This was his chance to lead, to prove his worth in more than billable hours and PR opportunities. Reinvigorating the San Francisco branch was the key to making partner, and Nathan lay awake at night fantasizing about that. His friend and mentor Nolan Reisbecht, a senior partner in the firm, had been instrumental in giving Nathan this shot, but he’d been clear about what was expected in return.
“We need you to go in there with both guns blasting, Nate.” Nolan was the only person allowed to use the nickname Nathan hated. “The place is a mess. Bunch of lazy-ass freethinkers who probably smoke dope on their lunch breaks.”
Nolan was eighty. He didn’t actually work in the office, but he could be counted on to know what was happening in all four branches of the firm. The San Francisco office, by far, had the worst performance rating, dollar-wise. Nathan’s job would be to turn that around. Hopefully, without the use of firearms or explosive metaphors.
His cell phone rang, but since it was in the pocket of his coat, which was hanging over the back of a chair across the room, he let it ring. Whoever was calling would either try his office number or leave a message. Probably, the caller was his wife.
Casey wouldn’t let him carry the phone on his person because she said the radio waves and low-frequency emissions might adversely affect his sperm production. And since she still wasn’t pregnant after a year and a half of trying, he couldn’t very well argue with her.
They’d seen a bevy of specialists. They’d both been tested, probed, X-rayed and generally humiliated. For all practical purposes, the blame appeared to be resting on his sperm. “We call them sluggish swimmers,” one doctor had stated. “They eventually get to the egg but don’t have the motivation to dig in and fertilize her.”
Nathan Kent—top of his class, editor of the law review, darling of the media—had lazy, unmotivated sperm. Who knew?
Or cared. But he did care. He loved his wife and wanted her to be happy. He loved the life they’d created together—nothing like his parents’ contentious relationship. The only time he remembered his mother and father getting along well was before the births of his siblings, Christine, who was five years Nathan’s junior, and Kirby, who came along six and a half years after her.
Nathan and Casey didn’t fight. They got along great, but beneath the calm outward appearance they showed the world, he had a sense that Casey was miserable. Her aunt had been the first to suggest a baby.
“Don’t do what I did, Casey,” Meg had chided shortly before her death. “Don’t wait to love someone else’s child. You might not be as lucky as I was. Have your own family while you and Nathan are young and healthy. What happened to your mother was a fluke. She wouldn’t want you to make important decisions based on fear.”
Nathan hadn’t gotten to know Meg for long, but he’d admired and respected her as an outspoken woman who didn’t mince words. Casey had been emotionally devastated by her aunt’s death. He was pretty sure that loss had somehow prompted Casey’s decision to get pregnant.
Nathan had greeted the suggestion with a certain amount of ambivalence. Casey’s mother and unborn sibling had died from a pregnancy-related embolism. Not something that was hereditary, of course. But what if? He couldn’t imagine a life without Casey, but eventually he’d acquiesced to her argument. “We’re established professionals with good health insurance and a lot to offer a child,” she’d pleaded. “Let’s do it.”
And they’d given it a good shot. They’d even involved medical specialists, but each month Casey’s period had appeared she’d go quiet for a few days. No drama queen fit of depression for his wife, but he couldn’t help thinking her outwardly positive demeanor was for his sake.
Then this job offer had come up after a sudden, very hush-hush scandal in the San Francisco office that had resulted in two lawyers being disbarred.
Secretly, Nathan couldn’t help but feel relieved that he wasn’t going to be moving a pregnant wife or wife and infant to a new city. Keeping up with the demands of his job were quite enough, thank you. “At this point, I don’t have time for sex,” he muttered. Which was not something he ever thought he’d hear himself say.
The sound of his office door opening broke into his thoughts. Jannelle Norris, his secretary of five years, poked her head in. “Excuse me, Nathan, Casey is on line one. I buzzed you, but you must not have seen the light.”
Fifty-five. Dependable. Unflappable. Nathan was going to miss her. They made a good team. Unfortunately, she wasn’t free to move with him. Jan’s husband was nearing retirement but couldn’t leave his Public Works job for another few years.
“I was wool-gathering, as my wife would say. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And don’t get so busy thinking about the things you have to do that you forget about the party. The company went all out. Should be lovely.”
“Not a problem. We’ll be there.” A second later, he hit the white flashing light. “Casey?”
“Hi. How’s your day going?”
“Hectic. I have to bring three other associates up to speed on cases that have been ongoing for months.”
Her “Hmm” sounded completely disinterested. Or was he projecting? They worked on mirror opposite projects. The people she tried to help were usually battling his clients who wanted to build a shopping mall on the wetlands she hoped to save. The one law in their marriage that seemed to work was: no shop talk at home. He hated to think how screwed up they’d be if they actually knew what the other person did during business hours.
“What’s up? You’re still coming tonight, aren’t you?”
“Of course. I bought a new dress. Well, vintage, but new to me.”
Nathan smiled indulgently. Together they made an obscene amount of money, but Casey refused to shop at conventional retail outlets. “I won’t support sweat-shops and brutal working conditions just so I can wear some designer label. That’s what secondhand stores are for,” she told anyone who’d listen.
“We’ll meet at the restaurant, right? I don’t think I’m going to have time to go home and change. You know how crowded the train is this time of night.” Which was why he kept several changes of clothing in his office.
“Got it. I just called to give you a heads-up. Red is on the warpath. He’s gunning for a turkey consortium that wants to move in across the road from him. He thinks that since we’re going to be in the neighborhood and we happen to have credentials, we should get behind him.”
“Oh, Lord,” Nathan said, his head beginning to pound. Bad enough his mother and siblings would soon be in his pockets, but now it appeared his father-in-law was going to seek free legal advice, too.
“Don’t worry. I should be able to keep him off your back for a few days. At least enough time to let you get settled.”
Casey often referred to her father by his nickname. When they’d first started dating, Nathan had assumed the man was a deadbeat dad, instead of the person who forked over huge gobs of money to send his daughter to several of the best schools in the country.
“Great.”
She laughed. “Sorry. That’s what comes from having a Y chromosome. Red trusts you to do him proud. I’m just a girl with a law degree, but for once, I’m kinda glad. He needs a gladiator, and since Russell Crowe is busy, you’re the man.”
Nathan loved his wife’s laugh. He’d once called the sound a sprinkling of fairy dust. But not when she tried to be flippant about anything associated with her father. Despite his financial backing, Red Buchanan had a lot to answer for in Casey’s book.
“I’m going to be in meetings right up to the minute we break for the party, so if he tries today, he’ll miss me.”
“Don’t sweat it. He’s faxing the paperwork here. I’ll bring it home with me and pray it doesn’t get lost in the move. But, hey, if it does, it does. Turkeys can’t fly, so how fast will this happen?”
Nathan almost smiled at that one. She covered her pain well. Of course, she’d had a lot of practice where Red was concerned. Less when their marri
age was at issue, but she masked that hurt, too. Most of the time. Tonight would prove a challenge to them both. He was leaving a place that felt like home and saying goodbye to the people he felt closest to, which, he knew was a hell of a thing to say when his wife was going with him.
RED BUCHANAN STOMPED into the barn that was his second home. Hell, for the most part he lived here. If it weren’t for the kitchen, which is where he wisely kept his bottle of Maker’s Mark, he’d probably never spend any time at the ranch house across the field. This barn, which was an original structure he’d upgraded over the years, was the heart and soul of Willow Creek. Two new buildings had been added in recent years. A metal-sided retail sales office that doubled as a packing warehouse for the product his seven-year-old pistachio trees were putting out and a cozy little two-bedroom house he’d built the year Casey had graduated from college—just in case his daughter decided to return home once she finished school.
Instead, she’d married another damn lawyer. As if the world didn’t have more than enough as it was. Maybe one of these days, they’d spawn a few more little legal bastards. Although, technically, he didn’t suppose they’d be bastards. They’d be his grandchildren. Abby would have loved grandchildren.
“Red,” a voice called.
Jimmy Mills, Red’s right-hand man, was standing beside a hog pen that had been erected inside the barn to accommodate Mother’s delicate condition. Red’s prize hog got first-class treatment when it was time to deliver a new crop of piglets.
“Hey, Jim, how’s our girl doing?”
The dust-colored canvas of Jimmy’s jacket lifted and fell with his shrug. March and April had been unusually cool this year, with winds that seemed to suggest an iceberg was parked right off San Francisco Bay. “It’s hard to tell with pigs. She seems bored, if anything. I put in some fresh straw, and fixed the lights for the babies, but heck if I know. You’re closer to her than me, you ask.”
Red chuckled. Animals were his hobby. They sure as hell weren’t making him money. He’d phased out of the cattle business when land in the valley had become so expensive he couldn’t afford to take a loss every year on his beef herd. But he’d stubbornly retained the pasture between the house and the barn for his critters. Over the years, he’d tried a few novel varieties including llamas and emus, but cows and pigs were his sentimental favorites. Nut trees had made him rich, but they weren’t nearly as interesting.
“Just got off the phone with Casey T.,” Red said, angling sideways to squeeze past his new loader. The bucket was tipped down, but the arm was raised five feet off the ground. A dangerous height. He needed to remember to lower that arm before someone ran into it.
“You did, huh? She excited about the move?”
Red glanced at his helper. If there was any justice in this world, Jimmy would have been his son-in-law instead of the prissy suit Casey married. But, no, she’d saddled herself with Nathan Kent, who may be an okay fellow, but he wasn’t no Jimmy. And, dammit, Red knew he had no one but himself to blame for the way things had turned out. He’d overreacted—by far his worst trait, although he had quite a few to pick from—the summer afternoon when he’d discovered his daughter half-naked in the arms of the young cowboy he’d only recently hired.
Jimmy had been seventeen. He’d had a Sundance Kid look to him, and Casey and her best friend, Sarah, had mooned over him like he was a movie star. But when doodling little hearts with the words Mrs. Casey Mills in it had changed to rolling around in the hay, Red had called his sister-in-law in a panic.
“Casey is experimenting with her sexuality,” Meg had said. “She’s a young girl without a mother, Red. She’s got to find out this stuff some way.”
Red had finally understood that Casey was not now and never would be the son she’d pretended to be. Her genes weren’t made to play that role, no matter how much the two of them wanted to think otherwise. She was a suntanned beauty with no feminine wiles. Defenseless. That’s what he’d made her, and Red had hated himself for letting his late wife down.
He’d immediately shipped Casey off to Boston to live with Meg—to learn “girl stuff,” he’d told his daughter. Casey had wept, thrown a tantrum and even tried to run away, but in the end, Red had prevailed. And she’d never forgiven him. Ever. And that bitterness would not be assuaged when she discovered Jimmy was currently living in the house Red had built for Casey. For reasons Jimmy chose not to share with his employer—even though he publicly claimed Red was like a father to him, Jimmy’s wife, Sarah, Casey’s former best friend—had kicked him out of their home in town two months earlier. Sarah, who was one of the sweetest women Red had ever known, was also pretty darn pregnant.
“I just had Becky fax those papers to her and that fellow she’s married to. Maybe between the two of them, they can figure out what we gotta do to block this damn turkey business.”
Jimmy let out a troubled sigh. “I stopped by the café this morning. Fred Reed was there shooting his mouth off about what a good thing this is going to be for the county’s economy. He’s just crowing because he made a healthy commission on the land.”
Red reached through the metal wire to scratch Mother’s ear. The five-year-old sow was showing her age. Her ears were tattered from the occasional skirmish. Pecking orders existed in pigpens, too. “Fred’s an opportunist, but I never thought he’d turn on us like this. Hell, if he’d given me a chance, I’d have bought the land. I’ve been thinking I might like to plant Fuji apples. Or maybe I could talk Joe Marchini into showing me how to grow radicchio. He’s the biggest grower in the country right now.”
Jimmy stood back and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He was still a good-looking fellow. Red had yet to figure out why Sarah had kicked him out, especially with a baby coming. But Red knew less about women than he did about growing radicchio. What he did know was that his daughter was coming home soon, and even if she couldn’t stop the turkeys from going in next door, he was one happy man.
CHAPTER TWO
CASEY STOOD at the second-floor window of her new home—a five-room apartment in the lower Height district of San Francisco—and gazed at the shiny silver vehicle parked on the street below. Her new car—a Lexus SUV. If she weren’t a mature woman of thirty-three, she would have stuck out her tongue at the abominable vehicle. But that would have been childish. And she wasn’t a child. She was an intelligent, informed consumer who’d intended to purchase a hybrid car as soon as she got settled. A car that would have reflected her strong beliefs about saving gas and not contributing to air pollution.
Unfortunately, yesterday, Nathan had returned home with a previously undisclosed perk. A company car. A pricy silver beast equipped with every amenity and techno-gadget known to man. The look of triumph in his eyes when he’d handed her the keys had robbed Casey of the ability to speak—which considering what she would have said was probably a good thing.
“John and Gordon surprised me with this today,” Nathan had said, running his hand along the fender with the same admiration he once would have reserved for Casey’s thigh. “I had no idea they intended to give me a car. But isn’t it great? Now we don’t have to spend any out-of-pocket cash.”
Her consumer’s voice had been strangled by the wife who’d wanted desperately to celebrate his triumph. They’d shared so few positive moments in the past year. She’d pretended to be impressed and hadn’t asked what kind of miles per gallon she could expect to make.
“We should be able to get along with one car until I can get over to Granite Bay,” he’d added.
His mother was storing the 1969 Ford Mustang that Nathan had bought in college, but hadn’t trusted to make it east to where he’d been accepted into law school. Since he couldn’t bear to part with the old rust bucket, he’d stored it on blocks in his mother’s garage. As soon as he’d learned of their impending transfer, he’d arranged to have the convertible overhauled by a family friend who specialized in vintage cars.
Casey gave the shiny hood one last glance,
then walked to the glass-topped table they’d used on their patio in Boston. Their antique dining room set wouldn’t fit in the apartment. It was currently stacked—along with the great majority of her prized possessions—in a climate-controlled storage unit in San Jose.
Patience, she silently counseled. Think of all the dusting you won’t have to do.
Except she missed her things. Most of the fine antiques had been left to her by her aunt, but when Nathan and Casey had first started dating, they’d spent several weekends a month hunting through estate sales from Maine to Pennsylvania. Casey had loved to make up histories about the pieces they’d brought home with them.
She couldn’t remember the last time they went shopping for anything together—even for groceries. She looked at the four unpacked boxes stacked beside the arched portal leading to the kitchen. Her husband was a gifted cook who knew all the best places to buy organic in Boston. Lately, they’d been eating every meal out or on the go.
No wonder I can’t get pregnant. She rubbed a painfully tense muscle in her neck. I’m malnourished. The thought made her smile. And I need a massage.
She’d forgotten how much work moving could be. They’d gotten the keys to their new apartment last Thursday and had spent the better part of the weekend cleaning the place to make it ready for their furniture, which had finally showed up nine days after leaving Boston.
They’d unpacked quite a few boxes together, but not before Nathan accused her of harboring treasures that had mated in the dark confines of the moving van, producing clutter—her avowed enemy. What he didn’t seem to grasp was the fact their brownstone had had ten times the space as this place—for considerably less rent per month.
Yeah, yeah, this joint is a rip-off. Get over it. Casey sat down on a sculpted metal chair, curling one knee under her on the sage-green pad. Money was a “nonissue,” her husband liked to say. “With you being home, our overhead will be less. We’ll spend less on clothes, transportation and dining out, so we should be fine,” Nathan had reassured her.
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