorting a few papers on the desk before she embarrassed herself. What the hell was she thinking? She quickly picked up the pad and pen to record the transaction.
“A couple dollars, I suppose, but first I’ve got to know to whom I’m speaking and giving my money to.” Finally, this was the perfect time. There was nothing better than a captive audience. She had to speak, and speak nicely to him, and quite possibly, favor him with a smile - or even a date, if he worked things right.
“You’re speaking to Layne.”
“Layne. Nice name. Layne who?” he inquired pleasantly.
“Layne Martin,” she answered coolly. I’ll play your silly little game . . .
“Layne Martin. That’s a pretty name.” He reached across the table and offered his hand. “I’m Erik.”
Layne ignored his outstretched hand, and certainly did not favor him with a smile. “To whom am I speaking?” Layne asked. “Erik who?”
“Erik Rivers.” Still his hand reached across.
And still she ignored it. His name was vaguely familiar for some reason, but she couldn’t place it. “I see you dressed for the occasion,” Layne said sarcastically as she surveyed him. She couldn’t help saying it. Somehow, she wanted to hurt him, wanted to rub his face in his arrogance, wanted to embarrass him, anything to wipe his cockiness and infuriating self-assurance away.
Erik glanced down at his dirty jeans and brushed away a few smudges of dust and dirt, realizing that by now it was too late. “Yeah,” he said, “I had a little work to finish and didn’t have time to clean up. Wanted to get here as soon as I could, before the party ended.”
“Sure glad you made it in time,” she replied dryly. “Don’t know how our party could continue without you. I never would have guessed you came straight from work, not that anyone else would’ve guessed either, I suppose.” She shielded her eyes from the sun as she looked at him with as blank an expression as possible. “I’m guessing you’re a farmer, possibly a laborer, of some sort? Looks like you’ve been . . . playing in the dirt.”
“Actually,” Erik replied, with his own flash of irritation, “I just got thrown from a horse. I’m a rancher, of some sort, and just landed in the dirt.”
“There’s a difference in farming and ranching? Are many people aware of that? Anyway,” she continued, impatient to get this finished and have this Rivers idiot be on his way, “how much were you planning to donate today?” Judging from his appearance, Layne thought anything over ten dollars would be quite a struggle.
Hiding his anger and frustration, Erik gave up and pulled his unshaken hand back. He reached into a pocket of his well-worn denim jacket and withdrew a checkbook and pen. He laid the checkbook on the table, then scribbled a figure and his signature on a check before tearing it off and handing it to her.
Layne took the check and studied it, struggling to maintain a noncommittal expression. Oh, he thinks this is funny! She wanted to laugh! “One million, five hundred thousand dollars. How very nice,” she finally said, looking up at him with a forced, cool, albeit sweet smile. “Thank you, this will certainly be put to good use.”
“You’re welcome,” he replied, turning to walk away. “I’d like to stay and get to know you, since I can’t seem to do that at the gym. But, like it or not, I’ve got lots of work waiting back at the ranch.” Never, absolutely never had Erik Rivers, The Erik Rivers, been at a loss for words, but this gal was totally uncharted territory!
“I’m sure there’s lots of work waiting,” she muttered to herself, watching him walk away and climb into the ratty old truck. She waited until the truck had driven away, out of sight, then took one more look at the worthless piece of paper before tearing it into pieces and stuffing them into a pocket.
~ ~ ~
Monday morning and the Wellington law office was already a whirlwind of activity. In her little out-of-the-way cubbyhole office, Layne swept an area clean on her cluttered desk and sorted through the last of the donation vouchers and checks. She was organizing them to present to Mr. Wellington, the founder and head of the firm. His close friends knew him as Keith, while everyone in the law firm knew well enough to address him as Mr. Wellington. She scooped the voucher slips and checks into an envelope and was almost out the door when she remembered the torn-up check. She wanted Mr. Wellington to see what she was up against, trying to get anyone to make a substantial, serious contribution.
Wellington was at his massive desk, studying a brief when Layne poked her head in. “Got a minute, Mr. Wellington?”
Keith Wellington was a hard-driving, no-nonsense man, expecting no less than total effort from his employees. Under his severe leadership, the practice grew quickly. He was always seeking young, intelligent lawyers to add to the practice, and Layne filled his requirements precisely, other than the unpleasant fact that she and another employee, Barb, were female.
“Okay,” he said curtly, sliding his work aside and impatiently waving her in. “Come in, close the door.”
She entered, closed the door, and put the voucher-filled envelope on his desk. “Not much, I’m afraid,” she said. “Three hundred dollars is all.”
“This is it?” Wellington said, looking at the envelope, obviously displeased. “That’s not good.” He scowled up at Layne. “What were you doing, serving ice cream?” He shook his head as he studied the vouchers. “I guess we’ve got to find other people to do this. We need better results than you’re able to give, apparently. This won’t get anything off the ground. And,” he cautioned, mostly to himself, “we’re not saying anything about this to the city council any time soon.”
Hiding her hurt and anger, Layne agreed that it was a rather dismal showing, but what did he think she could do? Hold a gun to people’s heads to force a donation? She turned to leave, then stopped and approached Wellington’s desk again. “I forgot one thing,” she said. “I did get a check for one million, five hundred thousand dollars.”
“What, some kid with Monopoly money? Or were you sucking on a pint hidden in your purse?” His patience was running thin. “I’m not in the mood for nonsense this morning.”
Layne quashed another flash of anger that swept through her. “No, it was a check, a stupid joke, so I tore it up.”
“Do you have the pieces?” Wellington asked impatiently, anxious to get back to the work at hand.
“Yes, I do,” Layne replied.
“Well, don’t just stand there. Show me!”
Layne smothered an angry reply to his curt command, dug into a pocket, and withdrew several pieces, then dug again for several more. “That’s all, I think,” she said, flipping the pocket inside out to make sure.
“Well.” Wellington sighed, looking at the pile of work waiting for him on his desk. “See if you can put a few pieces of the puzzle together and get a name off of it. See who this idiot is.”
Layne spread the pieces on the desktop and started with the upper left corner piece, where the name was usually printed, and began adding to it.
Impatiently, Wellington came around his desk to watch. He stared down at the printing on the few scraps she’d put together. “What . . . The . . . Hell?” he blurted. “Erik Rivers?” His head shot up, eyes burning into Layne. “You tore up a one and a half million-dollar check from Erik Rivers?” Wellington pushed her aside and quickly joined the remaining pieces to the puzzle, then turned to Layne in astonishment. “Do you know who Erik Rivers is? Do you have any damn idea who Erik Rivers is?”
A bad feeling, a really bad feeling, washed through Layne as she numbly shook her head. “No,” she finally managed. “He drove into the park in a ratty old truck, and he was probably dirtier than his truck. How was I to know who he was?” And she still had no idea.
“You actually have no idea? Erik Rivers. Y
ou really don’t know?”
“No, I really don’t.” How the hell was she supposed to know who he was? Oh boy, nothing good is going to come of this . . .
“Well, first of all,” Wellington said, with no little anger, “that miserable old truck, as you call it, was his father’s and is very dear to him. And he’s a close friend of mine, very close. And, he is a very important client of ours, if not the most important.”
“And,” Wellington continued, slowing down a bit in an effort to control his anger, “he owns one of the largest cattle ranches in all of Texas that’s been a landmark for generations. And also, but certainly not last, as the only heir to the ranch, he happens to be quite rich and intelligent. He wasn’t a rancher all his life. He made a dollar or two developing computer software.”
“So the check was good,” Layne said quietly, almost to herself, realizing what a colossal understatement it was!
Wellington’s head shot up in astonishment. “For God’s sake, yes! The check was good! It would’ve been good if he’d made it for fifty and a half million!”
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea . . .”
“Well.” Wellington sighed, running his fingers through what little hair remained on his head. “Go back to whatever you were doing, if you were doing anything worthwhile. I’ll have to think about where we go from here. If we had that check, the park would be saved, and this office would get a substantial commission. Without it, the park is lost, and quite possibly, Miss Martin, so is your employment in this practice.”
Wellington watched as Layne, on the verge of tears, left his office. He pulled a cell phone from a shirt pocket and poked in several numbers. It was answered after two rings.
“This is Erik,” a voice answered.
“Erik, Keith Wellington,” Wellington replied.
They spoke on a personal level for several minutes before he explained the reason for his call.
“Erik,” he said, “the very generous donation you gave the girl at the park was destroyed. Torn up.”
“Torn up? How the hell did that happen?” Erik asked.
“The girl at the donation table, remember her?”
“Yeah. Layne Martin.”
“You know her?” Wellington asked in surprise.
“Yes. Well,” Erik corrected himself, “I don’t really know her, but I sure as hell would like to. I know who she is when I see her. She’s kind of hard to miss. Why the hell did she tear it up?”
“Apparently she thought it was a joke. She said you looked like a homeless person who lived under a bridge, so she tore it up. We just now put the pieces back together.”
Homeless person? Erik paused for a moment. “You know I’ll send another check, Keith.” Under a bridge?
“Hell,” Wellington replied, “never had a doubt about that. But look, before you send another, I want to pass something by you. You could have some fun with this.”
“Sure. Go ahead,” Erik said, quite bothered by the woman’s descriptions. Homeless? Under a bridge?
“Why don’t I tell her she’ll have to explain the problem to you in person? She’s got to have some sort of punishment for such a stupid move. Normally I’d fire her on the spot, but this will give you a little fun and teach her a lesson. Then I’ll fire her.”
“If she had to do that, she may refuse. She’s probably embarrassed to death.”
“And lose her job on the spot? Immediately?”
“Keith, I’d hate like hell to see that happen, and be the cause of it.” Wellington was going a bit overboard, he thought, but it would be one hell of a way to get to know Layne Martin. And convince her he was not a homeless person, living under a bridge.
“Well, Wellington said, “Why don’t you add a little spice to this?”
Erik thought for a moment. Finally he said, “what if she has to complete a certain number of conditions before I’ll write another check? And thus save her job - something like that?”
“You’re kidding, right?” Wellington laughed. “Control her life for how long?”
“I don’t know, a couple of weeks or so, I suppose.” Erik laughed. “She just blew a rather large donation, and your commission would have been substantial, as you know. She’ll more than likely be a bit pissed about this, but if you insist, she’d better do it.”
“I doubt that being a bit pissed will even begin to describe how she’s gonna feel, but it could be interesting, for sure.”
“You get her during the day, there at the office,” Erik suggested, “and I get her for as much of any other time as I want. How’s that?”
“Are you sure this is what you want to do, Erik? I mean, this whole idea could backfire and blow us all to hell.”
“Well, I’m the one who wanted to meet her,” Erik said. “What better way? But I’d really hate to see her lose her job.” Erik paused for a moment. “I’m gonna have to insist on something.”
“Sure. What?”
“If she goes through with this, she’ll keep her job. If you hired her, she’s got to be a damn good attorney.”
“Well, we’ll see,” Wellington said. “She’s pretty good for a girl. But one thing I’m gonna do, Erik, is make it sound like all this is coming from you. Totally your idea. Okay with you? Keep me out of it.”
Erik thought for a moment. “So, the name of this game is called How To Make A Very Nice Girl Hate You In A Couple Of Easy Weeks?”
“Yeah,” Wellington replied, “something like that, but make it for as long as you want.”
Chapter 2
Later, in Wellington’s office, Layne was almost in tears. “Talk to him in person? I have to talk to him in person?” Layne repeated incredulously. “Can’t I just call him and ask him to send another check?” My God, how totally embarrassing! She remembered her icy replies, and how she tried, with much success, to be as nasty and sarcastic as possible, while still getting whatever check he could afford to write. And she certainly did not expect the check he wrote!
“No,” Wellington replied casually, “you can’t call him. Sometimes things just don’t work the way we’d like, Miss Martin. He needs an explanation, a personal explanation, and a heart-felt apology.” Her boss stopped for a moment to rearrange some papers on his desk. “Try your best to make the heart-felt part sound genuine. It appears he’s not your favorite person.”
“Mr. Wellington,” Layne said, anger and angst rising within her, “why do you insist on making me do this? Is this some sort of punishment? Let me just call him.”
“Miss Martin, that check is — was, now that it’s gone —extremely important to us. And,” he continued, “Erik Rivers is far and away our most important client. If he wants your head, we’ve got to let you go. We’ll have no choice. We’ve got to lose you, or lose him, and he definitely trumps you, I’m afraid. He’s an ace to your deuce.”
That got her attention. Lose her job? Way too many bills waiting to be paid . . . “Okay,” she said, letting out a pent-up breath. “Where is his chamber of horrors?”
“Get your terminology correct, Miss Martin. Please. Here in Texas it’s called a ranch. Not a farm, not a spread, but a ranch, and certainly not a chamber of horrors.” Wellington paused to allow his words to sink in. “Go west on Highway 90 to Hondo,” he finally continued. “Turn left on 34. Go about ten miles. Everything you see from that point on belongs to him. In another ten miles or so, you’ll see a large sign, Rivers End Ranch. Can’t miss it.” He raised an eyebrow. “I strongly suggest you take care of this as soon as possible.”
Wellington was on the phone the instant Layne left his office. “She’s on her way,” he said. “You’ve got a free rein. Have some fun. Start teaching her a lesson.”
~ ~ ~
Layne finally found the sign Wellington described and pulled off
on the shoulder, stopping to gaze up at the huge carved wooden sign that swung over the entrance to the ranch. RIVERS END RANCH. Sort of hard to miss . . .
An increasing wave of anger replaced Layne’s dread at what she was being forced to do. She continued down the long, winding gravel road, beautifully flanked by Bitter Root, Western Columbine, and Indian paintbrush, and guarded by Leland Cypress its entire length. She rounded a corner, and now clear of the Cypress trees blocking the view.
Oh . . . My . . . God, she thought as she stopped and sat quietly, in total awe of the sweeping panoramic. Forested valleys, rugged canyons, and green, lush prairie dotted with grazing cattle spread out in front of her. How perfectly beautiful!
After a minute or two, her gaze swept to a massive two-story log house – house? Hell, a mansion — and the rugged wooden door with a huge brass knocker, waiting for her deep within the stone entryway. She drove a bit closer to the structure and parked, waiting a full minute, taking deep relaxing breaths in hope of calming her wrath, and nerves, before leaving the car and starting to the entryway. She was awash with anger and trepidation, although she realized she could have been nicer, and really did not need to tear up his check. But, in her defense, how the hell was she to know who he was?
She ventured into the coolness of the fieldstone entryway, aware of the hushed whirl of the sentry camera recording her movements. She took a last deep breath to relax and calm her anger and dread, and rapped with the door’s heavy brass knocker.
A short moment later, the door swung open and a middle-aged woman wearing a flowered apron around her ample middle greeted Layne. “Hello?” She smiled expectantly.
“Hello.” Layne smiled in return. “Is . . . Mr. Rivers at home?”
“Yes,” the woman replied. “And you are?”
The Rancher's Conditions Page 2
