by Janet Dailey
"Not now. I'd rather do it later. . . after everyone leaves." She didn't want any strangers wandering through the rooms when she explored the house. She wouldn't feel that it really belonged to her if they were there.
"If that's the way you want it, we'll wait."
Late that afternoon, the last of the cars headed down the long driveway, carrying the auctioneer and his staff. The rain had stopped, but drops of water continued to plop down from the wet leaves of the giant trees in the yard. Overhead the clouds lingered, forming a charcoal-colored canopy over River Bend.
Nervous and excited, Rachel felt as giddy as a teenager as she waited for Lane to unlock the front door. When he held it open for her, she glanced hesitantly inside, in her mind seeing Abbie's apparition standing in the doorway, ordering her away.
But this was no longer Abbie's home. From now on she would do the ordering. Rachel walked inside to take possession of it. In the large foyer, she paused and gazed at the impressive staircase with its balustrades of ornately carved walnut. She tried to visualize Dean walking down those steps to welcome her, but the image wouldn't come.
Hiding the bitter disappointment she felt, Rachel followed Lane through the rest of the house, so huge compared to the apartments she'd always lived in. In every room, the wood of the parquet floors, the richly carved door and window moldings, the wainscoting, and the fireplace mantels gleamed with the patina that came from years of loving care. Yet the bare walls and windows seemed to stare back at her. With no furniture, curtains, or paintings in the house, their footsteps echoed with a stark, lonely sound.
"Once all the paperwork is finalized and you officially take possession, you can have an interior decorator come out," Lane said as they climbed the staircase to the second floor. "I'm sure there will be changes you want to make."
"Yes," Rachel said absently, but she doubted it would be anything drastic. She wanted to keep the house just the way it was. She planned to limit any decorating to choosing curtains, rugs, and furniture.
But when she entered one of the bedrooms on the second floor and felt prickles crawling up the back of her neck, she changed her mind entirely. She knew without being told the room had belonged to Abbie. Her Dior perfume still lingered in the air.
She crossed to the French doors that opened onto the narrow balcony within the parapet and pulled them open, letting the rain-freshened air sweep into the room. She paused there a minute, staring at the high limbs of the towering ancient oaks, some stretching out their arms so close to the house she had the feeling that she only had to reach out her hand to touch their shiny leaves. Drawn by the stillness, the peace of the view, Rachel wandered onto the railed balcony. Through the trees, she could see parts of the winding lane, the stable complex and paddocks, and the empty pastures.
As she leaned against the parapet, Lane walked up to stand beside her. "You haven't said very much."
She turned to face the house, half sitting and half bracing herself against the rail. "I guess I'm still finding it hard to believe this all belongs to me—to us," she corrected quickly.
"Yes, to us," he said thoughtfully. "I've been wondering. . ." Lane began, then started over. "Have you ever given any thought to making our partnership a permanent one?"
"What do you mean?" Rachel frowned. "I thought it was. All the documents we signed, didn't they—"
Lane smiled ruefully. "I'm putting it badly, I'm afraid. I wasn't referring to our business partnership. I meant you and me. I think you know that I love you, Rachel. But do you love me?"
"Yes," She thought he knew that. Lane Canfield was everything a woman could ever wish for in a man. He was so good to her and for her—not just because he was fulfilling her dreams, but because he'd made her feel that she was someone very special.
"Do you love me enough to marry me and be my wife?"
"Do I!" She nearly went into his arms, but she checked the impulse, suddenly wary. "You mean it, don't you, Lane? This isn't some joke, is it?"
"I couldn't be more serious." The gravity in his expression convinced Rachel of that. "I've never proposed to another woman in my entire life. You would eliminate a lot of the misery I'm going through right now by simply telling me yes or no."
"Yes." Gazing at him, Rachel wondered if he knew how much he had given her: first a belief in herself and her dreams, then River Bend, and now the respect and legitimacy of his name. No man had done so much for her before—not even Dean.
In the next second, his arms were around her and his mouth was on her lips. She reveled in the adoring ardency of his kiss, overwhelmed by the knowledge that of all the women he could have chosen, Lane Canfield wanted to marry her. At last she drew back a few inches to look at his face, so strong and good and gentle. "I do love you, Lane."
"I suppose we should make this official." He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a ring. Rachel gasped as fire leaped from the circlet of diamonds that surrounded the large sapphire. Lane took her hand and slipped it onto her ring finger.
"It's beautiful." The words sounded so inadequate, but she couldn't think of anything else to say.
"I've been carrying that ring around with me for the last two weeks, trying to convince myself that it wouldn't be a mistake to marry you. You deserve to be happy, Rachel. If you'd be happier with someone else. . ."
"No one could make me as happy as you do," she insisted, refusing even to consider the possibility. "I am going to be so proud to be your wife. Mrs. Lane Canfield. I love the sound of it."
"So do I. Now about our wedding. . ."
"We can fly to Mexico tonight and elope if you want." Rachel almost preferred that. She didn't want to be reminded that she had no father to give her away, no family and few friends to invite.
"No. I want you to have a wedding with all the trimmings. Nothing elaborate, you understand. Just a simple ceremony and a small reception afterward with a few of our close friends in attendance. I want you to come to me in a bridal gown all white satin and lace."
"Whatever you say, Lane."
"I'll do my best to make you happy, Rachel. I want you to know that. There will be times when my work will take me away from you, maybe for several days in a row, and for one reason or another you usually won't be able to come with me. You understand that, don't you?"
"Of course."
"I know how lonely your life has been. I don't like the idea that as my wife, you may be lonely again."
"I'll have a lot to keep me busy, between the horses and turning this into a home for us." As long as it was only his work that kept them apart, Rachel could accept the separations. What was really important was that she had his love.
"You're a remarkable woman," he murmured, drawing her into his embrace once again. She kissed him while secretly doubting she was all that remarkable, but it was important that he believed she was.
"Lane." She kissed him fervently, straining to give back part of the joy he'd given her, When she finally drew away from him, she knew she had aroused him. The evidence was there in the disturbed light in his eyes and the quickened rate of his breathing.
"It's moments like this that make me wish this was our wedding night," he whispered and set her slightly away from him.
Rachel was touched by the way he refused to anticipate their wedding night. She considered his attitude wonderfully old-fashioned and proof he was worthy of her trust. Yet in another way it bothered her. Sometimes she thought there was something wrong with her, that she wasn't desirable enough. Otherwise, if he loved her as much as he claimed, he'd be tempted to take her. But she didn't press the issue even now, fearing his rejection as well as his possible discovery of her own inadequacies at making love.
Chapter 24
The headlight beams raced ahead of the car as Abbie sped down the highway, the overlapping tracks of light a blur in front of her eyes. Instinctively she was running—running like a child trying to escape from the unkind taunts of her playmates. But no matter how far or how fast she went, she could n
ever get away from the hurtful words.
For the last ten days, she'd listened to the swirl of rumors going around, speculating on the identity of River Bend's new owner. It was common knowledge that the man Phillips, the successful bidder at the auction, had been acting on behalf of an unnamed client. Today, when she and Babs had gone to Lane's office to receive a final accounting on her father's estate after all costs and debts were paid, she had learned the truth.
As she had feared all along, Rachel now possessed River Bend. But what Abbie hadn't known was Lane's involvement. The two of them owned it jointly. More damning than that, he had blandly announced that he and Rachel were getting married in September. At that point Abbie had walked out of his office, unable to endure his presence a second longer.
Lane Canfield. A trusted family friend. He had turned against them and joined with Rachel. It seemed that no matter which way she turned, she was faced with betrayal. She should have known the day of the funeral when he'd told her about Dean's long love affair with Caroline Farr exactly where his sympathies lay. She should have seen when he leaped to Rachel's defense that day at River Bend that he wasn't looking out for their interests. Rachel came first with him—just as she had with her father.
Maybe she could have eventually learned to live with the fact that her father had another child. Maybe she could have even accepted the fact that he had loved Rachel more than he ever had her. But the fortune he had left Rachel, while she had received nothing from him, the ownership of River Bend going to Rachel, and Rachel's impending marriage to a man who was supposed to be a trusted family friend—combined, they were all more than Abbie could tolerate. Her initial resentment of Rachel had grown into a consuming hatred.
If Rachel thought Abbie was going to move away from the area and start a new life someplace else, she was wrong. And if she thought Abbie was going to forgo any further involvement in the breeding and showing of Arabian horses because Rachel was getting into it, she was wrong there, too. Whether Rachel realized it yet or not, she had a rival almost literally in her own backyard. There hadn't been anything Abbie could do to prevent the things that had happened. But now she intended to fight Rachel every step of the way, reminding Rachel by her presence alone that she was the intruder, the interloper, in Abbie's world.
A mile before she reached the drilling site, Abbie could see the glow from the platform's floodlights lighting up the night sky. It shone like a beacon guiding her to a safe haven, the way growing brighter the closer she got. Finally the clearing was directly in front of her car, the bright lights from the derrick spilling onto the dusty trailers and the pickups parked at the site.
After parking in front of MacCrea's office trailer, Abbie stepped out of her car and walked directly to it. She didn't bother to knock, knowing she wouldn't be heard above all the noise. Instead, she walked right in.
There was no one in the front half of the trailer. When she looked toward the rear, she saw MacCrea sprawled across one of the single beds, fully clothed and sound asleep. She walked back to where he lay and, for a moment, simply watched him. She had never seen him asleep before. His dark, wavy hair was all rumpled; his shirt, pulled loose from the waistband of his pants; and his muscles, lax. His chest rose and fell with the even rhythm of his breathing. Abbie smiled at the scowl on his face.
Things had gone badly for her lately. But watching him, she realized that she'd been so caught up in her own problems she'd forgotten that MacCrea had lost nearly everything after his father died. Yet he had battled the odds and built the company back up. She knew it hadn't been easy, especially at the beginning.
To be honest, her own situation wasn't as bad as it could have been. Besides River Breeze, she had her own reputation in the show ring. This last week, she and Ben had contacted several of the small Arabian horse breeders in the area and let them know their services were available to condition, train, and show outside horses. With the fall show season approaching, quite a number of the breeders expressed a definite interest in hiring them.
And they weren't totally broke. Babs would receive almost fifty thousand dollars from her share of the estate, money left over after all the creditors were paid from the auction receipts. If Abbie had stayed instead of walking out of Lane's office in such a huff, it might have been more. But her mother had insisted that Jackson receive the full amount of his bequest, and instructed Lane to take the amount necessary from her proceeds to make up the difference. It was a grand and noble gesture, one that Abbie had difficulty arguing with. Still, she didn't think it had been necessary for her mother to be that generous.
So, her mother had a small nest egg. Abbie had River Breeze, and after a bout with a fever, the filly was improving. Plus she had Ben for a partner. And, most of all, she had the man lying before her, frowning in his sleep, ready to fight some more.
Slowly and carefully she lowered herself onto him, letting her weight settle gradually. She gently smoothed the furrowed lines from his forehead with her fingers, not letting her touch be too light, to avoid tickling him. As she rubbed her lips over his mouth, letting them trace its outline, she felt him stir. His hand moved hesitantly to the small of her back, then glided along a familiar course up to her shoulders. Abbie knew he was awake even before he began to lip at her mouth and draw it to his. She kissed him, receiving a languorous response, like a flame slow to kindle and long to burn, heating her more thoroughly than any passionately demanding kiss could.
Finally MacCrea shifted onto his side, drawing her with him so her head rested on the same pillow facing him. "Hello," Abbie said softly.
"Now that's how a man likes to be woke up." His voice was still husky with sleep. He looked deep into her eyes, so deep that Abbie felt certain he could see all the love she felt for him. "I've missed you, Abbie." Emotion charged his words, and she felt her breath catch in her throat, hearing in the admission how much he cared for her even though he hadn't actually used the word love.
"I've missed you, Mac," she whispered.
His hand exerted pressure on her back a second before his mouth moved to claim hers, Abbie gave to him all the feelings she'd held inside, her heartbeat quickening and the blood running sweet and fast in her veins. There was nothing hurried about the long, full kiss; no sense of urgency pushed them. Abbie sensed that he, too, found something warm and satisfying in this closeness and sought only to enjoy it.
The loud racket from the drilling rig suddenly flooded the trailer. MacCrea pulled back, frowning.
"Hey, boss!" a rigger in a hard hat called as he stepped into the small kitchen, stopping short when he saw Abbie lying on the narrow bed with MacCrea. His head dipped as he looked hurriedly away. "Sorry. I didn't know ya had company." He retreated a step, uncertain whether to stay or go.
"What is it, Barnes?" Partially rising, MacCrea propped an elbow beneath him. Abbie lay beside him, not at all upset by the interruption, wrapped in the comforting feeling that she had the right to be there in his bed.
"We could use you out on the rig for a minute, that's all," he mumbled and turned to leave.
"I'll be right out," MacCrea told him. When the door closed, shutting out the noise from the rig, he looked down at her, a dark glow shining in his eyes, and added softly, "Much as I'd like to stay right here."
"And much as I'd like to keep you here, I won't." Levering herself up, she brushed a kiss across his cheek, then swung her feet onto the trailer floor.
MacCrea was only a step behind her when she entered the kitchen. She moved to the side to let him pass, her gaze following him as he grabbed his hard hat off the table and stepped to the door.
"I shouldn't be long." He smiled briefly in her direction, but Abbie could tell his thoughts had already shifted from her to the rig. "Put on some fresh coffee, would you?"
It was hardly a question since he was out the door by the time she said, "Okay."
Minutes later the electric percolator bubbled merrily, the wafts of steam rising from its spout sending the aroma of cof
fee throughout the trailer. Abbie tidied up the kitchen, then poured herself a cup of the freshly brewed coffee and carried it into the front office area of the trailer. Drawn by the photograph of MacCrea and his father, she wandered over to the filing cabinet and, for a time, studied the picture propped against the wall on top of it. The love, the deep bond, between father and son was so obvious that she couldn't help feeling a sharp pang of envy.
Fighting it, she turned away and walked over to MacCrea's desk, suddenly needing his closeness, the reassurance of his love. Impulsively Abbie sat down in the worn swivel chair behind his desk, its cushion and padded back long since fitted to the shape of his body. She rocked back in it, sipping at her coffee as she absently perused the papers and file folders scattered across the desktop.
One of the folders bore the label "CTS documents." CTS was the acronym for MacCrea's computerized testing system, Abbie remembered. Out of idle curiosity, she slipped the folder out of the stack and opened it to glance through the papers. She knew the project meant a lot to him, yet he'd never discussed the deal he'd made. As she leafed through some sort of partnership agreement, one of the signatures on the last page leaped out at her: Rachel Farr. Abbie stared at it in shock, certain there had to be some mistake. MacCrea couldn't. . . MacCrea wouldn't. . . She straightened slowly, the pages clutched tightly in her hands, her gaze riveted to the name Rachel Farr.
The trailer door opened and MacCrea walked in. Abbie turned her head, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to do anything except stare at him, frozen by the damning evidence in her hands. But he didn't seem to notice as he removed his helmet and gave it a little toss onto the sofa.
"I told you I wouldn't be long." A lazy smile lifted the covers of his mustache as he paused beside the desk, then glanced briefly at the papers in her hand. Without a break in his expression, he turned and walked into the kitchen area, saying, "The coffee smells good."
"What is this, MacCrea?" Abbie pushed out of the chair and followed him to the door, then stopped, still in the thrall of a shock that deadened her senses.
