Heiress

by Janet Dailey

  "She's quite the little horsewoman, isn't she?" MacCrea remarked, smiling as he watched Eden canter her pony around the arena.

  Hearing the note of pride in his voice, Abbie wanted to cry in frustration. He was talking just like a father. "She is a very good rider for her age." To say less would be to deny the same pride she took in Eden's accomplishment.

  As Eden circled the arena again, MacCrea shifted to stand closer to her and leaned his arms on the rail. "Just look at her, Abbie," he murmured. "That's a part of us out there—our flesh and blood."

  Abbie stared at Eden and saw the dark hair that came from her and the waves in it that came from MacCrea, the blue eyes that were like hers and the crooked little fingers, like MacCrea's. She had refused to look at Eden in that way before. Now she saw that the evidence was irrefutable. Slowly she drew her gaze from Eden and turned to look at MacCrea. She found it difficult to meet the dark intensity of his eyes. At the same time, she couldn't make herself look away.

  "We made her, you and I, Abbie." Something in the quality of his voice turned the words into a caress.

  Suddenly it became frighteningly easy to imagine herself in his arms again. "Don't. . . say that." She took a step sideways, putting more distance between them. "Don't even think that way."

  "You know it's true." He continued to lean against the rail, appearing oblivious to the tension that screamed through her.

  She moved to the arena gate. "Eden! That's enough for today. Come say good-bye to Mr. Wilder. He has to leave now."

  Kicking her pony into a gallop, Eden rode over to the gate. "Can't he stay just a little bit longer? I wanted you to set up some jumps so I could show him how high JoJo can jump."

  "No. It's late." Abbie caught hold of the pony's bridle and led him out of the arena.

  "But can't he stay for supper?"

  "No." The last thing she needed was to have Dobie find out MacCrea was here. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw MacCrea push away from the fence and wander leisurely toward the gate. "I've already asked him. He can't." She glanced sharply at him, warning him not to dispute her claim.

  "Maybe another time, Eden," he said.

  "Then you will come see us again?" she asked eagerly.

  "You can count on it."

  "Mac—" Abbie didn't have a chance to say more.

  "As I was about to explain to your mother, I'm moving back here to live." He said it so calmly that, for a split second, the full impact didn't register.

  "You can't." Abbie stared at him, horror-struck by the thought.

  MacCrea smiled lazily, but the look in his eyes was dead serious. "That's one of the advantages a wildcatter has. He can headquarter his company anywhere he wants. I've decided to move it here. It's time I settled down and found a place to live."

  A thousand angry protests came to mind, but Abbie couldn't make a single one of them—not with Eden there. "Do you think that's wise?" she asked tersely.

  "Wise for who?" he countered softly, then smiled with infuriating confidence. "I'll be in town for a couple of days looking around. Maybe we'll run into each other."

  Abbie was so angry she couldn't even talk. He knew damned well she couldn't let his decision go unchallenged. She'd have to see him and try to talk him out of moving back. Somehow she had to convince him it would be a mistake.

  MacCrea said something to Eden and moved away, heading across the yard to his pickup. Abbie watched him climb into the cab of his truck, relieved to see him go, but, at the same time, recognizing that she'd have to see him again.

  "How come you didn't tell him good-bye, Mommy?"

  "Mac, wait!" She suddenly realized she didn't know where he was staying. But it was too late. The roar of the truck's engine drowned out her call. He didn't hear her, and Abbie wasn't about to run after him.

  "How come you called him Mac?" Eden looked at her curiously.

  "I. . . don't know." Abbie hadn't realized she had. "I guess because that's his nickname." Yet she had rarely ever shortened his name—except when they were making love.

  "I think that's what I'll call him, too," Eden stated decisively.

  Abbie wanted to object, but how could she? Every time she turned around she seemed to have dug herself deeper into a hole. Somehow she had to find a way to get out of it.

  "Unsaddle JoJo and put him back in his stall, honey. We still have the horses to feed and supper to fix before your daddy comes in from the fields."

  The Truesdale building was a two-story brick structure built around the turn of the century. Once it had housed a bank, then later it had been remodeled into a retail shop with rental offices in the rear. When the retail shops had closed, the entire building had been converted into cheap office space. The last renter had moved out this past summer, but no one had bothered to scrape the name of the termite-and-pest-control company off the large plate-glass window in the front of the building.

  But from the time Abbie was a child, she had been fascinated by the stately cornices that adorned the old building. Her eye was drawn to them again as she parked her car in the empty space in front of it. Stepping out of her car, she glanced around, looking for MacCrea's truck, but it was nowhere in sight, even though it was seven minutes after one. When she had finally reached him through his office that morning, he had agreed to meet her here at one. She walked up the steps to the main entrance and hesitantly tried the door. It swung open at the push of her hand.

  She went inside and closed the door, then paused to listen. She could feel the damp chill in the stale air and doubted that anyone bothered to heat the empty old building. A loud clunk came from somewhere near the far end of the long, dark corridor before her.

  "Hello? Is anybody here?" The echo of her own voice came bouncing back at her. It was like shouting into an empty oil drum. The bare rooms magnified the sound of the footsteps she heard, giving them a hollow thud. "MacCrea? Is that you?"

  "Yeah. I'll be right there." The walls partially muffled his answer, but she was still able to recognize his voice. An instant later, he emerged from a shadowy alcove at the far end of the corridor and walked toward her, brushing at the sleeves of his jacket. "Sorry. I was checking out the plumbing. I didn't hear you come in. The realtor left me the key, so I thought I might as well look around a bit. What do you think of it?"

  "I. . . I really don't know." She hadn't come here to discuss that.

  "It's a stout old building. It wouldn't take much to whip the place into shape." MacCrea looked around, as if assessing the amount of work that needed to be done. "There's more space here than I need, but it will mean I'll have room to expand later on." Pausing, he turned back to her. "I've signed the papers to buy this building."

  "No. You can't move here. I told you this morning that we had to talk. How could you do this?" All her well-thought-out arguments vanished with his announcement. "Why couldn't you have waited until we had a chance to discuss this?"

  "There was nothing to discuss as far as I was concerned."

  "Why can't you be reasonable? Don't you realize how impossible you're making things? Not just for me, but for Eden and everyone else involved. You can't just come waltzing back here and demand to see her," she raged helplessly.

  "Why not? She's my daughter." He shrugged indifferently.

  "I should have known that would be your reaction." Abbie swung away from him, outraged by his callous attitude. "You never did care about anybody's feelings except your own. You go around creating all these problems, then let others suffer for them."

  Blindly she charged into a vacant room and threw her purse down on one of the wooden crates stacked against the wall. Hearing his footsteps behind her, Abbie stopped and turned to face him.

  "I didn't create this problem, Abbie," he stated. "You did when you married Hix and passed our child off as his. I had no part in that decision. Now it's blowing up in your face. That's why you're so upset. You never should have married him."

  He was right, and she hated him for it. "I suppose you thin
k I should have married you," she retorted.

  "If you had, you wouldn't be in this mess right now."

  "No. I'd be in a worse one." She hugged her arms tightly around her middle, trying to hold in check all the violent churning tearing her up inside.

  For a long moment, MacCrea said nothing. Then he wandered over to the wooden crates and stared at the lettering stenciled on the sides. "That last time we were together after that Christmas party. . . that's when it happened, wasn't it? That's when you got pregnant."

  "Yes." She was abrupt with him, impatient that he should even bother to talk about such a minor detail.

  "I've thought a lot about that night lately." Turning, he half sat and half leaned against the stacked crates.

  "Have you?"

  "You're bound to remember it, too."

  "I remember how it ended," she snapped defensively. Then a horrible thought occurred to her. "Who have you told about Eden? Does Rachel know?"

  "I haven't told anyone." Reaching out, he caught hold of her hand and pulled her over to stand closer to him. "That's one thing I never have understood, Abbie. What the hell did Rachel ever have to do with us? What did she have to do with the way I felt about you—or the way you felt about me?"

  "If you don't know by now, you'll never understand." She strained to twist her wrist free of his grip, but he merely increased the pressure.

  "I want to know," he insisted. "Explain to me what she had to do with us."

  "I can't!" All that didn't seem important to her anymore.

  "Let me ask you a question. If she had a horse you wanted, would you buy it from her?"

  "What difference does it make? She'd never sell it to me." Abbie didn't know why she was even letting herself get involved in this senseless discussion.

  "For the sake of argument, assume she would. Would you buy the horse?"

  "If I wanted it, yes."

  "Even though you hate her and don't want anything to do with her?" MacCrea challenged.

  "I don't hate her." The instant the words came out of her mouth, Abbie was surprised by them—surprised because she realized they were true. She didn't know when or how it happened, but she didn't hate Rachel anymore. "Besides, buying a horse from her, that's business. It has nothing to do with personal feelings."

  "My dealings with her were—and still are—strictly business. How many times did I try to explain that to you? But you wouldn't listen to me. Why, Abbie? Why?"

  "I don't know." She tried to give him an answer that made sense. "Maybe I couldn't then. Maybe I was too young—and too ready to believe the worst. So many things happened that year, I—" Realizing there was no way to pick up all the scattered pieces of the past, she pulled away from him. "What difference does it make now, MacCrea?" she said. "It's over."

  He was on his feet and his hands were on her waist, turning her to face him before she was even aware he had moved. "It doesn't have to be, Abbie."

  When she looked into his eyes, she could almost believe him. As she watched his mustached mouth descend, she made no attempt to avoid it. She let it settle onto her lips, its gentle pressure at once warm and evocative, stirring up feelings she thought she'd buried years ago. It had been too long since she'd known such tender passion, or felt the gentle strength of his caressing hands moving over her body, reminding her of the pleasures she'd once known in his arms. She pressed against him, aching with the need to love this man that had gone too long unfulfilled, and once she had loved him so very, very much.

  "I want you, Abbie." He held her tightly, rubbing his mouth near her earlobe, his mustache catching loose strands of her hair. "I've never stopped wanting you, nor loving you, not once in all these years. And you still feel the same way about me. You can't deny it. Nothing's changed, Abbie. Not one damned thing."

  But that wasn't true. "You're wrong." Abbie pushed back from him. "Things have changed, MacCrea. I'm not the same woman I was then, and you're not the same man. We've changed. I've grown up. I think differently and feel differently about things now. You don't know me. You don't know what I'm like now—what I want or what I need."

  "No? I'll bet I could make some damned good guesses," he mocked. "Take your hair, for instance. Every time I've seen you lately, you've got it pulled back in this prim little bun. I'll bet you never wear it loose anymore, all soft against your neck." He trailed his fingers down the taut cord in her neck, stopping when he reached the high collar of her blouse. "And you wear a lot of turtlenecks and button your blouses all the way up to your throat. Your jackets are tailored like a man's. I bet if I looked in your closet I wouldn't find a single pretty dress that shows off your figure."

  "You're wrong. I have several."

  "New ones?"

  "That's beside the point."

  "Is it? You're a passionate woman, Abbie. But you've locked it all inside, beneath those high collars and that prim bun. You don't love that farmer husband of yours. You never have."

  "What are you suggesting?" Abbie demanded. "That I leave him?" But she could tell by his expression that that was precisely what he meant. "And after that, what am I supposed to do? Come back to you?"

  "Yes, dammit." He scowled impatiently, then tried to wipe it away. "Can't you see it would solve everything? The three of us would be together, you, me, and Eden, the way it should have been."

  Abbie stared at him for several seconds, then pulled away from him and walked to the center of the empty room, unable to hold back the bitter laugh that rolled from her throat. "Why? Because you want your daughter?"

  "Is it so damned impossible to believe that I might want you both?"

  "No, it isn't impossible. Look, maybe you have the right to see your daughter and get to know her—"

  "You're damned right I do."

  "You also hold the power to force this whole situation out into the open. If I agree to let you see Eden, will you give me your word that you won't let on that she's your daughter—at least not for a while?"

  "And if I gave you my word, would you believe me?" he asked, arching an eyebrow skeptically.

  "I'd have to."

  "That sounds remarkably like trust."

  "You'd also have to let me choose the time and place to meet her." Unconsciously she held her breath as MacCrea studied her thoughtfully.

  His answer was a long time coming. "Yes."

  "Good." Abbie breathed easier, for the first time believing there was hope. "I'll be in touch. I promise."

  "Abbie." He caught up with her in the corridor. "Before you go, there's one other thing. When I saw you in Phoenix that first time, long before I found out Eden was my daughter, it was you I wanted. Think about that. And think about this." He kissed her long and deep, not letting her go until she was kissing him back.

  Chapter 41

  As Rachel passed the study, she noticed the door was ajar. She stepped back and pushed it the rest of the way open, but there was no one in the walnut-paneled room. Hearing the rustle of a starched uniform, she turned from the door just as one of the maids came around the corner of the back hallway.

  "Maria, have you seen Mr. Tibbs?"

  "Yes, ma'am. He's in the front parlor."

  "Thank you." Quickening her steps, Rachel walked swiftly toward the high-ceilinged foyer. Intent on the double doors that led to the parlor, she almost walked right by the small boy standing by the front door, struggling with the zipper of his winter jacket. She stopped short of the double doors and swung back to face her son. "Where are you going, Alex?"

  He darted an anxious glance at her, then lowered his chin, burying it in the collar of his jacket. "Outside," he mumbled, the mop of brown hair shielding his pale blue eyes from her sight.

  "Did Mrs. Weldon say you could?" Rachel frowned, wishing he'd stop acting as if she were going to hit him. She'd never struck him in her life.

  He bobbed his head up and down in an affirmative reply. "She said I could take the truck Uncle MacCrea gave me and play with it outside."

  She glanced at the l
arge toy pickup truck with oversized, "monster" wheels sitting on the floor near his feet. "You be careful and don't break it."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "Can't you call me Mommy or Mother—something other than ma'am all the time?" Rachel insisted impatiently. "I know Mrs. Weldon is trying to teach you to be polite, but sometimes, Alex, you carry it too far."

  "Yes, ma'am," he mumbled again.

  Seeing it, Rachel felt absolutely helpless. She tried to be a good mother to her son, but she just couldn't seem to reach him. There were times when she wondered whether this timid, sensitive child belonged to her. It was so irritating to know that Lane could do no wrong in Alex's eyes, and she could do nothing right. Sometimes she even wondered why she tried. Neither of them cared about her—not really.

  As Alex continued to fumble with the zipper, Rachel walked over to him. "Let me help you with that."

  At first he pulled away, but Rachel persisted. She arranged his collar so it would lay smooth, then paused, with her hands on his shoulders.

  "There you go." She smiled at him. When he smiled hesitantly back at her, she had the urge to give him a quick hug. As she started to pull him toward her, he hung back. Suddenly it all felt awkward and forced. Rachel straightened abruptly, unable to endure his rejection of her. "You can go outside and play with your truck now."

  Still smarting from his rebuff, Rachel turned and walked stiffly to the double doors. As she entered the parlor, she forgot all about Ross being there. She gasped in surprise when her wrist was seized and she was spun halfway around.

  "There's no escape, blue eyes," Ross declared, smiling as he locked his arms behind her back. "This time I've got you."

  "Ross, you're—" But he silenced her protest in the most effective and demanding way, kissing her with an ardor that melted all her previous stiffness. Sighing contentedly, she relaxed against him and nestled her head on his shoulder. "I've missed you," she whispered.

  At almost the same instant, she heard a faint noise near the doorway. Too late she remembered the door was still open. Maria, Mrs. Weldon—anybody could have seen her kissing Ross. Guiltily she pushed away from him and turned, half expecting to see one of the maids retreating from the doorway. Instead she saw her son, poised uncertainly on the threshold.