Heiress

by Janet Dailey

  He was lecturing her as if she were still fourteen years old and didn't know any better—as if she didn't know how to take care of a horse. But the flare of resentment quickly died as Abbie was forced to admit that her actions hadn't shown she did.

  Dejectedly she gathered up the reins and turned to lead the filly back to the barns. Yet when she looked over the pasture at the horses she'd known since they were foals, the creek where she had played as a child, and the trees she'd climbed, she was overwhelmed by a terrible sense of loss. Soon she'd have to leave all this, she realized—leave everything she'd always known and taken for granted. To go where? To do what? It still didn't seem real.

  "Why all the tears, tell me?" Ben asked.

  "We have to sell out. Daddy owed too many people when he died. There isn't any money to pay the debts. It all has to be sold to pay the creditors. Everything has to go—including us."

  "Is this true?" He frowned.

  Abbie nodded. "Lane told us when he came. We're bankrupt. I knew there were problems, but I never thought. . . I never dreamed it was this bad." She looked at Ben, the old man who'd rode out all the previous storms with her and given her strength. "What's going to happen to us? What's going to happen to you? You've been the uncle I never had. What am I going to do without you?"

  "Child." He gathered her into his arms. Abbie wanted to cry some more, but now she couldn't. This time he couldn't reassure her. It wasn't going to be all right. "Your poor momma," he said. "How frightening for her."

  "Momma." She hadn't even considered what effect the news would have on her mother. Her own shock had been too great. In a vague way, she'd recognized that this meant she was her mother's only means of support now. She not only had to look after herself, but her mother, too. It wasn't fair, but whoever said life was fair? "River Bend, the horses, they're all to be sold. All except River Breeze. She belongs to me." She pulled away from Ben and turned to the filly.

  "She will be a good mare on which to build a new broodmare herd."

  "Don't, Ben." Abbie nearly choked on the lump in her throat. "This is no time for foolish dreams. Right now I've got to worry about finding a roof for our heads and food for our table. And Momma. I've got to worry about Momma, too."

  Babs pressed her fingertips against the throbbing in her temple, then lowered her hand and pushed herself out of the chair. Instinctively she wanted to forget everything Lane had said, pretend the situation wasn't as bad as he had portrayed it. But she couldn't. Not this time. No one was going to make it all right for her—not Dean, not R.D. She had no one but Abbie.

  As the front door opened, Babs turned toward the foyer, recognizing the familiar tread of Abbie's footsteps. But Abbie walked past the living room and started up the stairs.

  "Abbie," Babs called after her and heard the hesitating footsteps and the sound of their return.

  Then Abbie appeared in the archway, looking all windblown and tired, still wearing that troubled frown.

  "I was worried about you. You were so upset when you left." She had seen her daughter angry before, but never so distraught. "I wanted to be sure you were all right."

  "I guess I am." She shrugged vaguely. "I just had to get away by myself and sort things out." Her dark hair was all snarled and tangled, and Babs could see the tear streaks on her cheeks and the lost look in her eyes as Abbie wandered into the living room, looking around her as if she had to memorize every detail. She reminded Babs of a frightened little girl—her little girl. "I can't believe we have to sell River Bend. This is our home. If we sold the horses and all the land except for the little piece the house is on, why wouldn't that be enough?"

  "Don't you remember, Lane explained about the large mortgage on the house?" Babs's heart went out to her daughter.

  "There has to be a way we could assume it. This is our home." Behind all the anger, there was despair. Then Abbie sighed bitterly. "How could Daddy do this to us, Momma? I don't understand. Did he really hate us that much?"

  Babs breathed in sharply. Never once in all these years had she suspected that Abbie felt she was unloved, too. How was it that she could have a daughter and know so little about her feelings? Babs wanted to reach out to her now and reassure her that it wasn't as bad as she thought, but she wasn't sure how.

  "I believed Lane when he said that, had your father lived, he would have obtained the funds to pay all these debts. In his own way, he cared about us." She couldn't say "love." Any love Dean had felt for her died long ago. He had stayed out of duty, guilt, and probably pity. Babs had never wondered whether Dean actually loved Abbie. She'd simply assumed he did. If he hadn't, maybe she was to blame for that. He didn't love her, so maybe he couldn't love the child she had given him either. But it accomplished nothing to dwell on the past. Babs knew she must think of Abbie now.

  "As for this house, you would have left it again someday, Abbie, when you found another man you loved and wanted to spend your life with. You would have married him and moved away. . . to a home of your own, just as you did with Christopher. It isn't as if you would have lived here all your life if this hadn't happened."

  "But you would have. What about you, Momma? You love this house. The curtains, the wallpaper, the furnishings—you picked out everything. This is your home. How can you leave it?

  "I don't mind, really." She said it to reassure Abbie, but almost the instant the words were out of her mouth, Babs realized they were true. "After R.D. died, all I ever knew here was loneliness. I don't think I want to live with the memory of that around me all the time."

  "Momma, you can't mean that."

  "I do." She was equally surprised by the discovery. "It's a drafty old house, impossible to heat in the winter and impossible to cool in the summer. It's always damp and miserable. The plumbing is bad and the windows are always warping shut." There was so much wrong with the house it was a wonder she'd never noticed it before.

  "But. . . where will we go? What will we do?"

  "I don't know." She forced a smile and fell back on the phrase that had always been her talisman. "Everything will work out for the best. It always does."

  "I hope so." But Abbie couldn't be as confident. She didn't have her mother's optimistic attitude. A snap of the fingers wasn't magically going to produce a job or a place to live.

  She'd have to go out and look for them. . . and, at the same time, keep the farm going, get the horses in sale condition, and prepare for the auction. Everything had to be in tiptop shape if they hoped to get good prices.

  Chapter 16

  Silence assailed her when Rachel entered the steakhouse. Pausing, she glanced at the sea of white tablecloths and empty chairs in the dining area. A faint murmur of voices came from the adjacent lounge. Rachel glanced hesitantly at the doorway to the bar.

  She knew she was early for her dinner date with Lane, but she hadn't been sure how long it would take her to find the restaurant. With Houston's lack of any zoning laws, she'd already discovered that restaurants, or any type of business, could be located in the middle of some small residential area.

  Even though she hadn't noticed Lane's car parked outside, Rachel decided to check in the lounge to see if he was there. As she moved toward it, she nearly walked right into a man coming out. His hands came up to catch hold of her arms and stop her.

  "Sorry, miss. I'm afraid I wasn't looking where I was going."

  "No, it was my fault," she insisted, her pulse racing at the near collision.

  Embarrassed, she stepped back, freeing herself from his hands and darting a quick look at the man dressed in black denim jeans and a loose-fitting white shirt open at the throat and gathered at the shoulder seams. A low-crowned cowboy hat sat on the back of his curly brown hair, hair the rusty color of cinnamon. Young and brashly good-looking, he stepped aside with a little flourish, his glance skimming the jade-green jersey wrap dress she wore. Self-consciously Rachel walked by him into the nearly darkened lounge, avoiding contact with the interested gleam in his hazel eyes.

&n
bsp; Two men stood at the bar and one sat at a back table. All three looked up when Rachel entered the room. None of them was Lane. Feeling their speculative stares, Rachel abandoned any thought of waiting in the lounge until Lane arrived. Never particularly adept at turning aside unwelcome advances, she hurriedly retreated to the foyer.

  The man in the cowboy hat walked out of one of the swinging doors that led to the restaurant's kitchen. Again Rachel felt his interest centering on her when he noticed her standing at the entrance to the dining room. Guessing that he must work there, she gathered her courage as he approached.

  "Excuse me, but. . . would it be all right if I sat down at one of the tables?"

  All in one sweeping glance, he took in her, the empty restaurant, and the entrance to the lounge. "The restaurant part won't open for another ten minutes yet. I don't think the boss would mind if you sat down."

  "Thank you." She smiled politely, not quite meeting his eyes as she started to walk past him.

  "Could I bring you anything to drink? A cold beer? A glass of wine?" he asked.

  Rachel hesitated, but since he'd offered, she decided it couldn't be an imposition. "A glass of white wine, please."

  "Coming right up." He sauntered off toward the lounge.

  She watched him a moment, the way he was dressed making her wonder if he was the bartender. She hadn't noticed one behind the bar—not that she was interested in what he did for a living. It meant nothing to her one way or the other. She entered the dining room and chose an empty table by the wall.

  She had barely sat when the man in the cowboy hat reappeared. She glanced at the wineglass in his hand and unfastened the clasp on her shoulder purse to search out her wallet, using it as a distraction to avoid his gaze. "How much do I owe you?"

  "It's on the house."

  "I can't let you do that."

  "It's the boss's way of apologizing for the fact that he couldn't seat you right away. He likes to keep his customers happy." He offered her the glass, holding it by the stem. There wasn't any way she could take it from him without touching his hand. She reached for the glass, her fingers barely brushing his, but even that brief contact made her feel awkward and ill at ease.

  "Thank him for me, please. But this wasn't really necessary. I'm the one who came early, before the restaurant opened." She clasped the wineglass tightly in both hands and stared at the pale, nearly colorless liquid.

  "I think he wanted to make sure you stayed." He continued to stand there, watching while she sipped nervously at the wine, anxious for him to leave. "My name's Ross Tibbs, by the way."

  "How do you do, Mr. Tibbs."

  "No, that isn't the way it's supposed to work. You see, I tell you my name, then you tell me yours. Let's try it again." He smiled, and two very attractive dimples appeared in his smooth cheeks. "My name's Ross Tibbs."

  "Rachel. Rachel Farr," she responded, not knowing what else to do.

  "I thought to myself, what big blue eyes you have."

  "That's very flattering of you, Mr. Tibbs." But his compliment made her feel all the more uncomfortable.

  "Ross," he insisted. "I'll bet your nickname is Blue Eyes."

  "No. Just plain Rachel."

  "You're not plain by a long shot. I could write a song about you. I'm a songwriter and singer. I play here on the weekends, give the place a little atmosphere and class. Of course, that'll only be 'til the end of July. After that, my agent's booking me into Gilley's. See, there's a good chance Mickey Gilley's going to record one of my songs on his next album." He said it all with a kind of pride and modesty that didn't make it sound like he was bragging.

  Now that she knew he was a performer, she understood why he could talk to her with such ease, and say exactly what he was thinking. She envied that lack of reserve with strangers. At the same time, she wished Lane would come. She felt so much safer with him.

  "That's wonderful." She was glad for him, even though she knew her voice lacked sincerity.

  "I don't start singing until around eight o'clock, but I always come early to grab a bite to eat and give my food a chance to digest before I have to perform. Why don't you join me? I'd like the company, and there's no need for you to eat alone either. It makes for a long meal."

  "Thanks, but I'm waiting for someone. He should be here anytime."

  "That's just my luck." Ross Tibbs smiled ruefully. "The pretty ones are always spoken for."

  "You're very kind." She wished he'd stop saying things like that.

  "I'm not kind. Envious is more like it." His admiring look flustered her even more. "And, listen, if the guy is stupid enough not to show, the invitation stands. Okay?"

  "He'll be here," Rachel asserted with more conviction than she felt.

  There was always the possibility that Lane might not be able to make it. As busy as he was, a hundred other things might have come up that were more important than having dinner with her. He might be tied up at the farm, unable to get away. That had happened to her before with Dean—too many times to count. He had constantly made plans to see her, then broken them at the last minute. She wished she hadn't arranged to meet Lane here, at a public restaurant. It would be so embarrassing if he called and canceled.

  Just as she was getting anxious that he wouldn't come, Rachel saw Lane enter the restaurant. "Here he is now," she said to Ross Tibbs, as Lane approached her table. "Hello." She watched his eyes light up with that special look that made her feel as if she was the most important person in the world to him, a look reserved for her alone. It gave her confidence and assurance. She could say or do anything and he'd still feel the same. "I was afraid you might not make it."

  "Nothing would have kept me from you." He kissed her lightly on the cheek, the heady fragrance of his expensive cologne washing over her. "If necessary, I would have moved heaven and Texas to get here."

  "And I'll bet you could." She laughed, proud that it meant so much to him to be with her. After all, he was Lane Canfield.

  "I hope I didn't keep you waiting long." His attention strayed from her, and she saw his gaze narrow ever so slightly on Ross Tibbs.

  "No. I was early," she said, and unwilling to have Lane think she might have something to hide, she added, "Lane, I'd like you to meet Ross Tibbs. He's the singer here. He was kind enough to keep me company while I was waiting for you to come. Mr. Tibbs, this is Lane Canfield."

  "Mr. Tibbs, I'm in your debt." Lane held out his hand. Ross took it and stared at him. "Lane Canfield. The Lane Canfield?"

  "The same," Lane admitted with neither apology nor pride, just a mere statement of fact.

  Ross released a low whistle under his breath and shook his head, obviously impressed. "It is an honor to meet you, sir. Everybody in Texas knows who you are."

  "I doubt that everyone does." Lane smiled politely, then glanced at Rachel. "I see you already have a drink. I could certainly use one myself."

  Rachel noticed the look of curious speculation on Ross Tibbs's face, as if he was trying to guess what her relationship to Lane was. For the first time she was aware of their age difference—a young woman with an older man. She hated the idea that people might think it was something sordid and cheap when it was nothing of the sort. Lane Canfield was a wonderful man and he meant a great deal to her. His age had no bearing on that. Why did people have to judge others and turn something special into something dirty? she wondered as Ross Tibbs moved away from the table, retreating toward the lounge. All her life they'd done that to her. It wasn't fair.

  "He's a good-looking young man," Lane remarked. "You probably should be having dinner with him instead of me."

  "Don't say that, please." It hurt, and she blinked at the tears that so quickly stung her eyes.

  "Rachel." He sounded surprised and bewildered as he reached over and covered the hand she rested on the table. "I was only joking."

  "You weren't, not really." She knew better. "You feel self-conscious about being seen with me in public. I'm sure you're concerned that people will think
you're foolish."

  "I don't give a damn what people think. I never have, Rachel, or I would never have built the companies I have," he insisted sternly. "Only one person's opinion is important to me and that's yours. I know you deserve someone young, with his whole life still ahead of him—not someone like me, who's used up most of his. My feeble attempt at a joke was my way of acknowledging how lucky I am that you are with me and. . . it was also my way of saying that I would understand if you ever decided to choose him, or someone like him, instead of me."

  "I won't. I'm sure of that." She saw the way he smiled at her, almost patronizingly. "I suppose you think that's amusing."

  "No. I was just remembering when I was your age, I was that sure about things, too. Now I'm older, and I know better. You can't be sure of anything, especially what the future holds."

  She longed to deny that and swear that he would always be special to her, but she was afraid such a declaration would sound childish and silly. "I know it's true, but I wish you wouldn't say that."

  "Now is enough, Rachel," he said gently. "When you think about it, all anyone has is now. The past and the future don't really matter. Let's enjoy tonight and worry about tomorrow when it comes."

  "If it comes."

  "If it comes," Lane conceded, then released her hand as a waitress approached their table. Rachel missed the warm pressure of his fingers. As he ordered a drink, she wondered if she would ever be able to explain to him the void he filled in her life. "So tell me, did anything new and exciting happen today?"

  "Yes. Or, at least, I think it's exciting. As of this morning, Simoon and Ahmar are on their way here from California. I've made arrangements to board them temporarily at a private stable until I get a place of my own. It's going to be so good having them here. I've missed them," she stated simply.

  "When will they arrive here?"

  "In three or four days. The driver's going to take it in easy stages so the long haul won't be too much of a strain on them."

  "You've talked so much about them, I'm looking forward to finally seeing them."