Smoketree

by Jennifer Roberson

  When the first pain had passed I washed my face and hands, using cold water only. Then I stared at myself in the mirror over the sink and saw again the pale face with the hollow—too hollow—cheeks and the huge, dilated brown eyes. The scar on my brow was a purple snake writhing beneath my bangs. I put shaking fingertips to it and traced out its path, feeling the ridged line and puckered flesh.

  Brandon was waiting for me as I rejoined the people in the dining room. He put a drink in my hand—bourbon and water—and steered me toward the nearest table. A gentle pressure on my shoulder told me to sit down on the bench.

  “Relax,” he said gently as I lifted the glass to my mouth. “What else can you expect when you see me for the first time?” His smile was comforting, as was the kindness in his eyes.

  I sipped at the drink and then nodded, releasing a breath. “I feel stupid.”

  “No. I’m damn near his twin, when you aren’t expecting it. Like I said, I would have warned you had I known you’d be here.”

  I shrugged. “I didn’t know it myself. Vanessa bundled me onto the plane with strict instructions to enjoy myself… or at least realign my priorities.” I smiled a little. “I don’t suppose the two of you planned this?”

  He laughed. He had a low, warm laugh. I’d forgotten how attentive he could be. “Hardly. I’m here primarily on business, but I plan to turn it into a mini-vacation as well. Still, I can’t say I’m disappointed to find you here. ” Briefly he put out a hand and touched my newly-arranged bangs. “Don’t worry about it, Kelly. There’s not much you can do about it now.”

  I overlooked that, focused on something else. “What business, Brandon? Here?”

  He gestured. “With John Oliver.”

  “You know the Olivers?”

  The incredible grin, so like Tucker’s, flashed out to encompass me. “John works for me.”

  I stared at him. “For you?”

  He laughed. “In a manner of speaking. To be honest, it’s my dad he calls boss. He runs the Nevada plant for the munitions portion of the family business.” For a moment his eyes were serious again. “Will you be all right?”

  “I’ll be fine. I’m okay. But thanks.”

  “Stay here. I need to tell John something, and then I’ll be right back.”

  I nodded. As he moved across the room to join the Olivers I felt other eyes on me and sought them out. It was Rafferty who watched me so intently. At last, uncomfortable, I looked away and swallowed more of my drink.

  Brandon Walkerton. At Smoketree. I was surprised and shaken by his arrival, but not at all sorry. Brandon had known Tucker very well indeed, and he understood. Harper Young had tried to pry my problems out of me, but Brandon wouldn’t have to. He already knew.

  Brandon James Walkerton, the fourth of that name, had known Tucker even longer than I. They had attended UCLA together, Tucker involved in drama and Brandon majoring in popularity. Tucker’s family wealth had never rivaled Brandon’s, but their backgrounds were similar enough to make them good friends. And when Tucker had gained his fame, he and Brandon—both bachelors—had made the rounds of the California party circles. They were involved in other ways, as well. Brandon’s father owned a company with corporate fingers in countless national and international pies. One happened to be a major motion picture studio-one that employed Tucker regularly.

  There had been much kidding about their physical resemblance. Brandon was a little heavier, a little taller, a little more overpowering on first meeting than Tucker. They had shared similar temperaments and interests. They had shared a large portion of their lives together, until Tucker met me. And then things had changed. As Tucker and I grew closer and closer, Brandon drifted away, jetting around the world in search of entertainment. That he had come to Smoketree on business really surprised me. He had never been work-oriented before.

  I smiled. Brandon Walkerton was a playboy who knew his part very well. He was very, very good at spending his father’s money; I wasn’t too certain he knew how to make it.

  Throughout the meal Brandon was attentive and charming, speaking about trivial things he thought might divert me. I realized what he was doing, and appreciated it.

  The Olivers conversed with him warmly, old friends as well as business acquaintances. Julie and Matt Chesley joined in from time to time, but spoke mostly with Nathan. I noticed he seemed strangely subdued, but he guided the generalized table talk with skill and warmth. Still, I thought it seemed more out of habit than his normal affable manner.

  Cass sat by Harper, guarding him like a jealous dog does a bone. It amused me that she seemed to consider me a threat to whatever relationship existed between them. Harper treated her like a younger sister; he either didn’t or wouldn’t realize she was no longer a little girl.

  When the meal was over Brandon made a skilled, unobtrusive exit, taking me with him. I felt a pang of guilt over our abrupt escape, but as Rafferty brushed by us on the porch I decided his rudeness outdid ours.

  “My place, or yours?” Brandon asked.

  I laughed at him. We stood in the garish illumination of the yellow porchlight. It gilded his blond hair and leached color from his eyes. “Sounds like a proposition, Mr. Walkerton.”

  “Ah, but I don’t suppose you would take it seriously.” His tone was smooth and easy, applying no pressure; Brandon had always been very good with words and nuances.

  “Thank you,” I told him. “It helps.”

  He turned toward me. “I’ve been worried about you, you know.”

  “I haven’t seen you in months.”

  “I know that. It doesn’t mean I can’t worry about you.” His face, jaundiced in the light, was serious. “You will give me that right, won’t you—even if you were Tucker’s lady?” He paused. “Let’s find a place to talk, Kelly. I think we both have a lot to say to each other.”

  “There’s nothing to say—”

  “Kelly,” he interrupted calmly, “I’ve heard all the rumors. Shall we go discuss them?”

  “Wait—”

  He took my hand and led me down the steps. “Come on.”

  We wound up at the pens near the burned barn. Brandon asked about it, remarking on how spooky the charred rafters and uprights appeared in the moonlight. Illumination from the Lodge leaked out to reach the barn, but it was weak and diluted by distance. The stench of destruction still hung about it.

  “Last night,” I told him. “It was a mess.”

  “I can imagine. ” He hooked one foot on the bottom rail and rested his forearms along the top one. The inhabitant eyed him distrustfully from the far end, then went back to lipping at the hay in the feeder.

  I felt as wary suddenly. “Well?”

  He didn’t look at me. “I’ve heard a lot of things about you in the past six months.”

  “How many did you believe?”

  He smiled. “I’m not exactly sure. But you look well enough to me, if a little strained. And too thin. ” He turned against the rails and looked straight at me. “What happened to you? Afterward. You dropped out of sight.”

  I hedged. “What were they saying, Brandon?”

  He shook his head slightly, mouth drawing into a taut line. “I didn’t believe any of it-everything from a nervous breakdown to attempted suicide.”

  My hands closed over the cool metal rail. “Nothing about manslaughter, then?”

  He swung around. “Manslaughter! What are you talking about?”

  “I was driving.” Three simple words. And so hard to say. “Damn it, it was an accident!”

  “It doesn’t make it any easier!” I glared at him and tried to fight back the tears. “It was still me.”

  “He was drunk when he left the party. Everyone knew that. If he’d gotten behind the wheel God knows what might have—” He stopped dead, realizing what he was about to say.

  I nodded. “Exactly. Tucker driving might have gotten us both killed. Well? I drove—and I merely got one of us killed instead of both!”

  “Kelly…
” He let his breath out harshly. “Damn it, what can I say? It happened. It wasn’t your fault. That bastard coming the other way is at fault. What the hell else could you have done?”

  “He’s dead, Brandon. That’s all I know.”

  “I know. I know.” He put out both hands, caught my shoulders and pulled me to him. He was warm and big and safe. Just by holding me he eased some of the grief, and yet he also compounded it. “Kelly… he was special to me, too.”

  I turned my face against his chest. “I know it. And I hate living with it. What else can I do but blame myself?”

  “You can stop.” His chin rested on the top of my head. “I don’t blame you. No one else does, either. It was one of those horrible accidents no one can understand. Oh God, I’m so sorry…” He hugged me protectively.

  “Brandon—”

  “I might have stopped you. I might have kept you from leaving the party. I might have made sure Tucker didn’t go anywhere. ”

  I pulled away from him. “You can’t blame yourself for that!”

  His eyes were sad. “No more than you can blame yourself when someone else caused the accident. Lay it all on his head, not on yours.”

  “But they never caught him. ”

  “No. Probably never will. But it doesn’t change the fact he was responsible, not you.”

  “Or you.”

  He sighed. “No. But I still think about it. I still remember how unlike him it was to get that drunk… and I remember trying to talk you into letting him sleep it off at the house.”

  I pulled away from him. “I wasn’t drunk. There was no reason to think I couldn’t get us home safely.” I shook my head and felt the familiar sickened feeling curling deep in my belly. “But I wish I’d listened to you.”

  His hand was gentle on my arm. “Look, that’s all in the past. I can’t tell you not to think about it, but I think you need to look ahead now. Go back to modeling.”

  I grimaced. “That’s not so easy anymore. There’s not much of my career left.”

  “All right,” he said. “Yes, I saw your scar. And yes, it’s ugly. I knew you’d been scarred by the accident. But I don’t see that it has to end your career. There’s always plastic surgery—”

  “This is plastic surgery!” I took a heavy breath. “Brandon, they’ve done everything. This one isn’t going to magically disappear. What you see is what you get.”

  “Look, it’s not as if your entire face has been destroyed,” he said. “Or the rest of you. There’s an awful lot of the Jazzmine Girl left, you know.” He smiled. “Kelly, it’s not nearly as bad as you think it is.”

  I shook my head slowly. “Oh Brandon, you don’t understand the modeling business at all.”

  He spread his hands. “So tell me.”

  “For every successful model there are hundreds waiting to take her place. There is no job security in this business. The minute a void appears it’s filled.” I spread my hands helplessly. “What company is going to hire me when they can get twenty or so other girls who don’t have scars?”

  “What about Jazzmine?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know yet. Drew’s talking to them. Things are kind of sticky right now; my contract was up with Jazzmine a couple of months ago and they’re hedging about making another offer. Drew’s doing his usual subtle arm-twisting, along with saying all the right things, so I don’t know.” I shrugged. “He’ll probably know in a week or so if they’ve decided to get another girl.”

  “Drew Stanford?” Brandon nodded. “You’ve got the best with him—that much I know. I dated a model once; she told me how she envied your position and manager.” He sighed and leaned against the pen. “Jazzmine would be stupid to let you go. Look what you’ve done for them.”

  “And vice versa.” I shook my head. “Maybe now is just as good a time as any to quit. I might not even have any choice.”

  “Don’t bet on it.” He looked past me to the shell of the barn. “You don’t bear the slightest resemblance to that, Kelly. Remember that.”

  I knew what he meant, and I appreciated it. But I couldn’t help smiling. “At least with me it wasn’t intended. The fire was purposely set.”

  He looked at me sharply, furrows appearing between his brows. “What the hell are you talking about? Are you mixed up in some sort of trouble?”

  I laughed at him and put out my hands as the horse came up to the rails. He—or she—set his nose against my hand and blew softly. “Not me, of course not. There just seems to be some skullduggery going on around here. Evil’s afoot at Smoketree.” For a moment I gave my imagination free rein, eager for something different to talk about. Who cared if it was all a tall tale?

  “Kelly—”

  “No, really. Just listen.” I mulled it over a minute. “It’s like this. Smoketree’s a very valuable piece of property—it’s an ideal place for land developers to come in and build condominiums.” I shrugged. “After all, the ranch is practically surrounded by government land, and there’s a ski area just over the hill. So some big outfit comes in here and makes Nathan, the owner, an offer. But he says no, because he loves this land.” I was warming to my subject. “Right about then, the wrangler buys half the ranch. And then, these odd incidents begin occurring.”

  “Kelly—”

  “And, if these incidents go on long enough”—I paused for dramatic effect—“and cause Nathan enough losses, he’ll have to sell. ”

  Brandon sighed. “Have you figured out who’s behind it?”

  “No.” I frowned into the darkness, thinking about it. “Unless, of course, it was the butler.”

  “What?” It was a gust of air from his lungs.

  I grinned. “It’s always the butler in whodunits. Well, Smoketree doesn’t have a butler, but it does have the loyal retainer—sort of. Harper Young. Head wrangler… and half-owner.” I laughed. “You see?”

  He didn’t. “I think you’re out of your mind. Still, I’ll admit I’d sooner see you out of it than in it.” He grinned back, “Come on, Kelly, you don’t really mean to tell me—”

  “Why not?” I demanded. “The land developers are paying Harper to make Nathan sell his portion. Then Harper sells his half—and Smoketree is no more. ”

  “It’s too simple,” he retorted.

  “Simple things work best,” I proclaimed. “Don’t you see? All these accidents. A man on the inside would be invaluable. As a matter of fact, I’d be willing to bet these incidents started happening right after Harper bought into Smoketree.”

  “No, they didn’t,” said Harper from the far side of the pens. “They started right before.”

  Chapter Six

  I jerked my head around and stared at him, stunned. He climbed the pen bars like rungs of a ladder, stepped over the top one and dropped down. The horse left off investigating me and wandered over to inspect Harper; he patted the dark neck and approached. His face was expressionless.

  “You heard,” I said lamely.

  “It was hard not to, seeing as how I was so close.”

  “Were you listening?”

  He grinned and paused at our end of the pen. “I came down to finish my evening chores. I overheard my name. Wouldn’t you have listened?”

  I swallowed. “How much did you hear?”

  “Enough.” The grin faded, but the amusement remained in his eyes. “You tell a mighty tall tale, ma’am. But I got to admit you do it well.”

  I opened my mouth to explain it had been nothing more than a moment’s diversion, but Harper was extending a hand to Brandon and introducing himself. So I had to content myself with making a mental note to explain things later.

  Harper did not stick around. Once he and Brandon had exchanged amenities he was gone, intent on finishing his chores. I considered beating a hasty retreat to my cabin, but Brandon’s hand settled on my shoulder and stopped me. “He’s your villain?”

  “Well, he seemed like the type,” I muttered.

  Brandon grinned. “He wears a white hat—or alm
ost. I think he’s a good guy. ”

  I shot him a scowl. “Never mind. I’m already embarrassed enough; can we forget the whole thing?”

  “Sure. Why don’t you come with me to get a nightcap while I settle my things in my cabin?”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass. You go on.”

  We parted at the porch. Brandon wished me a good night’s sleep, kissed me briefly and chastely on the forehead near the scar, and went into the Lodge. Surprised, yet also gratified for his understanding, I headed toward my cabin.

  As I walked, smiling to myself over Brandon’s welcome arrival, I heard the roar of a powerful engine. It approached rapidly, inexorably, and as I turned I was struck full across the face by a set of blinding headlights.

  Suddenly I was taken back six months, frozen behind the steering wheel of Tucker’s sleek European sports car as the approaching vehicle veered into our lane. I recalled shouting something to Tucker, but he was slumped, asleep, against the door I had carefully locked.

  I did not shout this time. My throat locked up and all I could do was stand very, very still, one hand thrust out against the headlights, the other wadding the fabric of my sweater into a twisted lump against my flesh.

  The car stopped. The headlights were shut off. The engine died. I saw a burgundy Porsche 924 parked before me. Illumination from the Lodge lent a muted glow to the area, encompassing the car, but I was still half-blinded by the headlights. As the door swung open I saw a middle-aged, rotund, balding man wearing glasses climb out.

  “Is this Smoketree?” he asked.

  I felt ill. My muscles ached with the sudden release of tension. Automatically I tugged my sweater back into shape and tried to recover my composure. My hands were shaking.

  “Yes—yes, it’s Smoketree.”

  He didn’t seem to notice the quiver in my voice. “Oh good! I was afraid I’d taken the wrong turning.” He grinned impishly, adding to the overall impression of a slightly over-the-hill cherub. “I’m not terribly good at remembering directions, and I’m afraid the map got left behind at the restaurant. ” He paused, losing a little of his ebullience as I said nothing. “Do you work here?”