by B. J Daniels
Maybe he was. Late at night sometimes, he argued the same case with himself. He knew things about Sarah that would horrify his daughter. Like the way Sarah had returned to Beartooth. She’d parachuted from a plane at low altitude. She had no memory of it, but he was convinced that whoever was behind her memory loss was using her. If he had to name that person, it would be Senator Buckmaster Hamilton.
Since Sarah’s supposedly untimely return, his standings in the presidential race had only improved tenfold. He was a shoo-in for the Republican nomination now. His allegedly “crazy” first wife had taken a beating in the press, while Buckmaster had garnered all the sympathy.
“I just need you to trust me on this,” he said, stepping to his daughter. Destry hadn’t known that he’d fathered her until a few years ago. He’d worked as ranch manager at the W Bar G Ranch, so he’d seen her grow up. She’d always come to him with her problems instead of the man she believed to be her father, W. T. Grant. Russel and his wife, Judy, had never had any children. But now with her gone, he was lonely. He saw Destry and his grandchildren as often as he could, but it wasn’t the same as having a partner to share the rest of his life with.
“I want to get on with my life. Can you wish me well?”
Destry searched his gaze for a long moment. “I know you’ve been lonely since you lost Judy, and I can even understand how you might have fallen for this woman, but are you sure you want Sarah Hamilton around your grandchildren? Think about that, Dad.”
* * *
“YOUR DAUGHTERS HAVE been in my jewelry again,” Angelina complained as Senator Buckmaster Hamilton walked into their bedroom.
He groaned inwardly. “I really doubt—”
“My watch is missing. You know the one with my name engraved inside it. It was the first present you gave me. Don’t you remember? You said it was because I’m never on time.”
“I doubt you’ll miss it since you never looked at it. You’re still never on time,” he said.
“Why would one of them want that watch unless they knew how much it meant to me?” she asked, sounding close to tears.
“None of them would take your watch, especially with your name engraved on it. I’m sure it will turn up. Your missing things always do.”
“That’s because one of your daughters finally returns whatever she took.”
He sighed loudly, sick of this and the other arguments they kept having.
“It’s true,” she said, turning, hands on her hips. “You always take up for them.”
“And you always blame them for everything.”
His wife narrowed her gaze as she studied him. “You’ve been to see Sarah.”
He should have known that Sarah would be next. If Angelina wasn’t complaining about his daughters, she was complaining about his former wife. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take.
“Angelina, we just got home. I have barely gotten unpacked and I had a meeting this morning with some constituents.” He was doing his best not to lie. But if he told Angelina, they would have a huge row. If she had her way, he’d never see Sarah again.
She was eyeing him suspiciously. “If you haven’t seen her, then how do you explain that hangdog look you always get after one of your secret rendezvous? Come to think of it, you’ve had that look pretty much since the last time we were home.” She stepped toward him. Her gaze was like a laser as she prodded at him. “What’s going on?”
The woman was much more intuitive than he’d ever imagined. Sarah had also brought out a suspicious nature in Angelina that he’d never known existed. He knew she’d keep after him until he told her. He also knew how she’d take the news. That’s why he hadn’t told her about Sarah’s engagement to Russell Murdock.
In truth, he was hoping that Sarah would change her mind. He’d been shocked when she’d told him and had had a terrible time hiding how upset he’d been ever since.
His first love, Sarah still seemed like his wife. True, since her shocking return from the dead, he felt as if he had two wives. Legally, he had only one. But tell that to his heart.
Now Angelina would be over the moon with joy when she found out Sarah would be getting married to Russell. Angelina wouldn’t have to be worried about the other woman in his life anymore. In the fifteen years they’d been married, the woman had never shown even the slightest bit of jealousy.
That was until his first wife had returned. The worst part was that Angelina had every reason to be jealous. He’d thought he’d gotten over Sarah’s death and the anger he’d felt when he’d learned that it hadn’t been an accident. But the moment he saw her again, he knew he’d only been lying to himself. He still loved her. He’d never stopped loving her.
“Well?” Angelina was impatiently waiting for an answer. Just the mention of Sarah always set her off. Hell, she’d even hired a private investigator to try to discover not only where Sarah had been the past twenty-two years but also to dig up dirt from even before Buck had met her.
“Sarah has decided it’s time she gets on with her life,” he said carefully, knowing that if he showed his true feelings about this news, things would turn ugly.
“Really?” Angelina asked suspiciously. “She told you this?” Her tone couldn’t have called Sarah a liar any clearer than if she’d said the word. “So she’s leaving Montana?”
He braced himself. “No, she’s getting married. She and Russell Murdock will be announcing their engagement soon.”
To his shock, Angelina’s face went taut with fury. Her blue eyes narrowed dangerously, and she let out a very un-First-Lady-like curse. “The conniving bitch. And you believed her?” She stormed over to the window, only to swing back around. “So that explains the way you’ve been acting. How long have you known this?”
He thought he’d been hiding his feelings well. Apparently not. “For a couple of months.”
“But you never said anything.”
He simply stood there, looking guilty and wishing they didn’t have to ever talk about Sarah again.
“You actually believed her. Of course you did. Just as she knew you would. Buckmaster, you can’t be that naive. Don’t you see what she’s trying to do? She’s playing you.”
“I don’t see how marrying Russell—”
“She’s never going to marry Russell Murdock,” she snapped with a wave of her arm.
He hated the surge of hope he felt at her words. He quickly squashed it because it was only a matter of time before Sarah remarried. He couldn’t expect her to sit around waiting for him to...to what? Angelina was his wife now, his future, his only hope if he wanted to win this election.
While it shouldn’t matter whether a candidate was married, single or divorced, or had a mistress, it did when it came to the voting public. So much had already been made of Sarah’s return from the grave. If he left Angelina for her...
“She’s trying to force your hand,” Angelina said, sounding sad that he could be so easily fooled. “She wants you to choose her over me. Why else would she just happen to mention this before you left on the campaign? And let me guess, she’s waiting to announce it to the world, right? Giving you some time.”
“Yes, but only because I asked her to wait,” he said with a sigh. “I’m afraid this is going to upset our daughters, so I asked her to wait until I came home again.”
She cocked her head at him. “Why would it upset the girls? They don’t even know her. Why would they care who she marries? She was just giving you time to let it sink in, so you will try to stop her.”
He shook his head. “You give her too much credit. She doesn’t sit around plotting like...”
“Like me?”
He raked a hand through his graying hair. Nothing he could say would make this situation better. Wasn’t that why he’d waited as long as he could before telling her?
“S
arah wants to destroy you. Destroy your career.”
“You’re wrong. She thinks marrying Russell will help me.”
Angelina laughed. “So she’s really just doing this for you. Seriously, Buckmaster, you bought that?”
“Away from me, the press will forget about her. All the focus will be on the campaign instead of the three of us. Sarah will be forgotten like any other former wife.”
“What a martyr she is,” Angelina said, her words as tart as vinegar.
“She cares about Russell. She trusts him, and I think he cares about her.”
“Always the saint, that Sarah, huh?” She moved away as if trying to hide her anger, but her body had gone rigid with her rage.
That’s why he was surprised when she turned back, and this time, he saw tears. She’d always been so strong, so self-assured. His daughters called her the Ice Queen. But since Sarah’s return... “Angelina,” he said, stepping toward her.
She took a step back and shook her head. “If you choose her, you’ll lose the election.”
He swore. “It isn’t always about the damned election.” He dropped his arms and started to turn away.
“Don’t you think we should discuss this?” she demanded of his back.
“I thought we just did,” he said and kept walking.
* * *
MAX HAD WANTED to ask the elderly lady in the coffee shop if she recognized the photographs he’d taken of the woman he believed to be Sarah Hamilton. He just needed a simple verification. He already knew it was Sarah, but he hadn’t become the journalist he was by assuming anything.
He couldn’t have asked the woman, though, without blowing his cover. Not to mention, she probably wouldn’t have helped him anyway. He’d seen her expression when she’d asked him if he was a reporter. He had a feeling that she wouldn’t have talked to him if he’d admitted it.
Fortunately, he’d managed to get her talking—it usually wasn’t hard to get people to open up in small towns—and she’d told him about Kat Hamilton.
He went back to his computer and searched for a Kat Hamilton, photographer. He found her website and let out a low whistle as he studied the self-portrait photo she’d taken of herself. She didn’t look terribly approachable. Her long dark hair was tightly pulled back from her face and wound into a knot at the base of her neck. Her piercing gray eyes looked into the camera as if in challenge. Everything about her told him she was a difficult woman and one he should probably stay away from.
While he seldom took his own good advice, he might have this time if he hadn’t seen that she was going to be having a one-woman exhibit at a gallery in Bozeman. Feeling the need to verify that the blonde he’d photographed was indeed Sarah Hamilton before he tried to sell the shots, he headed for Bozeman.
The gallery was on Main Street in a narrow building with old brick walls and lots of spot lighting. The moment he walked in, the owner came out of the back.
“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?” she asked.
“I understand Kat Hamilton will have an exhibit here soon?”
She instantly looked wary.
“I saw one of her photos.” He described one he’d seen on her website. “I was interested in buying it.”
The shop owner seemed to relax a little. Bozeman, because of the university there, had an almost Bohemian feel to it. So he fit right in, even looking as he did. “We don’t have that particular one here...” She led him over to a black-and-white photo taken in a rainstorm. Max knew enough about photography to realize the moment he saw the photo that it was nothing short of amazing.
“You like it?” she asked, even though she’d clearly seen his reaction.
“I love it. I can’t wait to see more of her work. That’s an incredible photograph. I do a little shooting myself. I’d love to pick her brain as to how I can improve my photos, but I’m sure she gets a lot of that.”
“She’ll be here for her exhibit. It’s coming up soon.” She rattled off a date near Christmas.
Not soon enough. He sighed. “I’m not sure I’ll be in town then. Maybe I can catch her some other time. I definitely am interested.” He looked again longingly at the rain photo.
The woman seemed to hesitate, and he knew he had her. “You know...I’m expecting her later today. She said about four. She’s coming in to do some work to get her photographs ready for the exhibit. Maybe you could catch her then.”
He couldn’t wait to meet Kat Hamilton.
CHAPTER THREE
MAX MADE A few calls to see what kind of interest there was in the photos of Senator Buckmaster Hamilton with his first wife, the back-from-the-dead Sarah Johnson Hamilton. There was always skepticism with something this big. But not one of the people he called told him to get lost.
“Where can you be reached?” they each asked in turn. “I’ll have to get back to you... Is there any chance of getting an exclusive if these photographs...?” The questions came.
Not one to count his chickens before they hatched, Max still couldn’t help feeling as if the money was already in his pocket. He could already taste the huge steak he planned to have as soon as he got Kat Hamilton to verify that the photos he’d taken were of her long-lost mother.
Then it was just a matter of waiting for the calls to start coming in and the bidding to begin. All he had to do was wait around until four for Kat.
He’d parked his pickup down the street so he could watch the art gallery, and see who came and went. A little after four, he spotted Kat Hamilton. She looked just as she had in her photo on her website. He watched her climb out of a newer model SUV, pull a large folder from the back and head across the street toward the gallery.
As he got out of his pickup, he admitted that he was flying by the seat of his pants. He wasn’t sure how he was going to play this. He just hoped that the Max Malone charm didn’t let him down. Passing a shop window, he caught his reflection and stopped to brush back his too-long hair. He really needed a haircut, and a shave wouldn’t hurt either, he thought as he rubbed a palm along his bristled jaw.
Well, too late for any of that. He straightened his shirt, sniffed to make sure he didn’t reek—after all, he’d spent the night sleeping under the stars in the back of his truck. He smelled like the great outdoors, and from what he could tell, Kat Hamilton might appreciate that. Most of her photographs he’d seen were taken in the great outdoors.
Still, he knew this wasn’t going to be easy. Kat Hamilton wasn’t just a rich, probably spoiled artist. She was a rich, probably spoiled artist whose daddy was running for president and whose birth mother was possibly unstable. He had no idea what it was going to take to get what he wanted from the unapproachable Kat Hamilton.
When he pushed into the gallery, the bell over the door chimed softly and both women turned in his direction. The gallery owner looked happy to see him. Kat? Not so much. He saw her take in his attire from his Western shirt to his worn jeans and boots. He’d left his straw cowboy hat in the truck, but his camera bag was slung over one shoulder.
“This is the man I was just telling you about,” the shop owner said.
Kat’s gray eyes seemed to bore into him as he sauntered toward her. Mistrust and something colder made her gaze appear hard as granite. She was dressed in an oversize sweater and loose jeans, that approach-at-your-own-risk look welded on her face.
“Max Malone,” he said extending his hand. “I’m a huge fan of your work, but I’m sure you hear that all the time.”
Her handshake was firm enough. Her steely gaze never warmed, just as it never left his. “Thank you.” Her voice had an edge to it, a warning. Tread carefully.
“I was especially taken with your rain photo,” he said, moving in that direction, hoping she would take the hint and follow.
“You should show him your latest ones
you brought in today,” the gallery owner said.
Kat didn’t jump at that.
“Would you mind if I took a photo of this? I want to show it to my wife. This would be perfect for her office.”
“That would be fine,” Kat said, clearly not invested in his company. He was reminded that she came from a wealthy family. She didn’t need to make money from her photographs.
He snapped the shot of her rain photo and then walked back to where he’d left her standing. Every line of her body language said she’d had enough of him. He felt as if he was chipping away at solid ice. Charm wasn’t going to get what he wanted. He hoped he wouldn’t be forced to buy one of her photographs. The prices were a little steep, and he doubted cash would warm her up.
He was tempted, though, to buy the one she’d taken of the pouring rain. There was something about the shot... “I hate to even show you the photo I took, ” he said, stopping next to her to show her a scenery shot he’d taken on his camera while he’d been waiting for her to show up at the gallery.
She gave the photo a cursory glance and started to turn away when he flipped to the one he believed to be of her mother.
Kat Hamilton froze. Her gaze leaped from the camera to him. She took a step back, her gray eyes sparking with anger.
“I’m sorry,” he said innocently, even though he felt a surge of pleasure to see some emotion in her face. “Is something wrong?”
“Who are you?” she demanded. “You’re one of those reporters who have been camped outside the ranch like vultures for weeks.”
That pretty well covered it, while at the same time confirming what he already knew. The photo was of Sarah Hamilton.
“I guess I don’t have to ask you if the woman in the photo is your mother,” he said as he put his camera away.
“Do you want me to call the police?” the shop owner asked as she stood wringing her hands.
“No, this man is leaving,” Kat said, glaring poison darts at him. She looked shaken. Clearly, he’d caught her flat-footed with the photo.
