The Tycoon

by Anna Jeffrey

  “I didn’t call to talk about Donna. I just watched the weather report. It’s supposed to clear tonight so I can fly tomorrow. I need to go back to Lubbock to finish what I started a couple of weeks ago.”

  “Oh, drat. I wanted us to have lunch this week.”

  “That’s why I called. How about breakfast? If you can come downtown to the Tower tomorrow morning, we’ll eat at Rusty’s Campfire downstairs. Make it early and I’ll still have enough time to get to Lubbock before evening.”

  “I’ll be there. I have something to discuss with you.”

  ****

  Betty was up early the next morning. When Drake said “early,” that was what he meant. She planned to be at the popular bistro on the bottom floor of the building that bore her family’s name no later than eight o’clock.

  Though the weeklong storm had moved on, the temperature was still cold. She dressed in a winter pants suit in a royal blue color that flattered her skin and hair.

  When she reached the café, she spotted him already present and reading the newspaper at a table in the corner of the dining room. He looked up as she approached, laid his paper aside, rose and rounded the table. “Morning, Mom.”

  The frown line that always showed between his dark brows looked deeper than usual this morning. Was he troubled by what had happened with Donna? They touched cheeks. “Good morning yourself,” she said.

  He pulled out a chair for her, then returned to his seat on the opposite side of the table. He was dressed as usual today—jeans, a long-sleeved tan button-down shirt and boots. Just like his father dressed. He was built like Bill Junior. He had always been a cowboy. She supposed he always would be. Just like his father. Both of them were such lovely men to look at.

  “Did you sleep well?” she asked him as the waiter hurried over and poured her coffee cup full.

  “Fine,” he said. He looked up at the waiter and told him they needed menus. “So what do you want to talk about?” he asked after the waiter hurried away.

  Drake wasn’t one to waste air on small talk. She often wondered if he was so abrupt with

  the women he dated. If so, no wonder he had never married.

  “Well…” She draped her napkin over her lap, cleared her throat and steeled herself for her son’s reaction when she dropped her bomb. “I’m thinking I won’t go to the ranch for Christmas this year.”

  There. She had said it. Let the chips fall where they may.

  His pointed look came at her like a spear. He certainly had her eyes, she noted for the umpteenth time. He was the only one of her children who did. Whiskey-colored eyes you could drown in, his father had always said. But given Bill Junior’s fondness for drinking and partying, Betty hadn’t found the description romantic or flattering. Her other son and daughter had lake-blue eyes like Bill Junior’s. Those were the eyes you could drown in.

  And Troy, well his eyes were so dark she could hardly distinguish the pupil. They were probably like his trashy mother’s.

  Just then, the waiter returned. She requested oatmeal with cream. She never cooked oatmeal at home. It was too messy to clean up after. Drake ordered a he-man breakfast—two eggs over easy, sausage patties and biscuits with honey, the breakfast he had favored as a teenage athlete.

  “Why aren’t you going?” he asked when the waiter left again. “I thought you and Dad made up when y’all went to Nashville.”

  Back in October, she had accompanied her husband to Nashville to take in the Grand Ole Opry. “We did. Sort of. But something’s happened since then. Your father’s sleeping with someone in Drinkwell. I wasn’t going to tell you, but you’ve probably already heard it.

  His eyes settled on hers. “No, Mom, I haven’t heard that,” he said gently. He was the only one of her children who knew, or cared, that gossip like this hurt her. “But you know you can’t believe everything you hear. Who told you?”

  “One of my old…acquaintances from down there called me a few days ago. I don’t think I’d be comfortable going to the Double-Barrel now. I might never go down there again.”

  “Come on, Mom. What difference does it make, really? Even if it’s true? You’ve been gone what, seven years? And you’re sleeping with somebody in Fort Worth.”

  “Drake!” She looked around to see if anyone she knew was close enough to hear him.

  “Well, aren’t you? Although considering Wilkes’ age, I’d believe you if you said no.”

  Her spine stiffened. “That is uncharitable for you to say.”

  She had to defend her choice in a companion, though she knew what Drake meant. Barron was fifteen years older than her fifty-two and Viagra or no, he hadn’t exactly proven himself to be a stallion in the bedroom. More than once she had entertained the notion of finding a younger man more physically able to satisfy her carnal needs. And just what would her self-righteous oldest son think of that? she wondered.

  The waiter brought their meals. “I’m kidding,” Drake said, tucking into his food, “but Wilkes must be damn near seventy.”

  “What are you implying?”

  “Sorry, Mom. It was just a smart-aleck remark. We don’t need to get into geriatric biology over breakfast.”

  She gasped. “Drake, I swear. You can be so crude. Barron and I are very good friends. In fact, he’s invited me to spend Christmas with him in Santa Fe.”

  Drake gave her an are-you-out-of-your-mind glower. “So that’s what this meeting is really about. That’s where you’re planning to go instead of going to the Double-Barrel.”

  Dear God, Drake was prickly as a cactus. And he never hesitated to level criticism at her. Growing a thick skin to mask the hurt her children sometimes inflicted had taken almost as many

  years as she had spent learning to deal with Bill Junior’s antics.

  She lifted her chin. “Yes. I think I just might. He’s also planning a cruise in January. You know how much I’ve always wanted to go on a cruise and your father would never agree to it.”

  “Mom, give him a break. He can’t swim. He’s afraid of large bodies of water.”

  “Son, I have known Bill Lockhart Junior since I was six years old. I have never known him to be afraid of anything, not even when we were little kids. That’s just an excuse.”

  “Jee-sus Christ.” Drake set down his coffee cup with a clack. “I know he’s got his flaws, but—”

  “Son, I do not appreciate your tone. Why can’t you understand? Life’s too short to let myself be continually humiliated by your father.”

  “Mom, forgodsake.” Scowling, Drake shook his head. “What do you expect him to do? You moved out. You two are separated. You’re up here in Fort Worth flitting around like a damn debutant and he’s alone down there in that nothing town that’s turning into more of nothing every day. He gets lonesome. He wants companionship just like everyone else.”

  She waggled her finger like a pendulum. “Do not scold me, Drake. I endured ill treatment from your father for years. He’s always found plenty of companionship in that nothing town.”

  Indeed she had shed uncountable tears, most of them unseen by the outside world, while living as William Drake Lockhart, Jr.’s wife for more than thirty years.

  Drake reached across the table and picked up her left hand on which she still wore two multi-carat diamond rings Bill Junior had given her. A diamond tennis bracelet, a gift from him many Christmases ago, glinted in the bright café lights. “You also endured a pretty damn nice life.”

  She yanked her hand away from his and made sure her right hand on which she wore another large diamond ring remained in her lap.

  Drake returned to his breakfast. “You lived like a queen, Mom. You still do. He never kept you from doing anything. Nor did he fail to give you everything he could afford.”

  She set her jaw and turned her head toward the next table, not enjoying being reminded of the tradeoffs she had made. But she couldn’t shut out her son’s words.

  “Has it occurred to you, Mother, that he could divorce you for b
ailing like you did? If that happened, I guess ol’ Barron would have to pick up your expenses, which Pic tells me are considerable these days.”

  Betty flinched inside. Drake’s frankness cut like a knife, but she would not let it show. She would not be one of those whining mothers. She would never allow her children to see her as anything other than a strong, independent woman. Never mind that all she really wanted was to have a normal family life and receive as much affection from her offspring as she had for them.

  But Bill Junior had always behaved more like their pal than their father, showering them with good times, new cars and money. Betty had been forced to be the disciplinarian. Competing against Bill Junior for their affection had been an unwinnable challenge.

  And she didn’t need to be reminded that the Double-Barrel’s accountant controlled her purse strings. She was quite aware that what her second son Pickett knew, Drake knew. She resented her children having knowledge of her personal expenses.

  “Pic has no business discussing what I do,” she snapped. “And if you weren’t a grown man, I’d tan your hide for speaking to me like this. As for Christmas, if you need a hostess for the overblown family dinner, perhaps your father can drag the woman he’s seeing out of the bar and dress her up suitably.”

  “Mom, wouldn’t you like to spend Christmas with the family? With Dad?”

  Her children, Drake in particular, were constantly trying to patch up her sorry marriage to their father. All three of them refused to acknowledge that he was a philanderer and a carouser.

  Her second son and her daughter had taken their father’s side as children and that hadn’t changed much now that they were adults. They blamed her for her and Bill Junior’s marital problems, which caused her great frustration.

  “They know where I live in Fort Worth,” she said. “If they wish to visit me, they’re welcome any time. But I’ll tell you right now, I’m very close to giving up on those two.”

  “Suit yourself, I guess.” Drake puffed out his jaws and blew out a long breath, an indication he considered the argument closed.

  He hadn’t finished his breakfast, but he wadded his napkin and threw it on the table. “I’ve got to go. The pilot will have the plane ready by now.” He got to his feet and picked up his hat.

  Betty couldn’t let him leave angry at her. She placed her hand on his arm and stopped him. “Are you spending Christmas at the ranch?”

  “Sure am. Just like always.”

  “Lunch before I leave for Santa Fe?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “I have Christmas presents for all of you. I could give them to you at lunch and you can take them down to Drinkwell when you go.” She gave him a pleading smile. “Please?”

  He sighed, a sign he was annoyed. “Sure, Mom. Look, I’ll call you when I get back from Lubbock and we’ll get together.”

  “Drake, you will call Donna, won’t you? Surely you’ll have time to—”

  “Gotta go, Mom.”

  Her eldest child kissed her cheek and glided away, setting his hat on as he passed through the restaurant doorway. Betty released a sigh of her own. Every encounter with him always ended the same. With him rushing off to somewhere, as if he couldn’t wait to get away from her.

  She sat there a few minutes, her oatmeal growing cold as she mulled over their conversation.

  …Has it occurred to you, Mother, that he could divorce you for bailing like you did?...

  She had left the ranch to save her sanity. Bill Junior hadn’t wanted her to leave, but he had battered her pride to the ground. She’d had no choice. She didn’t believe for a minute that he would divorce her. If he had wanted to end their marriage legally, in the seven years that had passed since she moved away from the ranch, he could have. Instead, every time they met, he begged her to return.

  She didn’t want a divorce either. For the first time in her and Bill Junior’s long stormy history together, she felt she had the upper hand. But back when she thought she did want him and the Double-Barrel Ranch out of her life for good, a lawyer had convinced her that with the ranch’s ownership being legally and tightly protected for generations past and future, divorcing Bill Junior would be complicated beyond belief and he would make no guarantee what she would end up with.

  She was probably just as well off with things as they were, with an accountant who knew more about money matters than she did paying her basic bills and doling out a generous monthly allowance. And in spite of everything, she still cared about Bill Junior, damn rascal that he was.

  Now she was in such a foul mood she couldn’t decide if she even wanted to go to Santa Fe. Waking up every morning beside Barron Wilkes wasn’t one of her favorite thoughts.

  A sudden flash of heat cloaked her. Oh, hell. Another damn hot flash. After quarreling with Drake, she was in no mood for a hot flash.

  She dabbed perspiration from her upper lip with her napkin, left her chair and made her way to the ladies’ room. She sat down on a burgundy velvet-upholstered sofa in the lounge, leaned back, closed her eyes and let her mind drift back to September, when she had accompanied Bill Junior to Nashville.

  The memory was worth recalling. Bill Junior had rented a luxury suite at Leow’s and they had behaved like honeymooners. At fifty-three, he could still send her over the moon. Fantastic sex was something she missed about life with her husband. He could still do it more than once in a night sometimes and she believed he didn’t take drugs to enable him.

  He simply knew all the right buttons to push. They had gotten married when she was seventeen and he was eighteen. They had learned about sex together, had tried everything. Sometimes the memories made her blush. They had been so sexually in tune with each other, if it hadn’t been for the pill, they might have twelve kids instead of only three.

  The warble of her cell phone halted her stroll down memory lane and she dug it out of her purse. Barron. She knew he wanted an answer about Santa Fe. She keyed into the call. “Hello, darling.”

  “Good morning, poopsie.”

  “I was just thinking about Santa Fe, Barron. It’s a great idea. A holiday away from my kids sounds wonderful.”

  “You’ve just made me a happy man. I’ll call the property manager tomorrow and make sure the house is ready….What are you doing?”

  “Right now? I’m downtown. I just had breakfast with Drake.”

  “Care to have a little dessert?” He chuckled roguishly. “I just got out of the shower and I’m not dressed yet. And I’ve got a bottle of champagne. We could follow up breakfast with a mimosa or two. In bed.” He chuckled again.

  Betty lowered her voice and tittered into the phone. “Barron. You are so naughty. Should you be drinking when you’re taking that, um, drug?

  “It’s no problem.”

  She tittered again. “Well, then. I’ll be there in about half an hour.”

  She disconnected on a sigh, resigned to the fact that when it came to men, a fifty-two year-old woman couldn’t have everything.

  ****

  Drake left Rusty’s Campfire relieved to escape his mother. A discussion of her romance set his teeth to grinding. He was her son, forchrissake, not some damn male confidante.

  He still believed his father would settle down and behave like an adult if his mother would simply return to the Double-Barrel. But hell, now she was planning on twisting off to Santa Fe at Christmas with Barron Wilkes. What that would cause at the Double-Barrel he could imagine. And it wouldn’t be pretty.

  At least meeting with her had temporarily taken his mind off the weekend and the phantom woman who had stolen from his condo like a thief in the night. His ego still smarted. He suspected she had given him a phony name and no telling how many other lies she had told. Would he ever know who she really was?

  He was glad to have the trip to Lubbock to take his mind off of her. Nothing would be better for clearing his head than the Texas Panhandle’s cold clear air.

  As he neared the airport exit, his thoughts veered t
o Christmas again and the Double-Barrel. He plucked his cell phone off his belt and called his brother. “What’s Dad up to?”

  “He’s got a meeting with the vet today,” Pic answered. “Why?”

  “I just heard he’s fucking around with somebody in town. Who is it?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I don’t keep up.”

  Pic and their father lived in the same house and were close. And they lived in a small town where very little that a Lockhart did went without being widely blabbed about. Drake doubted that his brother didn’t know what their father was doing, but Pic was a peace-loving man who saw no point in making waves.

  “He needs to get up to Fort Worth and talk to Mom,” Drake said. “Otherwise, Christmas is going to be all fucked up.”

  Chapter 13

  After tossing and turning and stewing half the night whether to call or not to call Drake Lockhart at his office and rehearsing what she might say to him, Shannon dragged herself out of bed, pulled herself together and arrived at her office at the usual time. She didn’t know why she had let calling him keep her awake all night. Deep down, she had never intended to do it. She hadn’t even bothered to search for the name of his company in the phone book. She had to put Saturday night in her rearview mirror and forget it.

  The one call she had to make today was to Emmett Hunt, the Dallas broker who held her secure future in his hands. She forced herself to wait until nearly noon.

  His story was the same as it had been on Friday. He still expected to receive an offer from another buyer, but try as she would, Shannon couldn’t cajole the name out of him. She was an amateur trying to play a professional wheeler-dealer’s game. Emmett was probably secretly laughing at her. Her stomach churned. She reached into her middle drawer and found a roll of TUMS.

  ****

  Drake arrived in Amarillo mid-afternoon. He called Pennington Engineering to let Robert Pennington know he had arrived. Pennington’s daughter, Heather, answered the phone and invited him for a Christmas cocktail.