by Jeanne Allan
Matthew’s clipped words penetrated Charlotte’s fog of self-pity. He was talking about himself. She pushed a small pebble with the toe of her shoe. “It must have been horrible for you when your wife died. Tim said he was only two.” She hesitated. “Is she here? Is that where you went a minute ago?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see her dead? Her body?”
“Yes.”
“At least you knew.” A few feet away newly laid sod gave evidence of a recent grave. Charlotte stared blindly at it. “I used to imagine ways Chick Gannen might have survived. I even prayed he was a prisoner over there. One of those who wasn’t sent back. Wishing that kind of hell on him because I wanted someday for him to come back. Not for Mom, but for me.” She twisted the sodden handkerchief. “You don’t have to tell me how sick and selfish that is.” Fresh tears welled in her eyes.
“Death is hell on the ones left behind.” Reaching out, Matthew took her hand and led her to a trio of simple blue-gray headstones. “Emily planted the first bulbs, and Mom took over after Emily died. She’ll add some this fall for Charlie.”
A dozen bearded iris grew between two of the stones, their huge sunshine-yellow blossoms thrusting toward the sky. She touched one with the tip of a finger. The steel gray granite drew her nearer. The stone was cool and polished against her palm. Almost to herself she said, “Years ago my mother planted lavender iris in our backyard. She plans to dig them up and divide them this year.” Charlotte traced the name, the chiseled indentations catching at the skin of her finger. Matthew stood at the edge of her vision. “We planted crocuses and daffodils on Grandpa Darnelle’s grave. Last year it snowed when they bloomed and I worried they’d die, but they didn’t.” She ran her palm back and forth over the top of the stone. “Where he is, there are Canada geese everywhere. Aunt Faye says signs of life in a cemetery speak well of the rhythms of nature.”
“She’ll like this place.” Matthew pointed to a spot about thirty feet in front of them. A golden-mantled ground squirrel perched on top of a pale gray gravestone. Two smaller ones chased each other around the base of the stone.
Charlotte would return with her camera to take pictures for her mother. Chick Gannen’s final resting place would please Jewel. Many of the graves were decorated with flowers—plants, cut flowers in containers or artificial flowers. Trees of various types, sizes and colors dotted the hillside, and not far away grew a large peony bush covered with deep rose-colored blooms. The cemetery was on a hilltop, but even higher hills rose in the distance. A flicker flew past with a rush of wings and a flash of russet, and a chickadee called from a tall pine. Bright green aspen leaves danced in the slight June breeze. Even the weeds were bright and cheery, yellow dandelions and pale pink clover blossoms winding through the green grass. The haunting cry of a train whistle drifted up from the valley.
Matthew stirred at her side. “Lara loved train whistles.”
“You loved her,” Charlotte said in some surprise.
“Yes.” He turned to trace his steps to the pickup.
Charlotte followed him. His simple reply spoke volumes. After Paula’s insinuations, Charlotte had pictured a marriage damaged beyond repair. The feeling in Matthew’s voice contradicted that picture. Since arriving at the Gannen place Charlotte had wondered why Matthew lived with his mother instead of taking a second wife. His first wife had been dead six years, and there must be plenty of women willing to take on another woman’s son, a rat and an arrogant cowboy. Especially when that cowboy came with obvious virility, more than passable looks and the old family ranch. If Matthew put an ad in the paper he’d have applicants lining up.
Charlotte clicked her seat belt fastened. Many people would consider six years plenty long to mourn. They wouldn’t understand why Matthew didn’t remarry, embarking upon a second journey through wedded bliss. Charlotte wasn’t most people. Chick Gannen had been killed in Vietnam, and Jewel Darnelle had been faithful to his memory for the past twenty-five years. Jewel’s parents had celebrated over forty years of marriage before death parted them. Charlotte had never heard the details, but she knew even Aunt Faye was part of the Darnelle tradition of constancy, having fought with her fiancé on the eve of their marriage, and then remained single when he’d married someone else on the rebound. For some people a single, abiding love nourished them for a lifetime. They wanted no second love. Paula Kenton was wasting her time if she expected Matthew to present her with wedding ring number four.
Not that Matthew didn’t deserve Paula. The memory of her conversation with Frank Bernarde tightened Charlotte’s jaw. The visit to the lawyer’s office went a long way toward explaining Matthew’s bouts of flirtatious behavior. He must think she was a complete imbecile. Even his behavior at the cemetery looked less kind and more calculated when viewed through informed eyes. Oh, yes, Matthew Thorneton thought Charlotte was easy prey, a silly weak female he could manipulate at will. As no doubt those tight jeans and golden-brown eyes had been manipulating women since his birth. From the minute she’d stepped foot on the Gannen ranch, she’d suspected Matthew wanted something. Now she knew exactly what that something was. He’d told Paula he liked the prissy way Charlotte said his name. That wasn’t what he liked about Charlotte, at all. She gave him a disarming smile.
He smiled back, his right hand on the gear shift. “How’s your ankle?”
“Where you kicked me? I’ll probably barely be able to hobble tomorrow. It’s a wonder you didn’t break it. We weak, prissy women have very delicate bones, you know.”
Matthew’s gaze roamed over her from head to toe. “At times I get the oddest feeling you’re not nearly as delicate as you look, cream puff. In spite of those ruffles and lace.”
“You’re right, Matthew.” She fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I’m sure I could twine fences and ride horses every bit as fast as your sister-in-law.”
Matthew’s mouth twitched. “I think you mean string fence.”
“Whatever. The point is, I’m sure the only difference between me and Paula Kenton, besides our choice of clothing, is my prissy little voice. Matthew,” she added prissily.
His laughter was low and intimate. “I wonder how prissy you’d be in a man’s bed. If a man stripped you of your ruffles and lace, would he strip you of your prissy ways, too? I suspect, cream puff, lying in a man’s bed, wearing nothing but cream-colored flesh and freckles, your red hair foaming over the pillow, you wouldn’t have an ounce of prissiness in you.”
Heat flamed through Charlotte’s veins at the sexual awareness gleaming deep in brown eyes. “I’m a strawberry-blond,” she said automatically, her gaze glued to his lips, her mind running riot at the thought of those lips pressed against hers. Those lips curved in satisfaction. Arrogant, male, triumphant satisfaction. Smoldering anger drove every other emotion from her body. Except one. Reluctant admiration. Matthew Thorneton was good. Very good.
“I think I could grow extremely fond of strawberries,” he murmured. “Strawberries and cream.”
Charlotte curved her lips in a smile that matched his centimeter for insincere centimeter. “Do you?” she purred. “And do you think you could grow as fond of my other little attributes and assets? Such as—water rights?”
CHAPTER SIX
“WATER rights?” he asked.
As if she’d spoken in a foreign tongue. As if the words meant nothing to him. “You know. Water rights. Those things Charles Gannen leased to you but refused to sell. The same water rights I’m going to own in two weeks. When you were singing your sad song of wanting to buy this ranch for your dear ol’ mom, you somehow neglected to mention those little ol’ water rights.”
“I saw no point in complicating things.” A small flock of sparrows scattered in panic before the speeding truck as Matthew drove out of Durango, headed to the ranch.
“Unfortunately for you, your lawyer friend didn’t realize I’m supposed to be simpleminded. Even worse for you, good ol’ Frank took one look at me and mistook me for someone with
a bleeding heart. He was at great pains to point out without that water you’ve been leasing, that little ol’ land you bought from Charles Gannen wouldn’t be worth the little ol’ weeds growing on it. Goodness gracious, those little ol’ water rights seem to be worth a mint to you. That’s not too complicated to understand, even for little ol’ me.”
“If you say little ol’ one more time, I’m going to wring your neck.”
“I don’t think so, Matthew, because you sure don’t want those water rights falling into the hands of Connie what’s her name. Your friend Frank explained how she married some hotshot California businessman who’s somebody big in a water consortium. What do you think the chances are Connie would sell you those water rights?” Charlotte studied Matthew’s tanned, weathered profile. Squint lines radiated from the corner of his eye, a muscle twitched along his granite jaw, and a deep frown creased his forehead. “Pretty slim,” she answered her own question. “I suspect you’d be up a creek without a paddle. Or water.”
“Charlie intended for me to have those water rights.”
“So your friend Frank said, only, gosh darn, somehow Charles Gannen never got around to selling them to you. Or maybe he did offer to sell, and you were holding out until he died because you thought he’d will them to your mother. In which case, those water rights wouldn’t have cost you a single penny.”
Matthew’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Charlie was born and bred on this land. He knew water was its life blood, and letting go of one drop of water was anathema to him whether he needed that water or not. It’s no secret his previous wills left the water rights to me, free and clear. He knew what that water meant to me. Once he got off his high horse, he’d have been reasonable.”
“Most people wouldn’t consider leaving an estate to one’s only granddaughter unreasonable,” Charlotte said sweetly.
Matthew snorted. “Charlie wasn’t thinking about reasonable when he willed everything to you. He was thinking about teaching Mom a lesson. She told him in no uncertain terms her opinion of his treatment of you and your mother. Charlie didn’t like having his behavior questioned, especially when he knew he was wrong. I think, deep down, Charlie regretted cutting himself off from his only grandchild, but backing down was impossible for him. If you’d come as I asked you—”
“Ordered.”
“—all this could have been settled.”
“Giving you the water rights.”
Matthew heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Charlie built his ranch up from nothing, and it weighed heavily on him he had no descendants. Frank said Charlie showed up with the will giving you the ranch, handwritten and obviously added to and changed over time. Almost if he’d been secretly nourishing the possibility you’d come here, fall in love with the place and want to stay. A Gannen on Gannen land. Mom and I think that’s why Charlie put in the two-week-visit stipulation. Charlie had the will laying around when he got mad at Mom, so he used it.”
“I’m not a Gannen and he never wanted me here. He just liked the idea of forcing me to do something I’d hate.”
“After Charlie met you, he would have seen his will treated you fairly. He wouldn’t have left you out.”
“Not having met me, he didn’t leave me out.” She’d never seen anyone gnash his teeth before. “He left you out.”
The now-familiar silhouette of the Sleeping Ute lay on the horizon before Matthew spoke again. “Once Charlie thought Mom had learned her lesson, he’d have gone back to Frank’s and pulled that will. It was bad luck he died before he could. He wanted me to have those water rights.”
“So everyone keeps telling me. Maybe he did.” Charlotte smoothed her dress over her knees. “But that’s hardly incentive for me to sell them to you, is it? Especially after the way you intended to cheat me.”
“I never made a secret of the fact I wanted Charlie’s ranch and all that went with it,” he said with exaggerated patience. “No one’s trying to cheat you. I intend to pay fair value for the land, the house and the water. You might remember who set up the appointment for you with Frank.”
“I’m curious, Matthew. Did you think your friend Frank would gloss over those water rights, and I’d be too stupid to notice, or did you ask him to appeal to my generous nature?”
“Well, gee, Charlotte, it would hardly be the latter, would it? Since I know damned well you don’t have a generous nature.”
“You did think I was too stupid to catch on. How unfortunate for you Mr. Bernarde seems to possess some integrity and refused to go along with your petty scheming.”
“There was no scheming,” he bit out. “I didn’t even talk to Frank. I made your appointment through his secretary and merely told Alice you wanted to see the will.”
“Because you’d already given Mr. Bernarde his instructions.” They turned onto the dirt road. “Did you give him those instructions before or after you went to Denver?”
“Damn it, Charlotte, there were no instructions.” The pickup bumped violently over a cattle guard.
She waited until they’d almost reached the ranch house. “That was such a touching story you told about your poor, homeless mother.”
“I never said she was homeless,” he snapped. “Charlie never intended that damned will to be his final one, but since it was, he might as well have slapped my mother’s face in public. You ought to be able to understand that.”
“You mean I ought to be able to understand rejection and injustice. I certainly do, Matthew. I also understand when someone is using my past in an attempt to manipulate me. Did it ever occur to you to tell me the truth?”
Matthew pulled up in front of the house and turned to face Charlotte. “I went up to Denver with every intention of laying all my cards on the table and working out a fair business deal with you. Only you made it crystal clear you intended to be every bit as obstructive and contrary as your grandfather was.”
“Do not compare me to Charles Gannen.”
“Impossible not to. When it comes to illogical, stubborn and cantankerous behavior, you and Charlie are carbon copies of each other. Charlie was mad at himself and took it out on Mom. You’re mad at Charlie, only he’s beyond your reach, so you’re taking your anger out on me.” He snorted in disgust. “Two minutes of dealing with you, and Charlie would have known you were his granddaughter. You’re every bit as proficient as he was at cutting your nose off to spite your face.”
“If you want to advance your cause, Matthew, name-calling and yelling at me is hardly the way to go about it.” She let a half minute tick by. “There are better ways to influence me.”
“I see,” Matthew said grimly. “How much?”
“Money isn’t everything.” A kestrel hovered overhead, searching for prey.
“Quit playing games, Charlotte. What do you want?”
“A number of different things have occurred to me.”
“I’ll bet.”
Charlotte smiled and uncrossed her legs. Even when bringing a man like Matthew Thorneton to his knees, one could still behave as a lady.
* * *
“School’s out! School’s out!” Tim careened through the front door. “Where’s Dad?”
“Over at his place,” Helen said.
“Oh.” Tim dug the toe of his shoe into the rug. “I thought him and me could do something with Charlotte.”
“Penny’s still here,” Helen said. “Why don’t you and Charlotte ride over and surprise your dad?”
Considering Matthew had told her in no uncertain terms to keep away from Tim, it certainly would be a surprise, Charlotte thought, attempting to discourage the idea. Her objections were overruled, and before she could invent an acceptable excuse not to go, Helen had phoned down to the barn with instructions to saddle the horses and Tim had devoured his after-school snack and was waiting impatiently for Charlotte.
Tim’s reception of her riding outfit was bluntly to the point. He was still giggling as they rode through the pastures between the two ranches. Less than a mil
e as the crow flies, Helen had assured Charlotte. Neither Tim nor his grandmother expressed a moment’s doubt as to Charlotte’s ability to make the ride, apparently having taken Charlotte at her word that she was a born rider. The one thing Charlotte was sure she needn’t worry about was Matthew’s opinion of her riding skills being swayed by anything Tim said.
The late-afternoon sun sparkled off the snowy peaks of the San Juans, and small white-blossomed lilies waved at the slightest breeze. Moving in and out of the cottonwood shadows beside the rushing stream, the horses flushed red-winged blackbirds into the sky. Signs of new life abounded. Across the road two colts gamboled in the field, their mothers placidly grazing nearby. In a small pond fluffy gray Canada goslings swam swiftly to their mothers’ sides. Big-eyed calves ran snorting in pretend panic to their mothers as Charlotte and Tim rode by.
Charlotte’s enjoyment of the ride was blunted by apprehension about their destination. More accurately, what was going to happen at their destination. She and Matthew had not exactly parted on friendly terms earlier this afternoon. He’d neither accepted her ultimatum nor rejected it. What he had done was give her a look of absolute outrage, erupt from the truck slamming the door behind him and stomp down to the barn. She hadn’t laid eyes on him since. Since he was bound to leap to the erroneous conclusion that there was a connection between the water rights issue and her showing up with Tim, Matthew’s mood was not likely to improve.
Matthew’s pickup was parked in the shade of a tall blue spruce. Charlotte reined Penny in beside a split rail fence. Beyond a wide expanse of dandelion-decorated lawn sat a dignified old farmhouse. Two stories high, the white-framed house sported black shutters and a barn-red door. A lilac bush in the last stages of bloom showered the ground with lavender petals. Poppies blazed orange along the fence. Dismounting, Charlotte put Penny’s reins in Tim’s outstretched hand. Waiting until he’d secured the horses in the shade along the fence, she followed him into the house.
Tim’s yells failed to turn up his dad. “I’ll see if he’s down at the barn. You can wait here.”
