Heiress

by Janet Dailey

  "What happened?"

  "The way it was explained to me, the horse got out of the pasture sometime in the night and strayed onto the adjoining farm. The neighbor caught her the next morning and put her in his barn, then called here to let them know the horse was safe. Before they could go get her, the horse was frightened by the noise from some farm machinery and tried to get out of the barn."

  "How terrible." Rachel shuddered to think of such a thing happening to her mare.

  "Yes. . . . I think Chet needs to talk to me about something," Lane said, indicating the man motioning for him. "Do you want to come along?"

  "No. I think I'll wander through the barns and look over the horses." Rachel took the sales catalogue from her purse and folded it open to the page containing the names and sale numbers of the three mares she was interested in buying.

  "I'll catch up with you later. You'll be all right?"

  "Of course." She smiled, liking the way he was so protective of her. It made her feel secure and loved.

  More than a dozen prospective buyers were scattered along the wide corridor, surveying the horses in the stalls, when Rachel entered. Inside, she checked the sale numbers of the horses on her list again, then started down the cement walkway, pausing in front of each stall long enough to read the number on the horse's hip. Along the way she caught snatches of conversation.

  "This mare should nick well with our stallion. Her breeding—"

  "—pretty head, but her legs are—"

  "—always said, if you don't like the looks of a horse in the stall, don't buy it."

  Rachel stopped in front of one of the last stalls in the row. The flaxen-maned chestnut mare stood at an angle that made it difficult for Rachel to tell if the last number on her hip was a five or a nine. As she moved to try to get a better view of the number, someone else came up to the stall to look at the horse. She paid no attention to him until he spoke.

  "Hello, beautiful."

  At first she thought the murmured words were addressed to the mare, although his voice sounded vaguely familiar. Idly curious, she glanced sideways at the man and encountered his gaze. As he pushed the dark cowboy hat with the concho-studded band to the back of his head, Rachel recognized the curly-haired singer, Ross Tibbs.

  "Mr. Tibbs." She was surprised at how clearly she remembered him.

  "I thought we agreed that it was Ross to you." He smiled, looking at her as if nothing and no one else existed, the sensation distinctly unnerving "It's been so long since I've seen you, I was beginning to wonder if I hadn't dreamed you."

  She was disturbed by the flattery inherent in his remarks. "I never expected to run into you at a horse auction. Why are you here?”

  "Same reason you are, I expect. I came to look over the horses. I've always wanted to own an Arabian. I was kinda hoping I might be able to pick one up for a song." He winked at her, then smiled ruefully. "That was a joke. A poor one, I admit. Singer. . . song."

  "Of course." She laughed uneasily.

  "From the looks of all these folks that've shown up, there's not going to be much chance of me picking up a bargain. But, it never does any harm to window-shop now and then." Turning, he braced an arm against the stall, his head resting on a board near her head. She'd never noticed how dark and thick his eyelashes were—long like a woman's. "I'd like to take you out to dinner after the auction's over."

  "I can't." She was surprised and briefly embarrassed by the invitation.

  "Why?"

  "I'm. . . with someone." She stared at the open collar of his shirt, her eyes on the smooth, taut skin of his throat and neck.

  "Who? Lane Canfield again?"

  "Yes."

  "Just what is he to you? Your sugar daddy or what?" He sounded almost angry, and the muscles along his jaw tightened visibly.

  "No." Rachel didn't like the connotation of that term. It implied she was his mistress, his plaything. But what was she to him? "We're. . . friends. That's all."

  "Friends, eh? That can cover a lot of ground, you know." Ross swung partially around, trapping her against the wall of the stall. "He's too old for you, Rachel."

  "He isn't old," she insisted, but she recognized the shakiness of that argument. "Besides, maybe I like older men."

  "I'm pushing thirty. I fit that category." He leaned closer and she felt smothered by his nearness, unable to breathe. Reaching up, he lightly traced the curve of her cheekbone with the tip of his forefinger, following it all the way to the lobe of her ear. "You remind me of Sleeping Beauty still waiting to be awakened by a kiss from her prince. I never read any fairy tale that had a prince with white hair in it."

  She felt hot all over as her heart beat rapidly. He was staring at her lips and Rachel could almost feel the pressure of his mouth on them. She was frightened by the things she was feeling. Was this how her mother had felt with Dean—so overwhelmed by emotion that she abandoned everything, including her pride and self-respect? That wasn't going to happen to her. She wouldn't let it.

  "Don't say things like that." She pushed away from the stall and hurriedly brushed past him, not stopping until she'd put several feet between them. Against her will, Rachel looked back.

  "I'm sorry." He lifted his hand in a helpless, apologetic gesture. "I didn't mean any harm."

  "Please, just leave me alone." She walked out of the barn and nearly ran into Lane on his way in.

  "I was just coming to look for you." His initial smile faded slightly as his interest in her sharpened. "Is something wrong?"

  "Of course not. What could be wrong?" Rachel forced a smile, surprised that she could do it so convincingly, and linked her arm with his to steer him away from the open barn doors before he could catch sight of Ross Tibbs.

  She didn't want Lane to know she'd been talking with Ross or he'd guess why she was upset. Knowing that a moment sooner and Lane would have found them together made it all the more imperative that he not find out. At the same time, Rachel didn't understand this feeling of guilt just because for a brief instant she'd been attracted to—and tempted by—Ross. After all, nothing had happened.

  "I thought Abbie may—"

  "I haven't seen her." She began to breathe easier as his smile came back.

  "The auction is scheduled to start in another ten minutes. I think we'd better head over to the sales ring if you want a good vantage point."

  "Yes, we probably should."

  As they walked toward the sales ring, they were joined by others converging on the same destination. Rachel noticed the looks Lane received and heard the murmurs of recognition. The first few times she'd been out in public with him, the stares and whispers had bothered her, but she'd grown used to the attention he attracted—the respect, admiration, and envy with which he was regarded. In fact, she was actually beginning to enjoy it.

  "Testing: one, two, three. Testing. Testing." The auctioneer's voice came over the loudspeakers. "Well, folks, it looks like we're ready to start. We've got some fine horses for you today. And we'll start with Lot Number One. Coming into the ring now is the incredible stallion, Nahr Ibn Kedar, the five-year-old son of the stallion imported from Egypt by the late Dean Lawson himself. This magnificent stallion is being shown under saddle by Dean's daughter, Abbie Lawson."

  Recognizing that he was dealing with a knowledgeable group of buyers, the auctioneer wasted little time extolling the pedigrees and show records of the Arabian horses that entered the ring one after another. And rarely did he interrupt his rhythmic chant to exhort higher bids from the participants. The quickness of his hammer to declare a horse sold instilled a feverish pace to the bidding and allowed few lulls between bids.

  As Abbie rode out of the sales ring on the final horse to be shown under saddle, Ben waited to take the reins. She flipped them to him and dismounted, feeling exhausted. The heavy humidity from the moisture-laden clouds overhead was taking its toll on her, as well as the tension of trying to get the best out of every horse she rode.

  "It goes well." Ben patted
the mare's neck, then turned to lead the horse to the barn. Abbie fell into step beside him. "The auctioneer does not give them time to think how much they are bidding. We get good prices."

  "I noticed." She should have been pleased about it, but she wasn't, and she blamed the indifference she felt on her tiredness. "Is the next lot ready for the ring?"

  "Yes."

  She spied the bale of hay shoved up against the stable door. It offered an escape from all the hubbub and confusion going on inside the barn. "If you don't need me, I think I'll just sit and rest for a minute."

  "We can manage," Ben assured her.

  "Thanks." She smiled wanly and angled away from him, walking over to the lone bale.

  As she sank onto the compressed hay, Abbie removed the hot riding helmet and laid it on the bale, then leaned back against the barn door. For a time, she stared at the crowd gathered around the sale ring and idly listened to the auctioneer's singsong voice calling for higher bids on the mare and foal in the ring.

  Then her attention wandered to the barns, the white-fenced pastures, and the old Victorian house—the place, the land, the buildings that comprised her home, the only real home she'd ever known. Suddenly it was all a blur as tears filled her eyes. Tomorrow it would be sold and a new owner would take possession of it.

  Leaning forward, she scooped up a handful of dirt—dirt that turned into thick gumbo when it rained. She rubbed it between her thumb and fingers, feeling its texture and consistency, the way she'd seen her grandfather do a hundred times or more. When she'd ask him why he did it, he'd put some in her hands and say, "Now, feel that. It's more than just dirt, you know."

  "It's Texas dirt," Abbie would reply.

  "It's more than that. You see, that dirt you're holding, that's pieces of Lawson land." Then he would hold it up close to his face, smell it, and taste it with the tip of his tongue.

  "Why did you do that, Grandpa?" she would ask.

  "Because it's good for what ails you. Remember that."

  Abbie remembered, closing her hand into a fist and squeezing the dirt into a thick clump in her palm.

  "Mind if I join you?"

  Startled to hear MacCrea's voice, Abbie sat up and brought her hands together, hiding the dirt clutched in her palm. "What are you doing here?"

  "I had an errand to run in town, so I thought I'd stop by and see how the sale was going." He moved the riding helmet to one side and sat down next to her. "There's a lot of people here."

  "Yes." Uncomfortable under his inspecting glance, she looked down at her hands.

  "Are you all right?"

  "I'm fine," she assured him with a quick nod. "Just tired, that's all." She said nothing to him about the dirt she held so tightly, doubting that he'd understand. From the little she'd learned about his childhood, she knew he'd never stayed in any one place long enough to form any deep attachment to it. He couldn't appreciate the strong bond she felt for River Bend, her home, her heritage.

  Ben emerged from the stables and walked over to them. "I wanted to remind you that he will sell your filly after this mare leaves the ring."

  "Thanks." Abbie pushed to her feet and headed directly for the sales ring. MacCrea walked with her, but she paid no attention to him. She worked her way through the crowd and reached the edge of the ring just as the auctioneer rang the hammer down, selling the mare and foal to the high bidder.

  "The next filly to be sold—number twenty-five in your catalogue—was unfortunately injured in a freak accident two days ago," the auctioneer explained. "The veterinarian's report, which I have in front of me, states that both front legs were broken. Both have been successfully splinted and cast, and the veterinarian expresses a guarded optimism over the filly's chances of recovery."

  Practically rigid with tension herself, Abbie closely observed the crowd's reaction to his announcement. Most shook their heads skeptically and a few turned away from the ring. No one appeared to be even slightly interested in River Breeze, not even Rachel, whom Abbie spotted standing on the opposite side of the ring, talking to Lane.

  The auctioneer then went into a lengthy description of the filly's breeding, concluding with, "Regardless of this filly's injuries, I think you will all agree she has the potential to make an outstanding broodmare. Now what do I hear for an opening bid?"

  Abbie held her breath as he and his assistants scanned the throng, but silence greeted them. Anxiously she waited until his second call for a bid was met with silence, then she signaled a bid of a hundred dollars.

  "I've got a bid of one hundred dollars right over here. Who'll gimme two? Who'll gimme two?" The chanted call rolled off his tongue. As soon as it became apparent there were no takers at two, he halved it. "I've got one. Who'll gimme one-fifty? One-fifty?"

  As MacCrea had predicted, no one wanted the injured filly. Within a scant few minutes after the bidding started, it was over.

  "Breeze is legally mine now." Abbie turned to him, a smile lifting her tired features.

  "So are the vet bills," MacCrea reminded her.

  "I don't care," she declared, blithely defiant of such practical considerations. "She's worth it—and more." She still held the dirt in her hand, sweat turning it into a ball of mud. But she wouldn't let it go.

  Chapter 23

  All morning long, ominous gray clouds loomed over River Bend, casting an eerie half-darkness over the tree-shaded grounds. Distant rumbles of thunder, like deep-throated growls, threatened rain. The auctioneer's podium stood on the veranda of the great house, facing the striped tent that had been erected on the front lawn to shelter the bidders in case it rained.

  All day long, Rachel had watched people traipsing through the house, faces peering out at her from turret windows, children racing around behind the second-floor parapet, and hands tapping at wood to check its solidness. But she had yet to venture inside herself. When she set foot inside that house for the first time, she was determined not to be surrounded by irreverent gawkers.

  A hush settled over the crowd gathered under the tent as the auctioneer announced the next item to be sold: River Bend itself. Rachel felt her stomach lurch sickeningly. All this waiting, the tension, the uncertainty had worn her nerves raw. She glanced anxiously around for Lane and saw him talking with Dean's widow. Twice Rachel had seen her and that Polish stud manager who had worked for Dean, but she had yet to see Abbie on the grounds.

  A boom of thunder reverberated through the air, chasing those on the outer fringes farther under the canvas roof. Behind her, Rachel heard a man say, "I wouldn't be surprised if that isn't R.D. up there, pounding his fist on a cloud. You know he's looking down on this—and not liking it one whit."

  Just for an instant, Rachel took the remark as a personal slur against her, then reminded herself that the man couldn't know she intended to buy River Bend. As the auctioneer continued with his legal description of the property and its buildings, she tried to locate the man Lane had pointed out to her earlier—the one who would actually do the bidding for them. But she couldn't find him in the crowd. The last time she'd seen him, he'd been smoking a cigarette near the old carriage house that had been converted into a garage.

  Panicking at the thought that maybe he didn't know the bidding was about to start, Rachel caught Lane's eye and signaled him to join her. She waited impatiently as he worked his way through the crowd to her side.

  "Where's your man Phillips? I don't see him."

  "He's on the far side of the tent. I saw him there just seconds ago. Stop worrying." He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  "I can't help it." She held on to his hand, locking her fingers through his, today needing his strength and his confidence.

  When the auctioneer called for the first bid, it started to rain—at first just making a soft patter on the tent roof, then turning into a steady drumming. The sky seemed to grow darker.

  The woman in front of Rachel turned to her companion. "Let's go find Babs and tell her we're leaving," she said in a low, subdued v
oice. "I don't want to stay for this. It's like all of Texas is crying."

  Rachel tried not to let the woman's comment demoralize her. Those were just rivulets of rainwater running down the windowpanes of the mansion, not tears. This was the moment she'd been waiting for all her life. . . even though she hadn't always known it. Nothing and no one was going to spoil it for her.

  "I haven't seen Abbie," she remembered. "Is she here?"

  "She didn't come today," Lane replied.

  Finding out that Abbie had stayed away from this auction made Rachel feel that she'd won a minor victory. Her dream was well on its way to coming true, in a way she had never dared to imagine. Yesterday she had acquired three broodmares, all with foals at their side and checked in foal to Nahr El Kedar, increasing the number of Arabians she owned. And today, River Bend itself would belong to her. Now she would have that part of Dean's world that had always been denied her. She wanted to hug herself and hold on to that triumphant feeling, but she was too nervous, too anxious. Instead she gripped Lane's hand a little harder and listened to the bidding.

  Higher and higher it went, finally narrowing the field to three bidders, their agent among them. When Rachel realized the price had climbed to over a hundred thousand dollars more than Lane had expected River Bend to sell for, she started to worry. Then the agent, Phillips, dropped out of the bidding. Pierced by a shaft of icy-cold fear, Rachel wondered if she had come this close, only to lose it after all.

  "Lane, why isn't he bidding?" she whispered, afraid of the answer.

  “He doesn't want to drive the price up more."

  She realized it was some sort of strategy, but the suspense was almost more than she could stand. But when the gavel fell, knocking off the final bid, the auctioneer pointed to the baldheaded agent as the successful bidder. Weak with relief, Rachel sagged against Lane.

  "Happy?" Lane smiled at her with his eyes.

  "Not yet. I think I'm afraid to be," she admitted, aware that she must sound terribly unsophisticated to him, but it was the truth.

  "Maybe it would seem more real to you if we went inside and looked around your new home."