After laying her handbag and suitcase on the bed, Kate shed her black wool coat and hung it in the antique armoire which served as a closet. After all these years, it seemed odd to be back in the sleepy little Southern town where she'd been born and raised. Her father had been killed in Vietnam, leaving her mother a young widow with a child. When Kate was five, her mother had remarried a likable man named Dewayne Harrelson and Kate's childhood, though poverty-stricken, had been relatively carefree and happy. She'd loved growing up on her stepfather's farm and hadn't minded helping her mother with the never-ending chores. She'd graduated from Prospect High at seventeen, as the valedictorian, and earned a scholarship to the University of Alabama. For a high school graduation gift, her parents had given her an older-model car—a blue Chevy Impala—that she knew they hadn't been able to afford.
During her junior year in college her mother had died from pneumonia and six months later, her stepfather succumbed to congestive heart failure. Discovering that her parents' farm was mortgaged to the hilt, Kate had had little choice but to let the bank foreclose. That last year at the University of Alabama had been a lean one. She'd lived practically hand to mouth, worked two part-time jobs and somehow managed to maintain a grade point average that allowed her to graduate summa cum laude.
At Christmas time of her senior year, her stepfather's elderly aunt Opal had invited her to spend the holidays with her family in Prospect. Kate made it more than halfway home before her old car laid down and died. She'd been on a lonely stretch of Highway 82, between Montgomery and Prospect, and almost in tears when a sleek gunmetal-gray Jaguar pulled in behind her. The minute Trenton Bayard Winston IV emerged from the sports car, Kate's heart had stopped for a millisecond and then began beating ninety-to-nothing. Of course she'd known who Trent Winston was. Everyone in Prospect knew him. He was the heir to the Winston fortune, a descendant of Prospect's founding fathers, and a student at the University of Alabama's School of Law. And everyone knew that when he graduated from college that coming spring and passed the bar, he would begin work at the local law firm of Winston, Gotten and Dickerson. Trent's father, grandfather and great-grandfather had been lawyers.
Trent had given her a ride home that cold December day, and not in her wildest dreams had she ever imagined that before the next Christmas, she would be Mrs. Trenton Bayard Winston IV.
The Congregational church chimes ringing the hour jerked Kate back from her distant past to her present. She walked across the room, pulled back the sheers and looked out the window. The view, although limited, allowed her to see directly across the street at the town square where the county courthouse presided over downtown Prospect. Looking left along Main Street
, she saw Corner Drugs and to her right was the office that housed the Prospect Reporter, the weekly newspaper. And next door was the building, over a century old, that housed the Winston, Cotten and Dickerson law firm.
Mr. Trent's a circuit court judge now. Every woman in the county voted for him. The hotel clerk's comments echoed inside her head.
She supposed that after their divorce Trent had reverted back into the ladies' man he'd been before they married. And why shouldn't be have done just that? Every unmarried woman in Prospect and half the women at the university had nearly died of broken hearts when Trent married her. Looking back now, she wondered why he'd married her when he could have had any woman he'd wanted. She'd been crazy in love with him. So much so that even now, she was probably still halfway in love with him … despite everything that had happened between them. But she could not allow any leftover feelings for Trent to resurface. She wasn't there to rekindle their fiery romance. After all, apparently Trent hadn't loved her as much as he'd told her he did. Otherwise, Mary Kate's kidnapping wouldn't have ripped them apart the way it did.
Kate let the sheers fall back into place, then she turned and walked into the bathroom. She needed to freshen up before driving over to Winston Hall. Maybe the polite thing to do was telephone first, but she preferred a surprise attack. As she washed her hands, Kate chuckled. Even after all these years, she still thought of facing Mary Belle Winston as engaging in battle with the enemy. That old woman isn't your enemy anymore, she told herself. She has no power over you. But Aunt Mary Belle wouldn't be happy to see Kate, that she knew for certain. After drying her hands, she looked into the mirror. When she'd left Prospect eleven years ago, she'd been barely twenty-four; now she was thirty-five and no longer the young beauty Trent had proclaimed her to be. But she was attractive. And she was tough. She had the guts to face not only Aunt Mary Belle, but to look Trent in the eye and tell him she'd been right and he'd been wrong. Mary Kate wasn't dead. Their daughter was alive.
You can't tell him she's alive, Kate warned herself. Kate had no proof that Mary Kate was one of the three little girls who were abducted from southeast Alabama around the same time Mary Kate was. But all three baby girls had been sold to adoptive parents within one month of that fateful Easter Sunday. And all three had been approximately three to four months old when adopted.
Kate drank a glass of water. Her hand quivered ever so slightly. Stay calm. Stay in control. She retrieved her purse from the bed, removed her lipstick and compact, put on a fresh coat of hot-pink gloss and then powdered her face.
Perhaps she should eat supper first and fortify her body with some of McGuire's ribs. She hadn't eaten a bite since breakfast in Memphis early this morning. Stop looking for excuses to delay the inevitable, an inner voice chided.
She took her coat from the armoire, slipped into it and draped the straps of her handbag over her shoulder. Squaring her shoulders she marched out of her room, down the corridor and out the hotel's back entrance. Magnolia House's guests parked in the rear. When she got into the rental car—a white Mercury—she suddenly wished she could drive up to Winston Hall in her own car, her very expensive Mercedes. The purchase of that car had been Kate's one and only extravagance. She lived in a small duplex in Smyma, outside of Atlanta. She bought her clothes off the rack and the only jewelry she owned consisted of a watch, a pair of small gold hoop earrings and a single gold bracelet. For the past ten years, most of the money she'd earned, first as an Atlanta policewoman and later an agent for the prestigious Dundee Private Security and Investigation firm, had been spent searching for Mary Kate. Even with all of the Dundee Agency's resources, she'd run into one dead end after another. It appeared that her daughter had disappeared off the face of the earth. But Kate had never given up hope, never allowed herself to think that her child might be dead.
Although the Deep South often had very mild winters, this winter wasn't one of them. Today's temperature had dropped into the low forties and the clouds had a look of rain about them. Cold winter rain, perhaps even sleet or ice. Kate turned up the heat in her rental car as she headed down Main Street
. Before she realized what she was doing, she turned off on Madison and drove slowly by the old Kirkendall house. The house had been fully restored, with fresh paint on the exterior and a new white picket fence had replaced the dilapidated one. Heavy white wooden rockers and a large swing graced the front porch. A decorative Christmas wreath still hung on the front door, nearly three weeks after the holiday. Some lucky family had purchased Kate's dream house. Apparently whoever lived here loved the old place as much as she had and had restored it with tender care. Whatever family lived there, Kate hoped they were very happy. As happy as she had believed Trent and Mary Kate and she would have been.
Emotion lodged in her throat. She willed herself not to cry. Now was not the time for tears. When she saw Trent again, she had to be in full control of her emotions. And when she faced Aunt Mary Belle, she had to show the old biddy that she wasn't in the least bit intimidated by her.
"Goodbye, dream house," Kate whispered as she drove away from four-ten Madison.
In no time at all, she pulled up in front of Winston Hall, a magnificent Federal-style mansion that presided over almost a whole city block. The black iron fencing circled the esta
te and the massive black iron gates always stayed open, welcoming the elite of Prospect to come calling. And at holiday open houses and during Pilgrimage Week, even the lowly were allowed admittance. She'd forgotten how much she hated this house and how miserable her ex-husband's aunt had made her life for the two years of her marriage.
Don't look back, Kate reminded herself. Nothing can change the past.
She drove her rental car up and around the circular driveway, stopped directly in front of the mansion and killed the engine. After taking several deep breaths, she got out and walked up the steps and onto the porch. She checked her watch. Four-ten p.m. Too early for dinner. Kate smiled at the thought of her being invited to dine with the family.
She hesitated at the door, then garnered up all her courage and rang the bell. She barely recognized the elderly man who came to the door. His once-gray hair had turned white and his broad shoulders stooped just a little.
"Guthrie?"
"Yes, ma'am." His faded gray eyes focused on her face, studying her intently. "Miss Kate! That is you, isn't it? Lord have mercy, it's good to see you."
"Hello, Guthrie. How are you?"
"Tolerable," he replied. "You look mighty fine, Miss Kate. Hardly a day older than when you left here."
Kate laughed. She'd always been quite fond of Guthrie, who had worked for the Winston family since he'd been a boy. He served the household as a butler and a chauffeur and oversaw the other household staff, which when she'd lived there had consisted of a cook and a live-in maid for Mary Belle, and two daily maids who didn't live on the premises.
"I'm much older," Kate told him. "Ten years older."
"Been that long, has it?" As if suddenly realizing he'd kept her standing on the porch, Guthrie snapped to attention and said, "Come on in out of the cold, Miss Kate."
"Thank you." She entered the massive marble-floored foyer. When she glanced around, she noted that very little had changed. A spiral staircase took center stage in the room filled with antiques that had belonged to the family for generations.
"I never thought you'd come back," Guthrie said. "But Lord, have I prayed that you would. Mr. Trent, he's—"
"I've come to see Trent. Is he here?"
"Yes, ma'am, he's here. In his study." Guthrie looked up the stairs. "Miss Mary Belle's taking her Saturday afternoon nap."
Kate grinned. "Then perhaps I'll be fortunate enough to conduct my business with Trent and leave before she wakes."
Guthrie chuckled. "Shall I announce you to Mr. Trent or—"
"Since I no longer answer to the Good Manners Society—" Kate rolled her eyes toward the stairs "—why don't I just barge in on Trent without being announced?"
Guthrie chuckled again and gave Kate a wide, approving smile. "We've missed you, Miss Kate. We have missed you a great deal."
"Why thank you. I don't know what to say." And she truly didn't know how to respond to Guthrie's comment. We have missed you, he'd said. We? Surely he didn't mean Trent. Of course not. Trent was too busy being the man about town, wasn't he? Too busy charming all the ladies. But what if there's a special lady? What if he's found someone else? For all she knew, he could have remarried. But Mr. Walding at the Magnolia House hadn't mentioned anything about a new Mrs. Winston.
"Guthrie, Trent isn't … that is, has he remarried?"
"No, ma'am."
"Is he engaged?"
"No, ma'am. And you, Miss Kate?"
She shook her head. "No. Not married or engaged or anything."
Guthrie glanced down the hall in the direction of the library. "You know the way to Mr. Trent's study, don't you?"
She nodded.
"I do wish you were staying, ma'am."
He turned and walked away from her, down the hallway toward the kitchen, saving Kate from having to respond. The study, as Guthrie referred to the library at Winston Hall, was on the first floor, on the opposite side from the double parlors. When she reached the study, she found the door closed. Would the door be locked? she wondered. The only time Trent had ever locked the door was when the two of them had been alone in the study, making love. On the rug before the fireplace. On the massive Jacobean desk. On the leather sofa.
Don't do this to yourself. Stop remembering what it was like when you two were in love. But the memories washed over her like a tidal wave, sweeping away a decade of loneliness. And she had been lonely. So very lonely. She had dated a little in the past five or six years, a few really nice men, but try as she might, she hadn't come close to falling in love again. God knows she'd wanted to love someone, had prayed she'd find the courage to trust her heart to another man.
She lifted her arm, curled her right hand into a fist and knocked soundly on the closed door. Her heart fluttered maddeningly.
"Yes, come in," Trent said.
The sound of his deep, distinctive voice sent shock waves through her body. He had a slow, lazy, south Alabama drawl that had always seemed so sexy. But then again, everything about Trent Winston had been sexy. And probably still was.
Kate opened the door and took a hesitant step over the threshold. Trent sat in one of the massive oxblood leather armchairs in front of the fireplace so she could see only his left arm. He wore a cream sweater. Despite being modernized with central heat and air conditioning, Winston Hall kept a chill all winter. Old houses tended to be drafty.
"Hello, Trent." Her heartbeat thundered in her ears.
He didn't move, didn't speak.
"I apologize for not calling first, but I—I—"
Trent jumped to his feet abruptly and turned to face her. "Kate? Good God, it is you."
"Yes, it's me."
She stared at him. Blatantly. He had changed. Matured. His shoulders appeared broader. And there were lines around his eyes and mouth. A touch of gray mingled with the dark brown strands of his thick hair, mostly in his sideburns. He was still as handsome as ever, maybe even more so. Maturity certainly agreed with him. But then she'd always known he'd be a good-looking man in his forties and fifties, probably even in his eighties.
"What—when … it's been a long time," he finally managed to say.
"It's been ten years since our divorce became final."
"What brings you back to Prospect?" He hadn't moved an inch from where he stood by the leather chair.
"Personal business."
"I didn't realize you had any family still living here."
"I don't."
He studied her curiously, his dark, pensive brown eyes surveying her from head to toe. "You look—" He cleared his throat. "You look well. The years have been good to you."
"To you, too."
He took a tentative step toward her, then paused. "Please, come in. Would you care for a drink?" He indicated the bar set up on a serving cart stationed beneath one of the two massive floor-to-ceiling windows on the side wall.
"No, thanks." She ordered her feet into action and managed to walk toward him.
With their gazes locked, they met in the middle of the room, each stopping when less than three feet separated them. She could barely suppress the urge to reach out and touch him. They stood there for an endless moment, neither moving nor speaking.
"You said you're in Prospect on personal business. Since you've come to Winston Hall, am I to assume that business concerns me in some way?"
"Yes, it concerns you." Don't drag this out. Dammit, just tell him. "I work for the Dundee Agency. It's a private security and investigation firm based in Atlanta."
"You're a private investigator?"
Trent grinned and her stomach did a crazy flip-flop.
"Yes. And before I worked at Dundee's, I was an Atlanta police officer."
Trent shook his head. "You must have changed a great deal. I can't imagine my sweet Kate as either a policewoman or a P.I."
His sweet Kate? Dammit, Trent, I haven't been your sweet Kate in a long, long time.
"Recently, a colleague and I were sent to Maysville, Mississippi, a town about an hour's drive from Memphis,
" she told him. "A two-month-old baby boy had been kidnapped and my colleague was the child's father."
Trent's face paled. "You work on child abduction cases?"
"On this one, yes. I went to Maysville with the kidnapped baby's father and helped him and the child's mother through some difficult days."
"What happened to the baby?" Trent's jaw tightened.
"He was rescued," Kate said. "And returned to his parents."
"That's good." Trent turned away from her. "I'm happy for them."
"The FBI agent working on the case was the head of a sting operation that the bureau had in the works for several years," Kate explained. "You see, there was an infant abduction ring working in the southeast and these people had been stealing babies for the past twelve years."
Trent whirled around and glared at her. "Damn, Kate, don't tell me you've somehow convinced yourself that Mary Kate was taken by the same abduction ring." He came toward her, fury in his eyes. He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her gently. "I had hoped that after all this time you would have accepted the fact that our little girl is lost to us forever."
Kate gritted her teeth in an effort to stem the tide of tears gathering in her eyes. "Dante Moran was the FBI agent in charge of the operation. He's an objective professional, someone without any connection to Mary Kate. He—he believes that there's a very good possibility that our daughter could be one of three baby girls stolen from southeast Alabama the same month and year that Mary Kate was taken."
After loosening his tenacious hold on her shoulders, Trent narrowed his gaze and glowered at Kate.
"There are hundreds of children who were sold to desperate adoptive parents during the past twelve years," Kate said. "These people, the ones in charge of the abduction ring, kept a file on each infant. The state and sometimes even the city where the child was abducted was noted on records, as was the month the child was supposedly given up for adoption. The FBI is in the process of notifying the adoptive parents of every stolen child, and they're searching for all possible birth parents, too."
LAYING HIS CLAIM Page 2
