by Janet Dailey
“I prefer hot tea if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Please, make yourself comfortable. I won’t be a minute.”
But it was closer to five minutes before Flame returned with a pot of tea, the attendant cream, sugar, and saucer of lemon as well as a teacup and saucer balanced on a tray along with a cup of coffee for herself. In her absence Hattie Morgan had enthroned herself on one of the horn chairs. Catching back a smile at the thought, Flame realized that there was a certain hauteur about Hattie that bordered on regal.
“Lemon, cream, or sugar?”
“Lemon, please,” she replied, taking the delicate Sevres cup and saucer from Flame, her glance lightly sweeping the room. “This is pleasant,” she observed, her attention returning to Flame as she lifted the dainty cup from its saucer. “Of course, it’s nothing at all like Morgan’s Walk.”
“Morgan’s Walk is your home?”
“Our family home, yes. It’s stood for nearly a hundred years, and, God willing, it will stand for a hundred more.”
“Where is that?”
“Oklahoma, about twenty minutes from Tulsa.”
She volunteered no more than that, leaving Flame with the impression that Hattie was waiting for her to ask the questions. “You mentioned a man named Ben earlier. Who is he? For that matter, who’s Kell Morgan?” Flame took her coffee and moved to the corner of the sofa nearest to Hattie’s chair.
“Ben Canon is the family lawyer, and has been for years. It was through his efforts that I located you. And Kell Morgan”—again those bright eyes took note of the glinting red lights in Flame’s hair—“was my grandfather. His brother was Christopher Morgan.”
The latter was said with a sense of import, yet it meant nothing to Flame. “Should I know that name?”
“He was your great-grandfather.” She sipped at her tea, eyeing Flame over the cup’s golden rim. “You aren’t familiar with your father’s family history, are you?”
“Not very,” she admitted, her frown thoughtful and wary. “All my father ever told me about his grandfather that I can remember was the story of how he’d come to San Francisco shortly before the turn of the century and fallen hopelessly in love with Helen Fleming, the daughter of one of the city’s founding families. Within three months, they were married. Other than that…” Flame shrugged, indicating her lack of knowledge, and settled back against the sofa’s plump white cushions and curled a leg underneath her. For all her relaxed poise, inside she was tense. “I know several of my friends have become deeply involved in tracing their family tree and finding out all they can about their ancestors. It’s as if they must in order to have any sense of who or what they themselves are. I’ve never agreed with that. In my opinion, everyone has his own separate identity. Who my ancestors were or what they did has nothing to do with who I am today.” But even as she made her slightly impassioned disavowal, she was aware that her own actions frequently contradicted that. Because of who her family was, she had a certain prestige. She hadn’t earned it; her ancestors had. And even while a part of her resented it, she used it to open doors, to mix with the right people, and to further her own career. She stared at the coffee cooling in her cup, conscious of the silence and not feeling particularly proud of her accomplishments. “If I offended you, Hattie, I’m sorry. Obviously you share their interest in family trees or you wouldn’t be here.”
“Their interest, perhaps, but not for the same reason. And I’m certain we differed in our approach. You see, it was a living descendant of Christopher that I was anxious to find.” But she didn’t elaborate. “Believe me, that wasn’t easy. Soon after Christopher Morgan left Morgan’s Walk and went west all those years ago, the family lost touch with him. We couldn’t even be sure he had kept the Morgan name.”
“Why would he change it?” She frowned.
“Who knows?” Those sharply bright eyes never once left Flame’s face, their burning intensity somehow mesmerizing. “It was hardly uncommon for a man who went West to change his name and take on a whole new identity. Frequently it was to conceal a criminal past, but sometimes it became a symbolic way to start a new life.”
She understood such reasoning. After her divorce, she had elected to keep her married name, as if by doing so she was no longer a Morgan. But everyone knew she was.
“Tell me about yourself,” Hattie urged. “I understand you work.”
“Yes, I’m a vice-president and account executive for a national advertising company here in the city.”
“A vice-president. You must be very intelligent.”
Was she? Or had she finally gotten smart and stopped fighting the family name and started using it instead to get what she wanted? As a vice-president, she received an excellent salary, but even on that she wouldn’t have been able to afford half of what she owned. Practically all the expensive furnishings in her flat and nearly her entire wardrobe of designer clothes she’d purchased from agency clients, but never at retail. No, she used her position, both with the company and in society, to obtain special discounts. That was the way the game was played, and she’d learned to be good at it. It was a form of urban survival today.
“It helps to know the right people, too,” she replied, lifting her shoulders in an expressive shrug, a little uncomfortable with the compliment.
“I understand you are an only child.”
“Yes.”
“And both your parents are gone.”
Flame nodded. “They were in an auto accident eleven years ago. My father was killed instantly. My mother was in a coma for several days. She died without ever regaining consciousness.” After all this time, the sense of loss was still acute. Even now, she missed them. There were moments when she could almost hear her mother’s laughter—and her dad’s teasing voice. They had loved her. Not because of her bloodline or because she was beautiful, but for herself. Since she’d lost them, she’d learned just how rare that kind of love was.
“You and I are a lot alike, I think,” Hattie observed. “We’ve both had to learn to be independent at an early age. My mother died a few hours after my baby sister was born. I was thirteen at the time—with a baby to take care of and a household to manage. Then I lost my father when I was nineteen. Suddenly Morgan’s Walk was mine. I not only had a baby sister to raise, but an entire ranch to run.”
“Morgan’s Walk is a ranch?” Flame was surprised by that. “I thought it was some sort of an estate.” Although what kind of estate there could be in Oklahoma, she had no idea. Certainly it had never occurred to her that it was a ranch.
“It’s both. There’s almost twelve hundred acres of land within its boundaries. Once it was twenty times that size, but time and circumstances have whittled away at it. Most of it is river valley, some of the lushest, greenest land you’ll ever see.” Where before Hattie’s demeanor had been marked by a watchful reserve, there was now animation, a rapt excitement lighting her face and putting an even brighter glow in her eyes. “It’s beautiful country, Margaret Rose, all rolling hills and trees unbelievably green against the blue of the sky. And the main house sits at the head of the valley. Oh, and what a house it is—three stories of brick with towering white colonnades. Your ancestor Christopher Morgan is the one who designed it before he came to California. All the bricks came from a kiln right on the property, and they used the land’s red clay to make them. Wait until you see it. I know you’ll love it.”
“I’m sure I would.” Flame smiled, touched by the woman’s obvious love for her home. “Although it’s not likely I will.”
Hattie seemed startled by that. “Oh, but you will. You must. Morgan’s Walk will be yours when I die.”
For a stunned instant, Flame stared at her. “What did you say?” she managed at last, certain she had misunderstood.
“Morgan’s Walk will be yours when—”
She didn’t need to hear any more. “You can’t mean that. You don’t even know me,” she protested.
“You’re a Morgan. I knew that the minut
e I saw you. It was more than the red of your hair and the high cut of your cheekbones. It was the strength of pride and the determination to succeed that I recognized in you.”
“That doesn’t explain anything.” She frowned. “It doesn’t even make sense.”
“But it does. You see, Morgan’s Walk must pass to a Morgan. If there is no direct descendant, then the land becomes the property of the state. That’s why it was so important that I find you. For a time I thought—” She caught herself up short, and dismissed the rest of the sentence with a shake of her head. “But I don’t have to worry about that now. I found you.”
It sounded logical. Almost too logical. Flame couldn’t help being skeptical. People just didn’t ring somebody’s doorbell and announce that they were inheriting a ranch—in Oklahoma or anywhere else.
“Is this some elaborate con to get money out of me?” she demanded. “Because if it is, you’re wasting your time.”
“You’re suspicious by nature. That’s good,” Hattie stated, a satisfied gleam in her eyes. “Morgan’s Walk will definitely be safe in your hands. You won’t let…anyone take it from you.”
Flame caught that faint hesitation. “Is someone trying to get it from you?”
Hattie leaned forward and pushed her teacup and saucer onto the coffee table’s glass top. “As I said, it’s rich land. There will always be someone who wants it. People have fought over land since before the time of Moses, haven’t they?” She smiled smoothly. “As for money—I won’t pretend that Morgan’s Walk is as prosperous as it once was. It isn’t. At best, you’ll receive only a small income from it after all its costs are paid. Of course, you may run into some sort of inheritance tax situation. You might want to check into that.”
She kept talking as if the matter were settled. Couldn’t she see how absolutely improbable it sounded? Flame tried to explain. “Hattie, I’m a city girl. I don’t know the first thing about cows or ranching.”
“I am eighty-one years old. You surely don’t believe that I chase cows at my age. I grant you, I can still climb on a horse and ride out to look things over, but I have a foreman who oversees everything—a ranch manager, if you will. Charlie Rainwater is a good man—as honest and loyal as the day is long. You leave him in charge and you won’t have a thing to worry about. In time, you’ll learn from him everything you need to know. Now.” She folded her hands together in a gesture that seemed to indicate it was time they moved on to more important matters. “How soon can you come to Morgan’s Walk?”
That was the last question Flame expected to hear. “I don’t know that I can. After all, I do have—”
“Forgive me,” Hattie interrupted. “I didn’t mean that you should drop everything and fly out with me today. I know that you have certain responsibilities and commitments you have to honor. But surely you can arrange to have a long weekend off and come for a visit. It’s selfish, I know, but I want the chance to show Morgan’s Walk to you myself.”
Unwilling to commit herself, Flame said, “I’ll have to check my schedule.”
“You’ll come,” Hattie stated confidently. “You’re a Morgan. And whether you want to admit it or not, your roots are buried deep in that land. It will pull you back.”
“Perhaps,” Flame conceded, although she personally wasn’t certain she believed any of this.
With her mission complete, a few minutes later Hattie said her goodbyes and left for the airport. Flame offered to call her a cab, but Hattie said, no, she had a car and driver waiting outside for her.
Alone again, Flame returned to the living room. But the quiet of the morning was gone. In its place was a feeling of unreality—as if the last hour hadn’t happened, that it had all been her imagination. Had it? No. The teapot was there on the tray next to the cup Hattie had drunk from. But that still didn’t mean any of it was true. For all she knew, Hattie was just some crazy old woman. She probably didn’t even own a ranch. No, it was all too farfetched.
Still…Flame looked around the room and felt a loneliness wash over her. It was all that talk about family. She hesitated, then walked over to the white lacquered bookcase and took down the family photo album. She hadn’t looked at it in years, not since—She shook the memory aside and flipped the book open.
She smiled at the photo of a four-year-old-girl, a new Easter bonnet perched atop her carroty curls, too fascinated by the shiny black of her patent leather shoes to look at the camera. Those were simpler times, happier times. She kept turning pages, pausing now and again to gaze at a snapshot of her with her mother or her father or the rare few when all three of them were in the same photo. They were all there, past Christmases and birthdays, ski vacations in the Rockies or the Sierras, sailing trips along the coast, her first dance recital, her first communion, eighth-grade graduation, dances, proms, boyfriends. And in every picture, there were smiles and laughter.
Tears welled in her eyes as she looked at the last photo. She was standing next to her father in front of a fiery red Trans-Am, a graduation present from her parents. It was jammed to the ceiling with her clothes and the thousand other things she was certain she would need at college. It hadn’t mattered that she was only going across the bay to Berkeley. She had to take it all. Her father had his arm around her shoulders, laughing and hugging her close.
A tear rolled down her cheek. With the back of her hand, Flame scrubbed it away, sniffed back the runny wetness in her nose, then laughed softly, remembering the time when she’d been seven and taken a tumble on the slopes, banging her knee. She’d cried and her father had given her his handkerchief. She’d blown her nose, then asked him one of those impossible questions, “Daddy, why does my nose run every time I cry?”
He’d had an answer for her. He always did, not necessarily the correct one, but an answer just the same. “Maybe because it’s sad that you got hurt.”
“Then why doesn’t my mouth run?” she’d wanted to know. “Isn’t it sad, too?”
“Your mouth runs all the time. Jabber, jabber, jabber.”
And she’d laughed and laughed. He’d always made her laugh.
A soft sigh trembled from her, wistful of that time when she’d been happy and loved…and so very sheltered. Although she hadn’t known it at the time.
The next pages were missing, ripped from the book in a fit of wounded rage. She fingered the ragged edges of the stiff paper, not at all sorry they were gone. She didn’t need photos to remind her of Rick.
The sudden loss of her parents had been a brutal shock. For days after their separate funerals, one after the other, she’d been too numb to feel anything. Then came the grief, the pain, the terrible loneliness. But more than that, she’d felt lost and alone, with no anchor and no direction. To have their love wrenched from her so suddenly had left an awful, aching void. She’d desperately needed to be loved again. She had started reaching for it, grasping for it everywhere and anywhere. On campus the talk had been that she was a little wild. Maybe it had looked that way, but she hadn’t been, not really.
Then, at a frat party, she’d met Rick Bennett. That night he’d made her laugh—the way her father used to do. And he had dark eyes and dark hair, like her father. And he’d been handsome in a clean-cut all-American way that spoke of solidness, steadiness. Rick had taken her home that night, back to her sorority house, then called to say goodnight. He’d phoned the next morning, too, to tell her good morning.
Almost from the beginning, they’d been inseparable. The only thing they hadn’t done together was attend the same classes. He’d been a post-graduate student in law, and she’d been only a lowly sophomore—majoring in Rick was always what she’d laughed and said then. Which had been the absolute truth.
In retrospect, it seemed appropriate that Rick had proposed to her on April Fools’ Day. Of course, he had made it sound very romantic by claiming that he’d picked it because he was a fool over her. During their short engagement, he managed to pass his bar exam and persuaded Flame to introduce him to a very senior par
tner with one of San Francisco’s most prestigious law firms, who was also a long-time friend of her family. Whether out of friendship or sympathy for Flame or an objective evaluation of his qualifications, he had subsequently invited Rick to join the firm.
Then came the wedding. Rick had insisted it be a lavish affair. Flame had argued against it. Without any family of her own, she hadn’t felt right about it, but he’d urged her to remember her social position—and to be practical and think of all the wedding gifts they would receive, items they wouldn’t have to buy to set up house. She could have told him that gifts of silver and Baccarat crystal would hardly be practical for a young couple, but in the end, she’d relented, and the guest list for the wedding had read like the Who’s Who of San Francisco society.
On her marriage, Flame obtained absolute control of her parents’ estate, which amounted to a little more than a quarter of a million dollars. The first purchase they’d made had been this pricey flat—no boxy condo in a concrete-and-glass high-rise for them. And second, they’d bought a Porsche for Rick. He’d always wanted one, and an aggressive young attorney needed to project the right image. And that image had meant clothes. Brooks Brothers suits hadn’t been good enough for Rick; it had to be Cardin, Blass, and Lagerfeld.
Oddly enough, she had never minded the money they’d spent. The apartment was a good investment as well as a comfortable home. As for the car, she’d loved Rick and wanted him to have it because he’d always dreamed of owning one. And the clothes, she’d been just as guilty of wanting to wear only the best.
No, the money hadn’t been their problem. As soon as they’d returned from their honeymoon in Greece, Rick had urged her to renew her family contacts and persuade some of her friends to recommend him for membership in the yacht club. Soon they were going out nearly every night—to this party or that dinner, a gallery showing or a ballet, a charity benefit or a gala opening. They’d dined only at the trendiest restaurants and partied only at the “in” spots.
In the beginning, she’d accepted his reasoning that it was important to his career for him to mix with the right people. San Francisco was full of brilliant young lawyers, but without influential contacts few of them would ever achieve their potential. And Rick had no intention of being a brilliant older lawyer still waiting to be made a partner in the firm. She’d agreed with him—and allowed him to organize her daytime activities, too—becoming involved in the “right” charities and civic organizations, lunching, playing tennis, or going shopping with wives whose friendships he wanted her to cultivate.
