Opal Fires

by Lynda Trent

  “Men!” she muttered to herself. The early morning light streamed through the window as she angrily threw Elliot’s golf sweater into a box on top of his dress shirts. “You can’t trust any of them!” She glared at a smudge on one of his handkerchiefs. She’d never worn lipstick that color in her life.

  Marla was organizing a neighborhood garage sale for the next day. The proceeds were to be donated to the Gregg Home for the Aged, and for Clare it was as good a way as any to get rid of Elliot’s clothes. She tossed his winter coat in with the rest and threw in a double handful of ties. When that box was full, she started filling another one. One of his drawers contained several packs of cards and a tray of poker chips. She dumped them into the carton without a pause.

  I should have known better, she thought bitterly. He was a woman-chaser and a heavy drinker in college. I should have realized he wouldn’t change. After all those long-winded promises to straighten up. I was supposed to be his salvation! The only change he made was to add gambling to his vices as well! She knotted together the laces in his shoes and tossed them into the box.

  And then there was that trouble last night! I wish I had at least shot at him! How could I have ever even considered letting him use me like that?

  She dropped to her knees and fished around under Elliot’s bed with his tennis racket until she nudged out both his bedroom slippers. They went in with the rest.

  “Might as well keep the tennis racket,” she said. “I may lose something under my bed one day.” She tossed it onto the mattress. She was examining the strangely shaped metal object which had also come from beneath his bed. “Now, what on earth is that? Oh, well, if I can’t identify it, I’m not likely to ever need it.” It followed the slippers.

  Below her, Clare heard the doorbell ring and she froze. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Could it be Thorndyke again?

  Cautiously, she got to her feet. Betty had gone to the market and she could hear Eldon running the electric edger in the backyard. Damn! She was alone again!

  Hesitantly, Clare went to the top of the stairs and looked down as the bell rang again. Whoever it was was standing directly in front of the door, and she couldn’t see him through the narrow glass side panels.

  She went back to her bedroom and got the revolver from the top of her bedside table. After the problem with Neal, she had felt more secure having it close at hand while she slept. When she opened the front door, she was surprised to see a tall stranger. He was equally startled to see the pistol she held at her side.

  “Do you plan to shoot me with that thing, or do I get a chance to leave quietly?” he asked. His voice was deep and strong and it stirred her oddly. Dark gold hair, tousled boyishly by the wind, contrasted with his tanned skin, and his sensuous lips were tilted in a smile. But his hazel-green eyes watched her warily.

  Clare looked puzzled, then realized she still had the gun. Blushing slightly, she laid it on the hall table just inside the doorway. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.”

  “T’m glad I’m not him. My name is Ryan Hastings. I’m with Huntly Oil out of New Orleans, and I’d like to talk to your husband about some property. This is Elliot Marshall’s home isn!t it?”

  “Yes,” she said, realizing she was staring. “I’m Clare Marshall.” Never in her life had she seen so handsome a man. That strange something within her stirred again.

  “Is Mr. Marshall in?”

  “No,” she said in a dazed manner. “He’s dead.” The slow, rhythmic cadence of the man’s voice had a hypnotizing effect on her.

  Ryan blinked and bent his head to one side. “I beg your pardon?”

  Clare blushed hotly. “I’m sorry. You’ve caught me quite by surprise.” Of all the dumb things to say! she groaned inwardly.

  Was he from the bank? Clare wondered. Had the land been put up for sale already? Impossible! Caution crept into her voice. “What I mean to say is that my husband is dead. What can I do for you?”

  Ryan gazed down at the beautiful woman. She was certainly not what he had expected. Awkwardly, he realized some reply was necessary. “I’m sorry about your husband. The land office didn’t tell me.”

  She bobbed her head in acceptance and waited quietly for him to continue.

  “I represent Huntly Oil,” he said confidently. “We’re interested in your land and would like to drill on it.” His tone of voice indicated that he fully expected her to jump at the opportunity.

  “It isn’t for sale,” Clare said between colorless lips. “I think you’d better leave.” They are all alike, she thought, even the handsome ones.

  He smiled down at her, his teeth startlingly white in his bronzed face. “You misunderstand. I don’t want to buy your land. Just lease it.” Ryan found himself looking deep into her smoky eyes. They seemed to have no end to their depths. What could be so threatening to this incredibly beautiful woman that she’d have to answer her door with a gun?

  “My company feels there is the possibility of oil on land between here and Gladewater. I’ve been authorized to offer you a lease,” he explained again.

  “Oil?” she asked. “All the oil around here is gone. You’re about fifty years too late, Mr. Hastings.” She’d recovered her composure and spoke coolly to cover her earlier confusion.

  “This is a different field we’re looking for. Could I come in and talk to you about it?”

  Clare hesitated, then stepped outside to join him. After the incident with Neal Thorndyke, she wasn’t about to let a stranger into her house, no matter how charming he appeared to be.

  “Why don’t we sit on the side porch?” she suggested. “There’s a breeze today.” She glanced at him curiously as she led him down the wide, relatively cool veranda. His very presence was acting like a magnet to her senses. She was acutely aware of the muscular leanness of his lithe body and how his broad shoulders strained against the pale blue cloth of his dress shirt.

  As they rounded the corner, she motioned for him to sit down in one of the chairs. Ryan thought it looked like a sculpture made of white plastic plumbing pipe covered with nylon mesh, but he sat down anyway. It was surprisingly comfortable.

  “I’ve been to the courthouse in Longview,” he explained, “and they gave me your name as the owner of the land I’m interested in. I had no idea your husband had died. I’m sorry.”

  She briefly nodded her head again and leaned gracefully back into the chair cushions.

  “I also went to the two deep well sites that are being drilled near here. One is just south of Laneville and the other is between here and Tyler. By my calculations, both of them are too far south. I think the oil is here. Under Kilgore.”

  “So do a lot of other people. Land is leased around here regularly, but nobody ever hits oil.”

  “That’s because they aren’t going deep enough.” He leaned forward eagerly. “Think of it as if the oil deposit is shaped like a figure eight, with the top part near the surface. The top of the eight has been pumped dry, but the bottom of the eight is still full of oil. There are fissures and very deep caverns all throughout this part of Texas, but this is the only spot where one of the caverns is directly below the oil-bearing sands. For millions of years, the oil formed near the surface and drained into the caverns.”

  Clare watched him intently as he spoke, almost I mesmerized by his irresistible masculinity. The firm set of his jaw indicated a determination that was evidenced by the fervor of his words. His robust virility was not to be denied. Clare was having considerable difficulty keeping her mind on oil, and cautioned herself that this was business. “What terms did you have in mind, Mr. Hastings?” Clare offered, not sure what his last words had been.

  “I was thinking of fifty dollars an acre for your entire thousand acres, and a one-eighth royalty on a five-year lease, with annual payments. Just sign these papers and I’ll be on my way.” Confidently, he pulled a standard lease form out of a leather folder. He had taken the liberty ahead of time to fill in all the blanks with the terms he was of
fering.

  Clare’s thoughts of her dire financial straits snapped back her attention. She was astute enough to realize a better deal could be made. She smiled sweetly. “I was thinking more in terms of a hundred and fifty an acre for three years… with a three-sixteenth royalty.”

  “How’s that?” Ryan queried, his hand halfway to the pen in his pocket.

  “It you’re so sure the oil is there, your offer will be matched by any of the major companies.”

  “I can’t authorize that much for a thousand acres!”

  “Good. I only want to lease five hundred acres. That’ll give you almost a full block and plenty to drill on.”

  “I’d prefer to lease all the land, but fifty an acre is the best I can do. If we strike off, that means you could have wells on the entire amount.”

  Clare laughed. “Mr. Hastings, we both know that if you strike oil, I won’t have any trouble finding somebody to drill on the rest of it… and at a better price.” She looked as collected and utterly feminine as if she were at a tea party. She hoped she hadn’t pushed him too far. His original offer of ten thousand dollars a year for five years was certainly more than enough to get the mortgage note up to date. But, the more she could get, the easier it’d be to get back on her feet financially.

  “A hundred and fifty is out of the question.” Ryan began to gather up his papers again. Often a bluff like this helped in stubborn cases. It had to work; he needed this lease. His

  theory was right and he had to prove it, not just to himself, but to Huntly Oil as well.

  Clare hadn’t been married to a gambler for four years without learning a few tricks. She shrugged elegantly and looked slightly bored. ”Very well, Mr. Hastings. I’m willing to meet you halfway. I’ll take a hundred dollars an acre for five hundred acres, with the three-sixteenths royalty. The duration of the lease can stay as you first said.”

  Ryan studied her closely. Never had he met a woman who was so intriguing. It was not only her obvious intelligence, though he admired this in a woman, or even’ her physical appearance that had so captivated him, but rather some mysterious quality she seemed to exude. He moved restlessly and tried to keep his mind on business.

  “Of course, if you’re not interested… she bluffed in turn, hoping it wasn’t a mistake.

  She smiled and appeared at ease; yet, as Ryan gazed into her eyes, he saw something totally different. This was a look he had seen more than oncea desperate need for money.

  “All right,” he agreed. “The head office won’t be happy, but it’s a deal.” He was rewarded by a look of momentary, but intense, relief on her face. She never took her gaze from his pen as he changed the figures on the contract and made out a draft of ten thousand dollars for the first year’s lease. When he handed Clare the pen, she signed her name with determined strokes, but her hand shook slightly as she took the draft. As her fingers brushed his, he felt a sharp rush of excitement and was very aware of her nearness. The warm breeze in her hair brought him her sweet aroma and he held himself cautiously in check.

  Careful, he thought, remember Dore. You don’t need to get involved with another woman. Yet he found himself trying to think of some reason to prolong the interview.

  Clare studied the draft for a moment. “Mr. Hastings, this is a collection draft, not a check,” she said, trying to cover the anxiety she felt.

  “Yes, it is. It’s our customary twenty-day collection draft. You just deposit that in your bank and it’ll be sent to our bank and”

  “That won’t do. I mean… I’d rather have a cashier’s check. I don’t like doing business with collection drafts. Why

  should your company have the lease for twenty days before I get any money?” she asked defensively.

  Ryan heard the words of a shrewd business woman, but the glint of desperation had shone again in the depths of her gray eyes. Without being consciously aware of why he did it, he agreed to arrange for a cashier’s check to be deposited to her bank account before the end of the day.

  When he stood up to indicate the end of the discussion, Ryan felt a twinge of regret. He wanted to get to know, her better. “Can I buy you lunch to celebrate your entry into the oil business?” he asked as he smiled down at her.

  Clare faltered as if there were nothing she wanted more to do. “No. I’d… I’d love to, but I have a great deal more to do today. And I have a very important meeting this afternoon.” She held out her hand. “I have enjoyed doing business with you, Mr. Hastings.”

  Ryan took her hand in his. The bones felt so fragile beneath the smooth skin. An oddly protective feeling swept over him. “It’s been a pleasure, Mrs. Marshall. I hope we meet again.” Before the unusual emotion could stop him, he strode purposefully down the walk that curved to accommodate the sprawling base of the antiquated oil derrick.

  Clare leaned against one of the large white columns that supported the upper veranda and watched him walk with catlike grace to his car, fold his tall frame inside and drive out of sight around the bend in her woods-lined drive. Her hand still tingled from his electrifying touch, and her heart beat fast as if she had been running.

  “Clare Marshall, you’re a fool,” she whispered.

  Chapter Five

  Ryan Hastings had kept his promise, so Clare smiled triumphantly as she stepped away from the teller’s window. The bank lobby no longer seemed so vast and frightening. Without hesitation, she walked purposefully across the lobby, knocked on Neal Thorndyke’s oak door and entered at the growled summons.

  He glared warily at her over his steepled fingertips, making no move to rise when she entered. At last taking his elbows off his desk, Thorndyke said, “At least you’re prompt. I’ve already drawn up the papers deeding your farm to the bank. Our lawyer has looked them over and everything is in order. Now, if you’ll sign here, you can be on your way and I can get back to business.” He pushed the papers and pen across the desk.

  “Not so fast Mr. Thorndyke!”

  To her surprise, as her hand dipped into her purse, he jumped and his skin became waxy. He must think I’ve reconsidered shooting him, she thought with amusement, though she kept her expression solemn. Thorndyke swallowed hard and began easing himself away from the desk.

  Getting all the mileage she could out of the spontaneous deception, Clare paused a moment longer, then withdrew the roll of green bills from her purse.

  “Count it, please,” she said. “You’ll find it to be the complete nine thousand dollars I owed. Exactly.” With the remainder of the lease money now safely deposited in her account, plus the art lesson income, Clare felt she’d be able to meet the monthly payments. It would be tight, but she was prepared to do without quite a bit in order to keep Thorndyke from having the satisfaction of foreclosing. Best of all, she had done it without having to compromise herself with him.

  Silently, Thorndyke eased back to his desk, his breathing still somewhat rapid. He quickly counted the bills and hastily shoved them into a drawer. Clare was glad she had cashed the check rather than having it transferred to the bank. Thorndyke’s discomfort was worth the extra effort.

  “Well,” he said reluctantly, “it looks as if it’s all in order. You realize, of course, you must meet every due date, and on time. I won’t allow even a single payment to lapse again.”

  “The lapse wasn’t my fault to begin with,” she stated firmly. “It was Elliot’s. I don’t intend to lose my land. I want a receipt, please.”

  “See that you aren’t even a day late in paying from here on. I won’t stand for it,” the banker blustered, seeming confident now that he wouldn’t be shot. He scrawled out the receipt. “After the way you led me on last night, I’d like nothing better than to turn you out, lock, stock and barrel.”

  Clare’s eyes narrowed dangeroulsy. “I led you on? You’re quite lucky not to be in jail today for attempted rape,” she countered as she leaned on his desk, forcing him to draw back involuntarily. “As for turning me out of my house, you can’t. You see, I’ve spent quit
e a bit of time in the library lately. According to Texas law, you can’t take my house. It’s homesteaded.”

  Thorndyke rose behind his desk, his face purple with rage. “Maybe I can’t take the house, but I can… and will… take every goddamn acre you own!”

  Clare smiled coolly. “Not unless I miss a payment. And I never intend to do that. Good day, Mr. Thorndyke. I’ll deliver the monthly payment to you in cash, personally, at the first of each month.”

  With a swish of her yellow pleated skirt, Clare was gone, leaving Neal gripping the edge of his desk and glaring after her.

  Clare felt the buoyancy of success as she crossed the lobby. She had every intention of doing exactly as she’d said she would. By the time the mortgage was paid off, Neal would be sick of the very sight of her. Revenge was sweet, she decided. An afternoon in the castlelike gray stone library seemed to be a good idea. She wanted to learn as much as possible about the oil business.

  She hurried out the door, skipped down the steps and ran headlong into a tall man. Papers flew about them like confetti as he caught her to keep her from falling.

  “Oh!” she gasped, seeing Ryan Hastings’ hazel eyes so close to her own and feeling the steel muscles of his arms protectively around her. “I… I should have been watching where I was going.”

  Ryan grinned in glad recognition. “So should I. I was on my way to the law office next door and wasn’t paying any attention.”

  Suddenly aware of her position in his arms and the strange sense of excitement she felt, Clare blushed and moved away. To cover her confusion, she bent to help him pick up the scattered papers. Neither of them spoke.

  As they both reached for the last, their hands brushed together and, again, their eyes met. For a moment, time seemed suspended.

  “Have dinner with me,” Ryan said softly.

  “Yes.”

  Ryan looked down at the papers in his hand as if surprised to see them. “I have to take care of this first. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

  Clare could only nod.