“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Keeler,” Adam said. “And my last name is Cameron not Howell.” If he had to be here at least he could be polite. Besides, she probably hated the old man as much as he did. He reached out to shake her hand, but she didn't meet his eye.
Her handshake was quick and limp. It looked like after all the time spent in Simon’s employment his manners had rubbed off on her. He turned to Bailey.” My grandfather insisted I use his name while I was under his roof, but I’m legally Adam Cameron.”
“Fine, although I’ll read the will as it’s written. Now if you’ll both please take a seat, we’ll get started.” After sinking into his chair, Mr. Bailey studied several folders that were neatly labeled and placed in the center of his desk.
The attorney cleared his throat, selected one folder and shuffled through the papers. “We will start now with the reading of the last will and testament of Simon Sylvester Howell. I’ll shorten some of this legalese and just tell the two of you he left fifty thousand dollars to the Tullyville Library and an additional fifty thousand to the Tullyville School District. A donation of one hundred thousand dollars will be used to build a children's park in the center of Tullyville to be called the Simon Howell Play Park.”
“What a community minded citizen,” Adam muttered as he rested his head in his hands and closed his eyes. Good old Gramps, buying his way into heaven.
“For this next part, I’m going to read the will verbatim, so there is no confusion as to Mr. Howell’s wishes.” Mr. Bailey paused to sip from the crystal glass in front of him then focused on the folder again. “I, Simon Sylvester Howell, do hereby bequeath all suits, clothing, shoes and personal apparel to Adam Bryce Howell.”
Adam barked out a laugh. “It’s comforting to know I’ll never be naked.” If he hadn’t been so disgusted, he might have really found this funny.
No, nothing about the old man was funny.
“I bequeath to Ms. Lillian Keeler the sum of twenty thousand dollars and my gratitude for your years of service.”
The washed out look faded as her face flushed with anger. “Twenty thousand for seven years? He told me . . . .” She stopped herself, took a deep breath, and with considerable effort, pulled her body back into the shape of a woman in control. “I mean, how nice.”
Mr. Bailey set aside that stack of papers, picked up the next and cleared his throat, again. He seemed uneasy.
Adam hadn’t liked what he’d already heard, and he had a feeling he was going to hate what was still to come. He fixed his eyes on a worn spot on the thigh of his Wranglers, bracing himself.
“Now we come to the final portion of the will.” The attorney turned the page and adjusted his reading glasses. He continued speaking in his flat voice. “I, Simon Sylvester Howell, leave all of my remaining assets, including the house and all businesses, stocks, bonds and cash to my only blood relative, Adam Bryce Howell.”
Ms. Keeler’s gasp could be heard across the street.
The warning bell in Adam’s brain clanged in alarm. Surely he’d heard wrong. His gaze jumped to Bailey’s face and from his resigned look, Adam knew he'd heard exactly right, just not everything.
“Adam Bryce Howell will receive the full inheritance when these three stipulations are fulfilled.” Mr. Bailey turned the page.
Ah, yes, here comes the punch line.
“Number one--Adam Bryce Howell will reside in the town of Tullyville for a period of six months.”
God, he didn’t want to be here for six days or even six hours.
“Number two—Adam Bryce Howell will preside as owner of each of the five businesses represented in the will and will actively participate in the day to day operations.”
Wait a damn minute. He didn’t know anything about running a business. He knew bucking horses and building.
“Number three--At the end of the stated time period each business must show a profit. If at the end of six months, Adam Bryce Howell has fulfilled these stipulations, he retains all of the assets listed in the will. If, however, he fails to fulfill the stipulations, the whole and entire contents of Simon Sylvester Howell's estate will revert to Lillian Marie Keeler. Being of sound mind and body, signed Simon Sylvester Howell.”
There was total silence in the room. Lillian sat frozen in place, her body rigid.
Adam exploded out of his chair, sending it crashing to the floor. “Bullshit! I'll be damned if I'll let him control me from the grave. I don’t need or want his money.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans to keep from hitting the wall.
He’d like to hit his grandfather, but that was impossible. He wondered if beating a corpse was against the law. As stars floated across his vision, he realized he wasn’t breathing and sucked in several breaths.
Even death hadn’t calmed the age-old battle between him and his grandfather.
“Adam, under the terms of the will you can refuse. You can sign away your rights if you wish. The house and money will then go to Ms. Keeler.”
Adam stalked across the room and stared out the window at the few tall buildings in the downtown area. The headache that appeared every time he thought about his grandfather was back with a vengeance. Leaving would be the easy way out, and he would be done with the evil old man forever. He could end it today. He didn't care about the money. He'd never had much and didn't need more.
I’m out of here. The words echoed through his brain with a satisfying roar.
As Adam turned to Mr. Bailey to refuse to have anything to do with Simon’s latest fiasco, he froze. Avaricious was the only word he could think of to describe the look on Ms. Keeler’s face.
Her hands were clenched in her lap as she leaned forward, staring at him. She was already counting the cash. She hadn’t made many points when she’d ignored him during the introductions, and her attitude now didn't change his opinion.
“Do I have to decide right now?” he asked, glancing from Ms. Keeler’s pinched face to the attorney.
“According to the terms of the will, you have three days,” Mr. Bailey said. “You can let me know your decision any time before Monday afternoon before four o’clock. I suggest you take a few days and seriously think about this.”
Without another word, Adam turned to leave. He hesitated when he heard Mr. Bailey’s voice.
“There’s one more thing.” Mr. Bailey handed Adam a small, worn manila envelope. “Your grandfather wanted you to have the contents of this safety deposit box. It’s not tied to any other stipulations in the will. It’s at the Tullyville Bank. The account number is in the envelope with the key.”
Adam spilled the small silver key into his hand then laid it on the conference table along with the envelope. “What’s this? Another joke?” With one finger, he pushed it across the table. “You keep it.”
“He never told me the contents of the box. It’s yours, but if you want, I’ll keep the key until you’re ready,” Mr. Bailey said.
With a brief nod to Bailey, ignoring the woman, Adam hurried out of the office.
He punched the elevator button with the heel of his hand twice, then once again. When the doors still didn’t open, he found the stairs and took them two at a time. He couldn’t get away fast enough.
-#-
Lillian calmly gathered her purse then shook Mr. Bailey's hand. “Thank you for all your help during this distressing time.”
“Just let us know if you have any other questions,” he said as he walked her to the office door.
She stood serenely as she rode the elevator down to the second level of the parking garage then walked to the car with slow, measured steps. Listening to the clicking of her heels against the cement, she crossed the tarmac, opened the door, slid inside then smoothed the wrinkles out of her skirt.
As she reached to shut the door, her carefully maintained control snapped, and she slammed it with all her might. “Twenty thousand dollars!”
Banging her palms against the steering wheel, she let loose the fury and frustration buildi
ng inside her since she’d heard the fateful words. “A measly twenty thousand freaking dollars!”
One hand slipped off the wheel and hit the car’s horn. The loud noise echoed off the cement wall of the garage. She jumped at the unexpected blast then hit it again to give voice to her anger.
Her breath came in short gasps, her lungs squeezing tight. Her hands trembled, and to add to her irritation, it took her three tries to get the key in the ignition. She buried her face in her hands and screamed.
“You fucking, old bastard. You mealy-mouthed, coyote-bait scam artist. You, you, . . . ” She’d spent so long acting like a lady, that now, when she needed some really good cuss words, she’d run out of names to call her former boss.
She’d bowed and scraped to that odious old man for most of her adult life while he promised her she would be rewarded handsomely when he died. She had wasted more than seven years, and she couldn't get them back. Twenty thousand measly dollars when he’d promised her a fortune. She was so angry she vibrated.
Lillian plunked her head against the steering wheel, took several shaky breaths and tried to calm down. Driving in this condition could cost her a ticket, and with only twenty thousand dollars, she wasn’t wasting a penny.
“Think,” she muttered, “think, think, think, think!” She punctuated each word by slamming her fist against the console. There had to be a way she could work this situation to her advantage.
Maybe Mr. Howell’s grandson would turn his back and walk away. He’d run away before and then almost left again today.
Why anyone would purposely leave all that money, she couldn’t imagine. But then, he didn’t seem to have much history of sticking around when things got rough. She drew in one last deep breath and took a minute to compose herself.
She had all the time in the world. She could wait him out. It might even be fun. She’d always had a secret thing for cowboys.
With that decision made, most of the tension drained out of her muscles, and she relaxed enough to drive. Lillian headed toward the mansion where she'd lived since she'd gone to work for Mr. Howell all those years ago. The little suite of rooms at the back of the house was her personal haven.
Haven or not, she was an idiot not to have had a contingency plan. Mr. Howell, the geriatric bastard, hadn't even written her a letter of recommendation. If the younger Mr. Howell took over, she'd have to find not only another job. She’d have to find another place to live. If the grandson stays, I’m screwed.
Screwed? A small idea wiggled its way up from the depths of her sub-conscious mind to the bright light of her conscious thoughts.
What if she made herself as indispensable to Adam as she had to the older Mr. Howell? It could work. It was only natural he’d make her his secretary. She knew more about old Mr. Howell's business affairs than anyone alive. Working with a hot hunk of a man was much more appealing than groveling to that wrinkled old fool.
Thank goodness sex hadn’t been part of her job description with the older Howell. She wouldn’t have climbed in bed with Simon for all the money in the Denver vault. However . . . She wasn’t totally opposed to convincing Adam she was essential to him in various ways.
For now, she needed to convince him she was on his side. They could be a team and share the bounty. Or if need be, she could sabotage his efforts and take it all.
Either way, she would win.
She leaned back against the car seat. Peace and a sense of purpose filled her. She released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
She could do this.
-#-
Friday evening the chime of Irwin's doorbell echoed through his apartment. Not a polite short ring requesting his presence. No, it was as if someone leaned against the button, demanding he answer. If he’d been a betting man, he’d wager, despite all his efforts, that another woman had found out where the host of Advice for the Lovelorn lived.
Irwin worked hard to keep his address anonymous. Despite having his mail delivered to a post office box and using an unlisted phone number, every once in a while the secret leaked out. Then he’d have to move, again.
A creature of habit, he really disliked making major changes in his life.
“Fiddlesticks. This is my favorite apartment so far,” he said to his oversized, black cat, Darwin. His frown was replaced by a silly grin. “Fiddlesticks.” He repeated the word. It played like soothing music trickling across his soul. The lyrical sound pleased him, and logophile that he was, Irwin used his favorite words whenever he could work them into a conversation.
The bell rang once and then again in a long angry cry. This time, the person at the door wasn’t giving up. “Might as well see who’s gracing our doorway,” he said to the cat.
Standing just outside the door was a statuesque woman, a classic blond Amazon. Her crimson dress molded to her body and stopped just the other side of indecent. With her five-inch, ruby red, spike heels, and her big, over-processed hair, she towered over Irwin by at least a foot. She waved her fingers at him. “Hi there.”
Irwin couldn’t stop his giggle as he watched his cat wind around and between her feet.
She squeaked then toed the animal away with her foot. Bending down, she brushed at her shoes with both hands. “He’s gotten hair all over me.”
The giggle died, and an impassive look covered Irwin’s face.
She straightened then replaced her frown with a smile as bright as daffodils on an April morning. “I'd like to speak to Mr. Cunningham, if you please,” she said her voice a smooth, warm purr.
Irwin sighed. “My dear, there's no Mr. Cunningham here.” He opened the door wide and swung his arm, indicating the empty room. “Fiddlesticks. Someone must have given you the wrong address, but you're most welcome to come in and join me if you'd like. We could discuss Darwin’s Theory of Evolution.”
Looking down her nose at both of them, her face twisted into a sneer. “You’ve got to be kidding. I wanted to discuss my love life with Randall, not a revolution with you and your mangy cat, Mr. Darwin.” She turned on her very high heels and traipsed down the hallway.
The story worked better than he’d hoped. It wasn’t a lie. Randall Cunningham didn’t live here, Irwin did. Unfortunately, if the woman had any brains, she'd be back.
Irwin peeked out the door and watched her totter away on those high, spike heels, every part of her body in motion. Okay then, brains didn’t seem to be her first priority.
If she did come back, he might be able to convince her Randall Cunningham had been the prior resident but was gone. He didn’t want to disrupt his life with a move.
Irwin sank into his brown leather Barcalounger then flipped up the footrest. Darwin curled up in his lap and kicked his purr into high gear.
Mystery Science Theater was about to start, and it was his favorite show. Hopefully he wouldn’t be disturbed again tonight.
-#-
The good vibes he got from Rose's old red car calmed Adam’s thunderous heartbeat as he drove through town. Miss Cool was the perfect name for this Maserati disguised as a Geo, and she seemed mechanically sound.
He’d filled the prescriptions before meeting with the attorney, so next on his list was to stop at the market. He hadn’t taken the time to check out Rose’s refrigerator to see if she had food. Better to buy something than to get back and find the cupboard bare.
The deli at the back of the tiny store had soup and sandwiches that would work for dinner. He added sodas and beer to the basket, and before he made it to the check stand, he remembered to snag some milk, bread and cereal for morning.
As he drove to Rose’s, the scene at the lawyer’s office played in a loop through his mind, round and round and round. Damn, he didn’t need this. His blood pressure began to rise, and his pulse pounded in his ears. He parked the car, grabbed the groceries and wiped the memories from his mind. “No more of this today,” he said aloud as he walked toward the door.
Always put off till tomorrow anything that complicates your life to
day. A rule he’d tried to live by since he’d been on his own. Why mess with something that works so well?
Adam put the groceries on the counter careful not to make much noise then approached Rose. Her eyes were closed, but she’d rolled to her side.
“Are you awake?” he asked.
“No, I’m not. If I pretend to be asleep, the angry killer bees inside my head might go away.” She ran her fingers through her hair, rubbing her scalp. “No such luck.”
“Sorry I took so long.” Shaking one pill out of the bottle, he handed it to her. “Take this first, and I’ll get you something to eat.”
“You don’t have to stay. I just need some more sleep then I’ll be fine.” Rose grasped the pill in her hand then curled into a ball on the couch.
Adam tried to hand her a soda, but she pushed it away, burrowing her face into the pillow. He sat beside her, put his arm around her waist and pulled her to a sitting position.
“You need to get something in your stomach, or you're going to be sick. Now drink.” He held the glass to her lips.
She took a long swallow, and a sigh escaped. “My throat is so dry, I feel like I’m swallowing desert sand.”
He held her up and arranged pillows behind her so she’d stay upright. “I’ll be right back. Try to stay awake.” Adam hurried to the kitchen and grabbed the soup.
“Soup? You made soup? You’re a saint,” she said, when he sat beside her, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“Yeah, that’s me, Saint Adam.” He held the mug to her lips, and she managed small sips.
“I owe you big time,” she said, her voice a scratchy whisper. “I don’t feel so bad. It’s just that I can't keep my eyes open. You can lock up when you need to leave. I'm sure I'll be . . .” Her last half-blink transformed into sleep, and she gave a soft snore.
Staring down at her sleeping form, Adam laughed. “Yeah, I'll just lock up and leave you here, because you are so able to take care of yourself.” At least she'd made him laugh, and she’d managed to eat a half-cup of soup. After this afternoon’s meeting, he hadn’t thought he’d find humor in anything again.
Radio Rose (Change of Heart Cowboys Book 1) Page 4
