by Jeanne Allan
“Willing to buy. How generous of you that sounds. Don’t you mean eager to buy at bargain-basement prices?”
“Frank Bernarde didn’t tell you that.”
“Certainly not. He was quick to assure me Charles Gannen was quite satisfied with the conditions of sale.”
“But you’re not.” It wasn’t a question. When Charlotte failed to respond, Matthew said in an exasperated voice, “Charlie was the shrewdest horse trader around.”
Charlotte gave the waitress a quick smile of thanks and dipped her fork into the fruit salad the woman set before her.
“But we aren’t talking just about horses, are we? We’re talking about land and cows and all kinds of stuff. As far as I can figure out, Charles Gannen sold you about everything but mineral rights, water rights and the kitchen sink.” She pointed a fork loaded with watermelon at Matthew. “I think you took advantage of an old man who held no hope for the future.”
Matthew raised a mocking brow. “Since when have you been Charlie’s champion?”
“If he went barefoot because you cheated him out of the boots on his feet, I couldn’t care less. Just don’t think I’m as easy a mark. If I decide to sell to you, I’ll...” Charlotte totally forgot what she was going to say as she spotted the blond woman standing at the entrance to the dining room. Charlotte recognized the woman instantly. The previous evening she’d seen the woman’s portrait sitting beside Tim’s bed.
“You’ll what?” Matthew prompted before realizing Charlotte was looking past him. He swiveled in his chair, and stiffened.
The woman walking toward them was blond and blue-eyed. She was a beauty, if one ignored the small lines of discontent etched in her face, lines that would give her a fretful appearance as she aged. The black of her form-fitting shirt should have been wrong for her, but it made her look sexy and sophisticated. Long silver and turquoise earrings dangled to her shoulders, silver cuffs ringed both her wrists, and colorful stones decorated the woman’s fingers as she curved her hand around the back of Matthew’s neck. “Matt, darling, I thought I saw your disreputable pickup parked down the street.”
“Paula.” Matthew rose slowly to his feet. “I hadn’t heard you were back.”
The blond woman’s sleek eyebrows rose skyward. “Darling, I can see that. Aren’t you going to introduce your new—” she paused infinitesimally “—friend?”
“Charlotte,” Matthew said in studied politeness, “this is Paula Kenton, my wife Lara’s younger sister. Paula, I’d like you to meet Charlotte Darnelle.”
His voice left not the slightest doubt in Charlotte’s mind that as much as Matthew disliked her, he disliked Paula Kenton even more. Charlotte immediately invited her to join them.
Matthew gave Charlotte a dark look. “Take my chair, Paula. I’ll get another.”
The next few minutes Charlotte ate her salad as Paula organized her possessions, the waitress and their seating arrangements. Charlotte was not surprised when Paula refused Matthew’s chair and settled firmly into a chair between Matthew and Charlotte. Paula was obviously taking no chances on anyone taking her sister’s place. Anyone else, Charlotte corrected herself, covertly studying Paula as the other woman chatted vivaciously with Matthew, her head close to his, her hand resting on his forearm.
The woman’s conversation centered on people and events Charlotte could have no knowledge of, by design, Charlotte felt sure. Her attention wandered to her surroundings. Outside, a sparrow hopped off the curb in pursuit of an elusive crumb. Tourists wandered by eating ice-cream cones. A couple hesitated outside the window and peered inside at the dining room’s interior. Most of the tables were empty now. Several hikers, their backpacks at their feet, laughed at one table while two suit-clad business men conversed quietly at another.
“Have you recently moved to Durango, Charlene?” The blond beauty deigned to notice Charlotte.
Charlotte set down her elegant stemmed water glass. “No. I’m—”
“Staying with us,” Matthew smoothly interjected, at the same time unleashing a warm smile across the table in Charlotte’s direction. “Charlotte might decide to live around here—” his eyelids drooped sensually “—permanently.”
If Charlotte hadn’t already swallowed her water, she’d have choked to death. Matthew’s statement intimated there was something between them. She opened her mouth to deny any such possibility. “Ouch.”
“I’m sorry, Charlotte. Did I kick you? There’s not much leg room under this table. You were saying?”
Charlotte bared her teeth at him. “I was saying, Matthew, that—”
“Matthew? You let her call you Matthew?”
A slow smile crawled across his face. “I like the prissy little voice she says it in.”
Before Charlotte could tell Matthew to take a flying leap off a tall building, Paula asked, “Since when have you liked prissy women, Matt? I thought your taste ran to women who could string fence, jockey a tractor and ride fast and hard.”
“Riding fast and hard is your preference, not mine,” Matthew said. “Don’t let those frilly clothes fool you. Charlotte is a born rider, isn’t that right, Charlotte?”
He’d boxed her in, and the amusement in his eyes told Charlotte he was well aware of it. She wasn’t about to confess to a sneering Paula that Matthew considered her as suitable to ranch living as an orchid was to living in Antarctica. On the other hand, if Paula was a threat to Matthew’s bachelor status, he could look for another poor female to hide behind. Charlotte didn’t appreciate being thrown as fresh meat in front of the predatory Paula. She opted for what she hoped would be middle ground. “I certainly enjoyed riding Penny.”
“You let her ride Penny when you won’t let me ride her?”
“I told you years ago you’d never ride another horse of mine. I haven’t changed my mind.”
“You spoil your animals,” Paula said petulantly. “I suppose your son is still hauling around that filthy vermin-ridden rodent. That creature is not to come to my house while I’m there, or I’ll turn it loose in the barn for the cats.”
Charlotte looked at the pink tablecloth, not trusting herself to speak. Matthew abruptly pushed back his chair and rose. “Let’s go, Charlotte. We have another stop to make.”
Paula stood up and threw her arms around his neck. “All right, you old meanie, I won’t say another word about your precious son. Call me. Mom and Dad would like to see you.”
He loosened her arms. “I saw them the other day.”
She ran her fingers across his shoulders. “I haven’t seen Helen for ages.”
“I’ll tell her you’re back. Ready, Charlotte?”
Charlotte scrambled to her feet. “If you are, Matthew.” Smiling determinedly at him as he clasped her elbow, she hoped her voice sounded suitably prissy.
“I’ll be damned.” Paula stared at Charlotte’s shoes. “Where did Matt find you, anyway?”
“Denver.”
“I think you’d better run right back there,” Paula said. “You and Matt wouldn’t last together five minutes. You’re the weak, silly, romantic type, and Matt needs a woman who’s strong and tough. Ranch living isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Charlene. If you don’t believe me, ask Matt why my sister left him.” Paula turned to Matthew and laid her long fingers against his cheek. “Not that I care about that.” Standing on tiptoes, she pressed her mouth against Matthew’s thinned lips. “Call me,” she ordered throatily, running her nails down the side of his face. Then she whirled and was gone.
Leaving behind an awkward silence. Charlotte rubbed her elbow. Matthew had gripped it so hard at his sister-in-law’s words, it was a wonder any feeling remained. “I didn’t know it was possible to flounce in cowboy boots. Or even to walk in jeans that tight.” Not for a million dollars would she ask for an explanation of Paula’s remark about her sister. Nor would she comment on the faint white streaks running down Matthew’s face. And, as he dragged her through the hotel lobby, she certainly didn’t think it prudent to
ask him to repeat whatever it was he’d growled half under his breath.
Matthew barely allowed Charlotte time to belt herself in the pickup before throwing the truck into gear and charging into traffic. “Thanks,” he snarled.
“For letting your sister-in-law assume we’re a cozy twosome?” Another savage shift thrust her against the seat.
“I fully expected you to declare you’d rather date Snowball than me.” He spared her a quick glance. “Why didn’t you?”
“She irritated me.”
Matthew snorted. “An attractive woman always brings out Paula’s claws. Pay no attention to her.”
The compliment was sweeter by virtue of being unintentional. Never mind Matthew’s conclusion was off one hundred and eighty degrees. Paula’s attitude toward Tim was the sole reason Charlotte hadn’t set her straight. Hating the idea of the woman as Tim’s next mother, Charlotte decided to subtly probe. “Paula certainly looks like the picture Tim has of his mother.”
“Next to my wife, Paula is a flawed imitation,” he said curtly. “Lara was beautiful and charming, the perfect, dutiful daughter. Everything came easily to her. Paula wanted everything Lara had, and never quite understood why she always came up short. She’s the black sheep of her family, twenty-eight years old and never settled to anything, including a husband. She’s been married and divorced three times.”
The pickup sped across a bridge spanning the Animas River. Below them two kayaks and a large rubber raft bobbed on the turbulent waters. “Maybe the man she wanted was unavailable.”
“I wondered when you’d get around to that remark of Paula’s about Lara leaving me.” Matthew swung the truck around a sharp curve and headed up a steep hill.
“I thought your wife was dead.”
“She is.” He shifted with a harsh clash of gears. “We were temporarily living apart—working out some problems.”
Hearing the pain in his voice, Charlotte glanced quickly at him. His jaw might have been chiseled from granite. Uncertain how to respond, she looked out the window. They’d ascended a steep hill, and Durango was spread out below. Ahead of them was a large, well-kept cemetery. Cold foreboding swept over Charlotte. Surely he didn’t expect... “If you think I’m the least bit interested in where Charles Gannen is buried, you’re wrong. Unless you thought I might want to dance on his grave.”
Matthew parked the pickup. “Your grandmother, Emily Gannen, is here, too. Next to your dad.”
“You mean Chick Gannen?” Matthew couldn’t make her look. Not at gravestones. The sky was an empty, faded blue-gray. Two crows flew by, their feathers funereal black.
“Didn’t you know he was buried here?”
“No.”
“I can show you where his—”
“No.” The irritating noise of a tractor mowing grass came from the other side of the cemetery.
Matthew gave her a long, thoughtful look, tapping the fingers of one hand on the steering wheel. Finally he said, “My family and the Gannens go way back. I was a kid when Chick left. Believe it or not, your dad used to baby-sit me. He was a happy-go-lucky cowpoke.” Amusement crept into his voice. “You didn’t get your temper from him.”
“I don’t have a temper.”
He didn’t bother to refute her tight-lipped statement. “I thought your dad could do no wrong.” Leaning back, Matthew tipped his hat forward over his eyes. “When it came to riding or throwing a loop, Chick was the best, and I wanted to grow up to be just like him.”
Charlotte carefully pleated her skirt fabric between two fingers. Everyone had memories of Chick Gannen. “Your maudlin stories of the past don’t interest me, nor does this place, so we can leave any time.” She was proud of her calm, steady voice.
Matthew straightened slowly, pushing back his hat. “My mistake.” Reaching down to start the engine, he hesitated, his fingers hovering over the keys in the ignition. With a sudden decisive move, he grabbed the keys and yanked them free. “I need some fresh air. I’ll be back in a minute.” He stepped out of the pickup, closing the door quietly behind him.
Mustn’t wake the dead, Charlotte thought crazily, her gaze focused on her hands in her lap. Odd hands, with white knuckles next to pink fingers she was squeezing together too tightly. Relax, she told herself. Think of something pleasant. Christmas presents. Surprises. Shopping in downtown Denver. She’d always loved that. The tiny element of hope... No, she wouldn’t think of that. She’d think of flowers. No, not flowers, not here. Her childhood. That was safe. She’d been a silly child. Walking downtown streets or at the airport or in any crowded place, scrutinizing the faces of all the men passing by. The lump in her throat grew painfully large. All those years of pretending that somewhere she had an actual, living father. Only she hadn’t. Never, ever. The man who’d fathered her was, and had been, nothing more than a pile of bleached bones.
The dashboard in front of her blurred. Never would a strange man walking down the street see her and cry out she looked so much like someone in his family she must be his daughter. Charlotte brushed the moisture from one cheek. Years ago she’d told herself firmly she had no father and her fantasy of running into him on the street was no more than that—a fantasy. Unfortunately, deep in her heart, she’d never discarded the dream. Coming here had been a tragic mistake. Never again could she pretend, even to herself, that the man who’d fathered her walked the streets of Durango.
Chick Gannen was dead. Dead and buried, and had been since before her birth. If she climbed from the truck she could walk to his headstone and read the engraved proof. Not that she needed to read it to know what it would say. She squeezed her eyelids tightly shut. Charles Gannen, Jr. Killed in action.
Left unwritten would be that he’d been mourned separately by his parents and the woman who’d loved him well, if not wisely. No mention would be made of his child. The child he’d never known. The child who would never know him. Because he wasn’t a person. He was a moldering body in a casket. Measured footsteps approached the other side of the pickup, and Charlotte quickly turned her back to Matthew.
He opened his door and slid beneath the steering wheel. “I apologize for dragging you here.” His voice rang, not with contrition, but with anger. “I thought you’d be interested in where your father is buried.”
“You were wrong.” Charlotte forced the words between trembling lips and fumbled with her purse. Why did the stupid zipper have to stick now, of all times? Intent on her task, she failed to see the hand reaching across the wide seat. Grasping her chin firmly, Matthew turned her head toward him. With his other hand he removed the large golden straw hat, which shielded her face. Charlotte blinked rapidly in a futile attempt to stem the flow of tears down her cheeks and stared blindly at Matthew’s middle shirt button. “Why aren’t we leaving?”
Pulling a white handkerchief from his jeans pocket, he handed it to her. “Use this before your freckles float away.”
Charlotte jerked her chin out of Matthew’s grasp and turned her back solidly to him before blowing her nose hard. Maybe she needed the handkerchief, but she didn’t need pity. “It’s the pollen from the pine trees.” Salty moisture continued to well up and spill over from traitorous eyes, and she scrubbed her cheeks with the back of her hand. The car springs bounced slightly as Matthew slid to the middle of the seat. She could feel the heat from his body, feel him studying her. Like a bug under a microscope. She hunched her shoulders, rejecting any overtures of sympathy before he could make them.
“Odd it didn’t bother you yesterday when we were riding.”
“Allergies come on suddenly,” she choked out, jumping as his large hands came down on her shoulders.
Matthew’s fingers pressed against her tense shoulders, his thumbs drawing wide circles on either side of her rigid spine. “Want to talk about it?”
“No.” The handkerchief muffled her voice as she blew her nose again. The hard pads of Matthew’s thumbs relentlessly kneaded her flesh. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
&nbs
p; “I’m surprised you and your mom haven’t visited the cemetery before. It shouldn’t have been hard to figure out where Chick was buried.”
Among the pine and willow branches a slight breeze droned a funeral dirge. “Charles Gannen told my mother—” she hiccuped “—he was in a helicopter that was shot down.”
“He was.” Matthew continued to rub her tense back muscles.
“At sea.” Documentaries on sharks gave her nightmares. “He said they’d never recovered the bodies.”
Matthew’s fingers stilled. “Charlie went a little crazy when Chick died.”
His fingers were hard pokers digging painfully deep in her shoulders. “Don’t you dare defend him.” Her tears finally ceased to flow, and Charlotte mopped her face with the wadded-up handkerchief. “He was a mean, cruel man.”
Matthew resumed his measured massage. “Charlie Gannen was quick-tempered and could carry a grudge longer than anyone I know, but he was fair and generous. He was the first to show up when a friend had troubles. If it hadn’t been for Charlie, Mom and I couldn’t have managed when Dad died. Charlie did things I don’t agree with, but he was a good friend.”
“That certainly says something about you, doesn’t it?” The air in the pickup suffocated her. Charlotte scrambled out, escaping Matthew’s touch. She inhaled deep pine-scented breaths.
“Do you want your hat?” Matthew held it out as he stood beside her.
She shook her head. In front of her a rosy pink granite tombstone spoke of the death, decades earlier, of a young woman, wife and mother of two children. “She died too young,” Charlotte said abruptly. “Her poor husband, left with two babies. How could he manage?”
“He didn’t manage. He survived. At first, he’d be numb. Later would come the rage, cursing the Fates, wild rides at midnight while the children were sleeping.” Matthew shoved his hands into his pockets and stared off into the distance. “Finally would come, not acceptance, but a kind of resignation and the realization that life must go on. For the children.”
