“Why didn’t you bring it to me right away?”
“It’s addressed to me. I wanted to think about what I was going to do with it.”
Mae glared at him imperiously. “Why did you have to think? Why didn’t you just—”
“It’s poisonous, Aunt Mae. You can see that. How can believe anything Abigail’s said? An antique writing desk, all their mother’s jewelry, Ira’s collection of gold pocket watches. Does it make sense for Christine to steal something like that and then come here—where everyone’s eventually going to know where she is? It doesn’t. Not to me.”
“Of course she wouldn’t bring it all with her,” Mae argued. “She could have been working with someone.”
“That’s stretching things.”
Mae stood up, signaling an end to the meeting. “Well, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? I expect more information will be coming in soon. Now, unless someone else has something to add.” She glanced at everyone present, one by one, then her gaze finally settled on Morgan. “Morgan,” she said. “I want a word with you. The rest of you, get on with your business.”
As Rafe passed by Morgan, he said softly, “I want a word with you, too.”
Mae got up to straighten the painting of a prize Hereford bull from the 1920s that adorned the wall behind the desk. Then she checked the calendar posted beside it, reading the notations. What she saw must have pleased her, because when she looked around at Morgan, her expression was more relaxed.
“Now,” she said mildly. “What do you have to tell me?”
Morgan had prepared himself for this. “Not a lot. Not yet. I’m just getting started.”
“It’s been three days. Four, if you count today.”
“I have to do this in my own time, Mae. If I rush her, she’ll spook. She’s very suspicious.”
Mae frowned lightly. “This entire affair isn’t exactly humming along.”
“You have to have patience.”
“Not exactly my strong suit,” she said, a wisp of a smile touching her lips.
Morgan smiled along with her. Genuinely smiled. He’d admired Mae for years. Initially because his father did, then on his own accord. She was a strongwilled woman, hell-bent on having her own way. But her way was often what was best for the ranch and for those who relied on it. “Most times,” he said quietly, “patience is the only thing that works.”
Mae walked over to stand in front of him and surprised him by reaching up to pat his cheek. “You were a good boy, Morgan. Now you’ve grown up to be a good man. I just want you to know how much we appreciate you.” She patted his cheek again, then with a bit of effort left the room.
MORGAN FOUND RAFE talking to one of the full-time cowboys on the far side of the bunkhouse. Gene, grizzled and in his sixties, had worked on the Parker Ranch for the past thirty-six years. In the city he might have been dismissed as a has-been, almost ready to be shunted to a retirement home. Here, he was respected for his cowboy wisdom and his still-lightning-fast reflexes.
“Gotta watch it, Morgan,” he drawled, catching sight of him. “You get ol’ Mae after you, and you’re gonna wish you was back bustin’ rustlers. That’s gotta be easier than wrastling with her!”
“It was you she was askin’ after, Gene. Wanted to know when your birthday was. Says she’s thinkin’ of sendin’ you to Hawaii for a treat.”
“Hawaii?”
“Yeah. So’s you can get one of them leis. And a kiss from a pretty girl. It’s the only way you’ll ever get one, she said.”
“What would I do with one of them leis?” Gene asked, enjoying the banter. “They’re a necklace made’a flowers, aren’t they? If I wore one’a them things on the range, I might have to fight off a bull who thinks I’m a heifer!”
Morgan grinned. “She means the kiss-from a pretty girl!”
“Then again,” Rafe said, breaking in, “Gene wearing a flower necklace might come in handy on the roundup. All those little bull calves would be so confused they won’t know what’s happening to ‘em while we take care of business!”
“I ain’t wearin’ no flowers!” Gene said stubbornly. “Never have. Never will. Never want to!” He stomped away, leaving Morgan and Rafe shaking their heads and laughing. Gene was the best of all the permanent hands. Tough, reliable, loyal, and he knew how to get the most out of a story.
“You wanted to see me?” Morgan asked.
“Mae gone?” Rafe asked, glancing behind him toward the office.
“She left a few minutes ago for the house.”
Rafe pulled another slip of paper from his shirt pocket. It matched in style and color the letter he’d given Mae earlier. “I didn’t mention this,” he said quietly as he handed it to Morgan. “When you read it, you’ll understand why.”
This script was in a neatly blocked print and definitely masculine. It was signed by Brendan Parker. “Rafe,” it read, “I’m echoing Abby’s warning about Christine Grant. She’s robbed us blind, and now she’s trying to cheat us all out of our birthright by muscling in on what isn’t hers. Watch out for her. Also watch out that she doesn’t get to you in another way. She’s quite a sexy little number and has the scruples of an alley cat. She seduced my dad and did her best to seduce me. She’ll do anything to get what she wants!”
Morgan felt a powerful anger rise up in him. If Brendan Parker were here right now, he’d—Morgan swallowed his rage and forced himself to speak softly. “You believe this?” he asked.
“If I believed it, I’d have given it to Mae,” Rafe replied. “There’s always room for doubt especially when it comes to Brendan and Abigail. Something about what they’re sayin’ just doesn’t set right. What about you? What do you think?”
Morgan hadn’t told Rafe what Mae had asked him to do. She’d requested his silence and he’d honored her request. So far, at least. Morgan shrugged. “Like you said, it doesn’t seem logical for her to rob them blind and then come here.” He frowned. “Have they reported it to the police yet?”
“I don’t know, but I doubt it. I wouldn’t put it past them to have contacted the insurance company, though.”
Morgan eyes narrowed. “You mean, insurance fraud? You think they might have gotten rid of—or hidden—the stuff themselves and are going to report it missing for the insurance money?”
Rafe ran a hand through his dark hair. “Lord, I don’t know. That sounds pretty awful, doesn’t it? I guess—I don’t know.”
“Even if it’s not that bad, even if all they’re doing is trying to ruin Christine’s good name, why?” Morgan flicked the sheet of paper with a fingertip. “Why this?”
“Spite? Maybe it was the other way around. Maybe Brendan’s the one who tried to seduce Christine and she—” He stopped. “Now Shannon has me doing it! She’s been on a campaign, trying to convince me that Christine is telling the truth. At least, that she believes she’s telling the truth. Shannon thinks it’s Ira who’s pulled the fast one—on Christine. But again, why?”
“I barely remember the man,” Morgan confessed.
“We weren’t exactly close, either,” Rafe admitted. “His family pretty much went their own way. His daddy got involved in natural-gas production in South Texas and made a mint, then Ira ran the company until he retired. He always seemed proud to be a Parker, but it was just sort of there, in the background. Not a part of his everyday life. His kids have only been here about three times. The last was particularly memorable because they were so danged awful to everyone. You remember it, don’t you? About four, five years ago?”
Both men fell silent. “Well,” Morgan said after a moment, “Ira certainly did know how to cause a stir after dying.”
“Do you think that’s what all this is—a joke?” Rafe’s lips tightened.
“Better not be,” Morgan replied. “Too many people could get hurt.”
ERIN WAS INVITED to lunch at Harriet’s house. She’d been having such a good time playing with Jessica and Gwen that she rushed over to gain Christine’s permission
. Christine looked down into her daughter’s flushed face, into her bright eyes, and said yes without a second thought.
“That little girl’s done well by you, Christine,” Mae said magnanimously from the head of the table, after learning where Erin was.
It had crossed Christine’s mind to skip lunch that day or at least to have it delivered to her room, since the usual picnic had been canceled. But even though she didn’t look forward to sharing the table with Mae, she knew that to do less would be viewed as weakness.
“Thank you,” she murmured, spreading the napkin on her lap. She was aware that the older woman’s eyes never left her.
“She has nice manners and behaves properly,” Mae went on.
Christine looked up. “I don’t understand why that should surprise you. Other people besides Parkers have standards to live by.”
Marie served a thick rich vegetable soup. Christine tasted it. Like everything else it was wonderful. “Delicious, Marie,” she said, causing the housekeeper to smile as she left the room.
“You do, too,” Mae said after a long moment.
Christine put down her spoon. “You’re.complimenting me?”
The corners of Mae’s no-nonsense mouth pulled in a way that could possibly be described as a smile. “Well, considering,” she murmured.
Christine braced herself. “Considering what? What do you mean?”
The smile disappeared. “Considering the circumstances you grew up in. A person would have thought that you’d turn out differently. But then, even a sow’s ear can be changed into a silk purse, can’t it? Or is it the other way around? That it can’t be changed?”
What little appetite Christine had disappeared, and since Erin wasn’t present, she didn’t pretend. She pushed the soup bowl away, saying coldly, “Say what you mean, Mae.”
“I’ve had a report, and it isn’t very encouraging. I know where you come from, the kind of life you’ve lived, the kind of person your mother was, the way she made her living…”
“I’ve never made a secret of it,” Christine said.
“You didn’t tell us.”
“Why should I? What difference would it—”
“We’ve also had a more detailed account from Abigail, listing the articles you stole from her father’s house.”
“I never—”
“Did you have someone help you? The jewelry, the desk, the pocket-watch collection—are they being held for you? Or are they already sold, with your share of the money waiting in some bank account?”
Christine could feel the blood drain from her face. “I never took anything!” she denied. Then remembering the scene that had played out the evening she left the house in River Oaks, she once again girded herself for battle. “I have a witness. Someone who’ll vouch for me. Who’ll tell you I would never…that I didn’t—”
“Who?” The single word cracked like a whip.
“Mrs. Tobin, Ira’s housekeeper. She was there when I insisted Abigail and Brendan go through our things to make sure we hadn’t taken anything.”
“Why would you want them to do that?”
“Because Abigail accused me to my face! I told her to look for herself. But she wouldn’t. I insisted, but she still—”
“Would it have done her any good to look—if what you’d taken was already gone?”
White-hot anger burned through Christine. She’d been treated like a criminal from the first moment she’d arrived here. Distrusted, disbelieved. Her eyes flashed as she stood up.
“I didn’t take anything,” she repeated yet again. “And for your information, I don’t have to prove it. But I will, since you’re so sure I’m in the wrong. Call Mrs. Tobin. She’s still at Ira’s house. Talk to her yourself. She’ll tell you the truth, which is something Abigail and Brendan Parker wouldn’t know if it jumped up and bit them.” She took a breath, but didn’t back off. “Yes,” she began again, “I was poor as a child. Yes, I was neglected. Yes, my mother drank herself to death. But that doesn’t make me less of a human being than you! In fact, it might give me an advantage, because I don’t look down my nose at people who aren’t as lucky as I am, at people who’ve had to work hard all their lives and don’t have anything to show for it! At people who are desperate!”
Her outburst had no appreciable effect on Mae. The older woman continued to sit in her chair like royalty, her white hair pulled into a smooth knot on top of her head, her chiseled features not one whit softened by age, her dark eyes as unreadable as a sphinx’s. “And are you…desperate?” she questioned softly, after a long moment.
All Christine could do at that point was stare at her. Yes, she was desperate! Desperate to make a better life for Erin. Desperate to find a long-term safe haven for herself and her child. Desperate for what other people took for granted each and every day of their lives.
Suddenly her anger dissipated, leaving her drained. Her head drooped and her shoulders slumped. She knew it was important that she continue to fight, but the desire and the will just weren’t there.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she murmured, escaping once again into politeness.
She didn’t wait for Mae’s answer. Instead, she walked with as much dignity as she could summon across the room and out the door.
AN HOUR LATER, Marie delivered a note to Christine. It was from Mae. The writing was strong, decisive: “You’re going to have to work a little harder at perfecting your story. The housekeeper you told me to contact, this Mrs. Tobin, is no longer employed by Abigail and Brendan. She’s moved away and left no forwarding address. If she’s your accomplice, which Abigail thinks she is, she’s run out on you. Better check your bank account!”
Mrs. Tobin? Gone? Christine crumpled the note and held it against her churning stomach. Mrs. Tobin wasn’t supposed to move for two weeks, and not that much time had gone by yet. Unless…Unless something ugly had occurred and, like Christine and Erin, she’d been forced to alter her plans.
Christine groaned, then remembered the slip of paper Mrs. Tobin had given her, the one on which she’d written her sister’s address in Central Texas. But in the haste of their move and the upset in the days that followed, she had no idea what she’d done with it. Nor could she remember the name of the town. Fredericksburg? Kerrville? Neither seemed right. She searched through all the things they’d used since that day. She tore open the boxes. She had to find that address!
Erin came upon her going through the contents of the boxes for a second time. Clothes were strewn on the floor, along with most of their possessions.
Gazing into her strained face, Erin murmured, “Is something wrong, Mommy?”
Christine forced herself to smile and say, “No, I was just trying to find something, that’s all. It’s so frustrating when you know you packed it and then you can’t find it.”
Erin came closer. “What is it?” she asked.
Christine thought frantically. “You remember the book I used to like so much? The one with the funny little verses? I thought I’d read it again, only now I can’t find it!”
“Isn’t…isn’t that the book you read to Ira?” Erin asked hesitantly. “When he couldn’t get out of bed anymore? He liked it because it made him laugh.”
Christine held out a hand to her daughter. “What would I do without you?” she asked. “Yes, that’s exactly where it is. I left it with Ira.”
“I didn’t think to get it,” Erin said, stepping into a hug.
“Neither did I. Oh, well. Maybe Mrs. Tobin found it for us. You, ah, you don’t happen to know where Mrs. Tobin was moving, do you, when she was going to live with her sister? We could write her and ask.”
Erin shook her head.
Christine held her close then determinedly changed the subject, asking about the time Erin had spent playing with the other children. While she listened she put everything back in the boxes and pretended nothing was wrong. She heard how the children were planning the wedding ceremony in Harriet’s backyard, how they were going to use dolls and stuf
fed animals as guests, how Erin would be the minister and marry the happy couple. How later this afternoon they were going to try on clothes and play putting on makeup. Erin was almost too excited to take a nap, but after a repetition of some of what they planned to do, she sighed deeply and her eyelids grew too heavy to remain open.
Christine stood next to her daughter, gazing down at her. Erin was so innocent, so sweet. Nothing was more important than her well—being. Not pride, not shame, not fear…not lies told by vicious people.
Tears rushed into Christine’s eyes, but she blinked them away. She wasn’t going to cry here. Not in this house, and certainly not where Erin might wake up and see her.
Christine followed her usual routine of smearing on sun block, then she set off downstairs and through the front door. To anyone watching—to Mae—she would look carefree and out for her usual afternoon walk. No one—and certainly not Mae—would know how vulnerable she felt. How the burden of responsibility, for the past and for the future, was weighing on her shoulders.
She walked swiftly from the compound, but instead of taking the route she usually did, she continued across a wide-open field and turned down a path she’d never seen before. It led to a little rise with a view of the valley—the houses and work area, the pens and corrals, and beyond them, the range. The area was shaded by a natural grouping of trees. A wrought-iron bench with curved arms and back invited a visitor to linger. Farther on was a fenced-off area that proved to be a burial ground. The Parker cemetery, Christine concluded, after reading the names carved into tombstones—a few dating back to the previous century.
At another time Christine might have studied them. She’d always been interested in the people who came before, possibly because her mother never talked about her family. And her father—Christine didn’t even know her father’s name! Buck? David? Roger? Her mother had never seemed sure.
To have such an anchor in history as the Parkers had must be wonderful, Christine thought as she settled on the bench. To have a firm place in the world, with no one questioning who you were or how you’d come to be there.
West Texas Weddings Page 11
