Opal Fires

by Lynda Trent

  Clare stared fixedly at Tom as the full realization hammered in on her. “But Elliot lost? To Neal Thorndyke?”

  Tom nodded miserably.

  Now it was all clear! Thorndyke had won Elliot’s money; then, when Elliot couldn’t pay, he had talked him into mortgaging her land! Then Neal had won that money, too!

  Red anger misted Clare’s mind and she turned to Ryan. “Take me home, please. Now.”

  “Clare, I’m sorry,” Tom said. “I really am.”

  ”It’s okay,” she said. “I’m glad I know. That explains a lot that didn’t make sense before.” She even managed a weak smile, but she felt close to tears. “Ryan?”

  “Of course. I’ll get your coat.”

  With perfection, Clare made her goodby speech to Dyna, then they left.

  Across the room, Regina saw Ryan, did a double take, then noticed he was with Clare. Clare Marshall, of all people. Elliot’s wife. Regina allowed no frown to trouble her face, but she seethed inside. Clare was one of the few single women in town who was rich enough to be a rival. She had somehow trapped Elliot into marriage, now she was after Ryan. And after the night Regina had spent in Ryan’s arms, she was reconsidering her decision to marry Neal. Seeing Clare with Ryan confirmed it.

  “Who’s that with Clare Marshall?” Neal asked. “I haven’t seen him around.”

  ” That, darling, is Ryan Hastings,” Regina replied with a knowing look and a lifted eyebrow.

  Neal felt the fun leave his day. If that was his rival, he was in trouble. He had been concerned lately that Hastings might be able to strike oil before Clare’s lease was up… It was a slim chance, but the man was good enough. The best way to get him out of town was to ruin the well, or at least stall the drilling until foreclosure could be brought on Clare’s mineral rights. Thorndyke’s expressionless eyes blinked and his calculator-like brain ran through all the possibilities. Killing Ryan would be difficult but not impossible. He mentally went over the list of crew members Pete Hammly had brought him. One name seemed perfect, Neal Thorndyke’s lips smiled, but not his eyes.

  The owner of the Cowboy Lounge had conceded to winter by nailing a sheet of plywood over the large fan mounted on the back wall, and by turning on several gas heaters along each wall. The room was not warm, but that prompted more drinking among his clientele.

  Thorndyke motioned for the owner to bring two more whiskeys. He hated the place, but he was there on business. Waiting patiently for the drinks, he watched the man beside him. Sebe Youngblood had been born and raised in Kilgore just as he had. They had gone to the same school until the eighth grade, when Sebe quit school books for farm work. Thorndyke had known Sebe all his life… He had spoken to him for the first time only three weeks before.

  “How’s the drilling coming along, Sebe?”

  The man was staring hypnotically at the glass the bartender was filling and trying to keep his hands from shaking. “I’m doing my best,” he whined. “That Mr. Hastings, he’s all over the rig. Him and Mr. Talmidge. I’ve loosened bolts, hid tools, everything I can think of. They always come along and set things straight. They ain’t caught me, though.”

  Thorndyke frowned. This wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “You’re going to have to do better than that. I’m not paying you to do this penny ante stuff. I want that well slowed down or ruined!”

  “Yes, sir, I know.” Youngblood grabbed the glass when it was placed in front of him and downed it in one gulp. As the fire spread through his body, calming his frazzled nerves, he closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “Tomorrow I want you to put the boiler out of commission.”

  Sebe Youngblood’s red-rimmed eyes widened and his mouth gaped open in his loosely wrinkled face. “The boiler! How’m I supposed to do that?”

  “Hell, man, do I have to tell you everything? You know that equipment better than I do. Plug up the vent valve and overpressure it until it blows. I don’t care how you do it, so long as it looks like an accident. And wear work gloves so you don’t show up with scalded hands.”

  Sebe grinned slowly, showing the yellowed stumps of his teeth. “That’d put them off for sure. A thing like that could happen easy. It’s an old boiler. Don’t know why Mr. Hastings didn’t put in a new one, anyway. It ought to set them back at least a week.”

  “Good,” Thorndyke said with relief. “I’m buying you one more drink, then you’re leaving. I want you sober enough tomorrow to do the job.”

  “Yep. Without no boiler, they can’t make the machinery work or nothing.” He nodded with respect for Thorndyke’s wisdom. “That’s real sharp.”

  “Thanks,” Neal said wryly. He detested having to deal with a drunk like Sebe Youngblood.

  The bushy pine tree spread its aroma as well as its limbs into the paneled den. Clear glass ornaments, as fragile as soap babbles, floated among the dark green needles. Tiny sleighs pulled by miniscule reindeer flew between the branches, small angels perched beside little drums and minute stockings stuffed with and chocolates adorned the large tree.

  “Are you sure that thing isn’t alive?” Ryan asked as he edged beside a sweeping branch.

  “Nonsense. It’s a beautiful tree. I cut it down myself. It’s a family tradition that I intend to carry on.”

  “But, Clare, shouldn’t you have measured the room first? I mean, it’s so big!”

  “You’re just used to buying a horrid tree from one of those lots. They’re all painted green to cover the dead needles and look as if they’re made from plastic. All the same shape, all the same height. Prickly little bottle-brush limbs and lots of bare trunk showing. Now this tree, on the other hand, has style. Personality. A tree to be proud of.” She stroked the long, shiny needles admiringly. The angel sleeves of her silvery silk hostess gown flowed softly about her graceful arms with the movement, and her cloud of umber hair tumbled over her shoulder and onto her breast. She had no idea what a beautiful picture she made to Ryan’s eyes.

  “You’ve convinced me. From now on, I’ll have only big, round Christmas trees,” Ryan teased. “I guess that means you aren’t fond of my tree.”

  She sniffed disdainfully. “A rubber plant decorated with a chain made from beer can pull-tabs and three pretzels tied on with string is not a Christmas tree.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” he said, reaching into the pocket of his navy blue slacks. “But look what grew under it.” He handed her a small box wrapped in silver paper.

  She took it from him and smiled. “Thank you, Ryan.”

  “You don’t know yet whether to thank me or not. It might be peanut hulls. Open it up.”

  Maybe I’d better. It is pretty light,” she said, shaking it experimentally. She reached under the tree and pulled out a large package for him.

  “For me?” he gasped in a parody of surprise. “You shouldn’t have!”

  “I’m beginning to think you may be right,” she said with a grimace. “Open it up before I take it back.”

  Ryan sat on the carpet and pulled her down beside him. “You have to sit on the floor to open your gift on Christmas. Otherwise, the Christmas fairy will be offended and blow up your tree.”

  She laughed. “That must be a custom I’m not familiar with.”

  “You mean you’ve lived with exploding Christmas trees all these years and never asked why? Foolhardy youth.” He carefully began to unwrap his present. “The secret is to take the paper off slowly, make it last.”

  “If you don’t hurty, Christmas Day will be over.”

  Soon the paper fell away, and he saw the painting she had done for him. It was of the pine forest where they had made love. She had captured the slanting sunlight, the golden pine needles, the incredible majesty of the trees. In the clearing, she had depicted Ryan leaning against a tree trunk. One thumb was casually hooked through the belt loop of his jeans and his other arm rested on the tree. He was smiling as if he’d only that instant caught sight of someone he welcomed. Although his pose was relaxed and comforta
ble, Clare had lost none of his male magnetism. He looked real enough to move at any moment. It was one of the best portraits Clare had ever done.

  “When did you do this?” he asked. “I had no idea.”

  “I carry a picture of you in my mind, too,” she said, looking at him rather than at the painting. “I was only going to paint the woods, but it seemed empty without you, so I changed it into a portrait.” She paused self-consciously.

  “You did a magnificent job! I can almost feel the wind through the pines. But why aren’t you in the picture?”

  “I didn’t feel as if I should be. Not in your painting. I don’t belong.”

  He gazed down at her and let his eyes rove caressingly over her face, her hair, her throat. “Yes, you do,” he said tenderly. “You belong there very much.” He lifted his hand and gently stroked the curve of her cheek, letting his fingers trace the clean line of her jaw and travel down her slender throat to the warm hollow where her pulse had begun to beat rapidly.

  Clare knew they were discussing more than a composition, and she felt a blush steal across her face. To cover her nervousness, she began to open her own gift.

  Inside the shiny paper was a dark blue velvet box. Slowly, she opened it, and sighed with wonder. An incredibly delicate opal pendant on the tiniest of gold chains lay in the velvet. Subtle fires of blue, green and gold flashed in the milky depths that shaded to pale pink and mauve. Awed, she lifted it from the box and held it up to the light. The stone seemed to pulsate with a life of its own and the chain shimmered as it laced through her fingers.

  “It’s beautiful!” she gasped.

  “When I saw it, I knew it was yours. You’re as delicate and feminine as it is. And, when we make love, I see the same fires burning deep in your eyes.”

  She looked at him in astonishment. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard,” she said softly. Tears of happiness welled in her eyes. “You’re so good to me.”

  “I’m only getting started.” He reached out and took the necklace and fastened it around her neck. “It’s not as beautiful as you are, but then, nothing is.”

  “Oh, Ryan,” she sighed, putting her arms around his neck. “I’m so glad I know you.”

  “I’m glad I know you, too,” he whispered.

  The emotional warmth they both felt was accentuated by the flames that blazed cozily in the hearth. As they flickered onto the honey-gold oak paneling, it gleamed like satin. Ryan rose from the rust-colored plush carpeting, pulled some huge floor pillows from the corner and piled them in front of the fire.

  “What are you doing? Making a nest?” she teased.

  He caught her hand and drew her down beside him. “This is the only way to enjoy a fire,” he said as he guided her head onto his shoulder. Protectively, he put his arm around her and stroked her arm as she rubbed her check happily on his midnight-blue sweater. The collar of the white shirt he wore beneath it contrasted sharply with the tan of the strong column of his neck, and his gold-brown hair fell easily across his brow. She sighed happily.

  “You’re right,” she agreed as she snuggled closer. “I’m glad you didn’t have to work today. Everyone should be allowed to take Christmas Day off.”

  “It’s not that simple,” he said as he caressed the top of her shining hair. “We can’t shut down the machinery. Most of the men are off today, though.”

  “How are things coming along? I mean, do you think we’ll have any more problems?”

  He gazed into the fire for a long while before he answered. “I think we have everything back under control. All these slowdowns have held us back, but some rigs are like that. They seem to have personalities of their own after a while… Some never give any trouble and others seem to go wrong every time you turn around.” He stared silently at the flames as he continued in his thoughts. He kind of problems he was having with the well were not the sort that happened consistently by accident. Could one of his crew be responsible? Nonsense, he chided himself. What would anyone possibly stand to gain by sabotaging Clare’s well? He kissed her forehead and smiled. “Let’s not talk shop tonight. I just want to think about you.”

  Clare smiled up at him and kissed him lightly. “All right. The well is forgotten.”

  The hypnotic flames leaped and sank to leap again on the logs. Beneath the andirons, a red, orange and yellow landscape glowed in the embers. Now and then, a bead of sap exploded into sparks like miniature fireworks.

  “This has been a good Christmas,” he mused. “The best one I can remember.”

  She nodded. “Almost perfect.”

  “Almost?”

  Clare had been thinking that she wanted this day to go on forever. Just the two of them. But she was afraid to tell him that. “I’m too full,” she said instead. “Betty’s too good a cook.”

  “Tell me about it,” he groaned. “One more slice of pie would have done me in.”

  The fire crackled and sputtered; and neither Ryan nor Clare voiced the true thoughts that each longed to share.

  If only I could freeze time, he was thinking, I could hang on to this keep her here beside me from now on. Aloud, he said, “The reason this Christmas is so good is because of you.”

  “It’s lonely not having a family,” she told him. “Sometimes it’s worse if you do have one, though,” she added, thinking of the times she had spent wondering whom Elliot was with. “That can be lonely, too.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of my family. I meant it’s good to be here with you.” He rubbed his check against her fragrant hair.

  Clare’s heart beat faster. “I’m glad you’re here, too. There’s no one else in the world I’d rather have spent Christmas with.”

  “Do you mean that?” He gazed down at her as he gently stroked the rose-petal softness of her skin.

  “Yes.” She felt her eyes melt into his and had the sensation of feeling their souls touch, and merge.

  Slowly, he bent his head and lifted her chin to meet his lips. He kissed her wonderingly, lovingly. Then more thoroughly as her warm lips parted beneath his. He held her close, his heart pounding.

  “Clare, I’ve never known anyone like you. The more I see you, the more I want to be around you. I can’t get enough of you.”

  She held to him tightly and wished she knew more about men. Did he mean those words? Were they only said lightly? She had no yardstick of experience with which to measure. Except Elliot. “Please, Ryan. Don’t.”

  “Why not? Why are you so afraid to hear how I feel about you?”

  “I’m afraid I’ll get hurt again.”

  “Are you going to let one bad experience ruin the rest of your life?”

  “It wasn’t just an experience, it was a marriage,” she defended herself. “And I haven’t known you that long.”

  “What if I assure you my intentions am honorable?” he asked wryly.

  Clare took a deep breath and plunged on. “What if I ask you who Dore is?”

  The crackling of the fire emphasized the sudden silence in the room. Ryan wondered if be could possibly have heard right. “Dore?” be asked incredulously.

  “Yes, Dore. I saw her photograph in New Orleans beside your bed. From the way she signed it, she must think there’s something between you,” She held her breath.

  “I forgot the picture was there,” he said absently.

  “I don’t want to play games. I don’t want to share. That sounds childish, I know, but that’s the way I feel.”

  “Dore Armound is dead, Clare. She died last summer in a car accident.”

  A wave of embarrassment washed over her. “Oh. I’m sorry. It must be very painful for you. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “How could you know? It was bad at the time. We had had an argument and she left angry. I followed her and saw the accident. She died instantly.”

  Clare tightened her arms around him as if she could protect him from the memories.

  “I wasn’t in love with her. I doubt that she was really in love with me, though
she said she was. At any rate, she’s gone. She has no place in our lives.”

  “I feel terrible about bringing it up. I thought… I thought she was in New Orleans waiting for you.”

  “I’m not like that, Clare.”

  “My husband had an affair. It started a few months after our wedding and lasted until he died. I knew about it from the beginning, although I tried to pretend I must be mistaken. I even know the woman quite well. You haven’t met her,” she added. “At any rate, I was afraid you wanted me to accept that there was someone else. I can’t. Not ever again.” Not with someone I may be failing in love with, she thought.

  Ryan was silent. Now, more than ever, he knew he had to keep Clare from learning about his night with Regina. Clare would never understand that it had been triggered by seeing her with the gallery owner from Dallas. That it would never happen again.

  “I understand,” he said. “Clare, I’m telling you something important, so listen. I’m not seeing anyone but you. I have no one hidden in the wings, nor do I want to have, nor will I have. Understand?”

  “Yes,” she said with a smile. “I understand.”

  He kissed her tenderly and marveled at the way her body fit into the curve of his own, as if it belonged there. In time, he thought. In time, she will be ready to hear of my love.

  The fire cast shadows of bronze on their gold reflected skin. The warm scent of wood smoke lightly touched the room. They lay together comfortably, watching the dancing flames.

  “This is perfect,” he said. “Let’s do this again next year.”

  “All right. We can form a pact.”

  “Right.”

  “Should we throw salt over our left shoulders or something!”

  “Nope, too messy. Let’s kiss instead.” He brushed her lips with his. “That seals it. A year from now. Right here. Together.”

  Clare smiled and nodded as she cuddled against his shoulder. But she wondered fleetingly if she would still own her home by the next Christmas. She wouldn’t unless the oil well came in. “Next year,” she said. “If not here, at least together.”

  Two days later, Joe Talmidge, wearing a new set of khaki work clothes that were already smeared with grime and grease, shoved the heavy iron lever into place. The chain screwed the upper section of pipe onto the length being held securely at the platform level. The bit had been changed and the many lengths of pipe had to be reattached and put back down the hole… one at a time. The job was tedious and very time-consuming, but it had to be done, and done right. Although he couldn’t take his mind too far away from his work, Joe Talmidge was vaguely aware of someone almost out of sight beneath the platform, near the boiler. Like all the roughnecks, this person was dressed in a khaki shirt and pants, and from that angle Talmidge couldn’t identify him.