A Little Town in Texas

by Bethany Campbell

  He watched her get on the escalator, waited until she was halfway up, then followed. A few people had got on between them. Once at the top he was surprised how quickly he had to move to keep up with her. Damn! She was fast, dodging in and out of the crowd as lithely as a cat.

  It was a quarter past noon now, and the restaurants lining the concourse were packed. He saw her scan first one, then another, looking for an opening. She never broke stride until she saw one.

  A harried-looking couple was leaving a tiny table at a bar and grill. The redhead spotted them before Mel did and veered into the restaurant without even a pause. As soon as the man stood up, she gave him a friendly smile and sat down in his place.

  Perfect, Mel thought with satisfaction. I’ve lived right. He quickened his pace, strode into the restaurant and sat down across from her, beating out a beefy guy with a briefcase by a split second. “Mind if I join you?” Mel asked her cheerfully. “There doesn’t seem to be another place.”

  She looked at him with suspicion. The place was crowded to overflowing; she could hardly object. She shrugged the way one might shrug off a pesky fly.

  Then she dug into her carry-on and pulled out a thick paperback book. The cover said Guidebook to the Texas Hill Country and bore a photograph of a myopic-looking armadillo. She opened it and began reading, ignoring him.

  Mel Belyle did not easily suffer being ignored, but he never begged for attention, either. He didn’t have to. He reached into his own carry-on and took out a book identical to hers, with the same beady-eyed armadillo. He opened it and pretended to read.

  He saw her double take and pretended he didn’t. He was aware the restaurant was overcrowded and understaffed. They could be at this table a nice, long time.

  He’d noticed her back in New York, of course—he took note of all pretty girls. But he’d dismissed her: not his type. He liked his women tall and languid, not small and brisk.

  Still, he’d noticed her again when he was sitting in first class, sipping a Bloody Mary. She boarded afterward, with the coach passengers, expertly shouldering her well-worn bags.

  He hadn’t been able not to watch her, but she hadn’t cast so much as a glance his way. She seemed to have her mind strictly on business even though she wasn’t dressed for it. She must not give a hoot for fashion. He liked his women fashionable.

  “You’re as bad as Fabian with his supermodels,” his brother Nick had once taunted. “That last girl you took out looked like a giraffe in rhinestones.”

  The memory fell over Mel coldly, like a drop in the temperature. That was one of the last conversations he’d had with Nicky. They hadn’t spoken since May.

  The break wasn’t over Nick’s crack about the girl. Nick always teased, and about the model, he’d been right. She had looked like a giraffe, albeit an elegant one.

  No, the rupture was over what Nick had done to Fabian. It was beyond ungrateful. It was treacherous, a betrayal too deep for Mel to forgive. He intended to settle the score, and if people wanted to call it revenge, let them. To Mel, it was justice. Nobody had more right to exact it than he did.

  Yet in truth, he didn’t like dwelling on it. He supposed that he’d loved Nick once, but now his brother was his enemy. It gave him a cold and hollow feeling in his gut, and he wanted distraction. He would distract himself with the redhead.

  A roly-poly waiter in a striped vest appeared. “Afternoon, folks,” he said. “Can I take a drink order?”

  “Just a cola,” said the redhead, barely looking up from her book. “And could I get half a turkey and Swiss cheese sandwich?”

  “Well…” said the waiter, sounding perplexed.

  “The same for me,” Mel said quickly.

  “Oh,” the waiter said, his round face relaxing. “I see. Split it? Cola’s cheaper by the pitcher.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Mel nodded. “Bring a pitcher.”

  The redhead glanced up sharply. “Those are separate orders,” she said, but the waiter had already disappeared into the crowd.

  Mel gave her an innocent smile. “Don’t worry about it.” He nodded at their twin books. “Coincidence, eh?”

  Her blue eyes seemed to say What’s with you? Her mouth, which was a very nice mouth indeed, said nothing.

  He reached into his pocket and laid his card before her, in front of the napkin dispenser. “My name’s Mel Belyle,” he said. “Since we’re sharing a table and a flight, we might as well be friendly. I’m sorry about bumping into you like that. Sincerely.”

  Her gaze fell to his card, and he saw her skeptical expression change. For a split second she was very still, and he studied her. She had a piquant little face, hardly beautiful, but arresting. She raised her eyes to meet his again. Her lashes were long, thick, and auburn.

  For the first time she smiled. “Hello, Mel Belyle,” she said. “My name’s Kitt Mitchell.”

  She stretched out her hand in greeting. He shook it, enjoying the silky feel of her skin. He didn’t marvel at the transformation of her mood, he simply congratulated himself. He guessed his charm was working, after all.

  OH, THIS IS RICH, thought Kitt.

  It was like the fly catching the spider. She recognized the name on the card and she recognized the firm he represented.

  Melburn K. Belyle, Corporate Attorney

  Castle Enterprises, Inc.

  New York

  Castle Enterprises was the corporation Fabian had created expressly to handle the Bluebonnet Meadows project in Crystal Creek. And Mel Belyle was the man Heywood Cronin had sworn would never speak to Kitt.

  Yet here, in all his egotistical glory, was Mr. Belyle himself, trying to pick her up. She put her elbows on the table, laced her fingers together, and gave him her most admiring stare. She batted her eyelashes ever so slightly.

  She pretended to be mildly flirting, but her practiced eye was taking his measure. He was actually an exceptionally good-looking man. Too tall for her taste, of course, but well built.

  His hair was medium brown, thick and waving. Beneath straight, dark brows, his eyes were sapphire blue. He had a straight nose, a well-shaped mouth, and a square jaw.

  He carried himself with confidence—too much for Kitt’s taste. And, clearly, he had money. His blue sweater looked like cashmere, and its color matched his eyes. The dark slacks fit perfectly. His nails were manicured better than hers, and his haircut was more expensive.

  She imagined him living at his elegant address, riding in limousines, dating those women whose pictures appeared in glossy magazine ads. His roots might have been humble, but nobody would ever guess. Maybe that was the point.

  She began to sound him out. “Okay,” she said with a demure smile. “We’ve made peace. So tell me about yourself. What takes you to Austin?”

  “Business,” he said. “What about you?”

  “I’m going to visit my aunt,” she said, which wasn’t a lie. She paused for effect. “I haven’t seen her in ages. It’s a shame to be out of touch with family, don’t you think?”

  For a split second, almost imperceptibly, his smile wavered. He didn’t answer her question. Instead he said, “So you’re from Texas?”

  “A long time ago,” said Kitt. “I’m permanently transplanted to Manhattan now. What about you? Native New Yorker?”

  “Transplant,” he said. “I’m from Beaumont, originally.”

  She knew that already. “Castle Enterprises,” she said. “That sounds familiar. What exactly is it?”

  “Real estate development,” he said, then turned the questioning. “And what do you do?”

  She shrugged as if her job was of small interest. “I work for the Gilroy Group.” This was misleading, she knew. The Gilroy Group owned six magazines, but it was far more famous for its other holdings, especially its television network.

  His blue eyes kindled with mischief. “Gilroy? Are you connected with that Uptown Girls show? The sexy one?”

  “I’m just a little-bitty cog in the Gilroy machine,” she said flirt
atiously.

  He gave her a one-cornered grin. “That means yes, doesn’t it?”

  She gave a laugh meant to sound self-conscious. “Well…”

  “It does mean yes,” he said with satisfaction and leaned closer. “So exactly what do you do?”

  She chose her words carefully. “Well, I guess you say I sort of—work around the editorial office.”

  His grin grew more wicked. “You mean like—a story editor?”

  “Um. Kind of.” She did, after all, work on stories. He just didn’t suspect she was working on one right now and he was its central figure.

  “So tell me,” he said, leaning his chin on his hand. “Those plots? Are they based on real experience?”

  He looked as happy as a man who has just fallen into a hutch of Playboy bunnies. Uptown Girls was the sexiest show on network television.

  You lech, Kitt thought. I bet you think I’m an encyclopedia of erotica. She batted her lashes again. “That would be telling. I’m not going to discuss it until I know you much, much better.”

  He leaned closer still. “That can be instantly arranged. What do you want to know?” His dark blue eyes were fixed with happy predation on hers. For a moment her breath stuck in her chest.

  “Everything,” she said. “Tell me simply everything.”

  “NO!” CAL CRIED as if in mortal pain. “She can’t do that!”

  J.T. sat at his desk. In his face, harshness mingled with resignation. “She can and she is.”

  “No,” Cal repeated, then swore. “She’s lived here since I was born. Since before I was born. Hell, she’s family—she can’t up and leave.”

  “I’m no happier than you are,” J.T. said. In truth, he felt as if somebody had chipped a piece out of his heart.

  “Hell,” Cal said in frustration. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared moodily out the window of J.T.’s study.

  J.T. gave a gruff sigh. Lettie Mae Reese, the cook, had given her notice this morning. In two weeks she would celebrate her sixty-second birthday. When she’d told him that she meant to retire, tears had brimmed in her eyes.

  J.T. picked up a pencil and threw it down again. Hell, when she’d told him, tears had brimmed in his eyes. Lettie Mae had come to work at the Double C when J.T. had married his first wife, Pauline, years ago.

  He could not recall a major holiday or birthday without Lettie. He could picture her when she first came to the Double C, a young black woman so thin that her smile seemed wider than she did.

  When Pauline had died, the only person who’d seen him cry was Lettie Mae. He’d stood in the kitchen and suddenly burst into sobs, making a noise like an animal in hopeless pain. She’d embraced him and held him fast, until he could stop. His outburst had been brief but violent, and afterward neither of them ever spoke of it.

  Lettie had stood by him through everything, including his second marriage to Cynthia. When he became a father again, at fifty-five, Lettie Mae had looked at his new daughter as if the child was as precious as her own. “J.T.,” she’d said, “you sure haven’t lost your touch. After all these years, you still make a mighty good-looking baby.”

  Cynthia used to snuggle in his arms after lovemaking and repeat the words as their private joke. “J.T., you sure haven’t lost your touch.”

  Cynthia hadn’t been able to use that joke much in the past few months. Lord knew that J.T. liked sex, but by bedtime, he was so tired the need to sleep overwhelmed him. Then he had nightmares about bulldozers eating Claro County, chewing up the very graveyards and the bones of his ancestors.

  Cynthia said she thought the stress was getting to him. This morning she’d said, “J.T., I know how much you love this country. But you’re letting it eat you alive. Maybe the time has come for you to ease up.”

  Ease up? At first he’d been shocked. But was she right? J.T.’s lawyer, Martin Avery, wanted to quit lawyering and retire. His doctor, Nate Purdy, wanted to quit doctoring and retire. Even that old warhorse, Bubba Gibson, J.T.’s friend from boyhood, was starting to make threats about turning his ranch over to somebody younger.

  Everybody else was retiring. Why not him? The ranch hadn’t done so well lately. J.T. was even slightly in debt—to Cal, his own son. Borrowing money from his own child had made J.T. feel somehow diminished.

  Cal still stood staring glumly out the window. “Is Lettie Mae gonna stay in Crystal Creek?”

  With a jolt J.T.’s mind came back to the crisis at hand. He set his jaw. “I don’t know. She’s going to visit her cousin in Santa Fe. See if the climate helps her arthritis.”

  Cal turned, his face troubled. “Daddy, I can’t imagine life without Lettie Mae here. What are you gonna do?”

  “I’ll find a replacement,” J.T. almost snapped. In truth, he didn’t know what he would do. When Lettie Mae went, it would be as if the best years of his life had taken formal leave of him.

  “Well,” Cal said with conviction, “what we gotta do is give her a party. Biggest damn party in the history of Crystal Creek.”

  While I go up into the attic and hang myself, J.T. thought morosely.

  Maybe Cynthia was right. The ranch, the changes in Crystal Creek, the battle with Fabian that could drag on for years—maybe he should retire and try to get his life back.

  But if he retired, what would become of the Double C? Tyler was consumed by the business of the winery. Lynn, J.T.’s grown daughter, only cared about raising racehorses, not cattle, and her husband wasn’t a rancher. He was a dentist, for God’s sake.

  As for Cal, he had bigger enterprises than a ranch, and he still had his same old footloose streak. He’d been checking out investments all over Australia, and soon he’d head for South America. No. Cal was not one to be tied down to a piece of land.

  Cal said, “Let’s put the gals in charge of the party. That’ll give ’em something to worry about besides this damn Bluebonnet Meadows. Lord, what a name. Why didn’t they just call it Cutesie-ville?”

  “I don’t care what they call it,” J.T. said grumpily. “I just wish it’d disappear. Hole in the Wall was good ranch land once. I was just getting used to it being a dude ranch.”

  Cal shook his head and smiled. “It was a dude ranch for ten years. You don’t adjust to change real fast, do you, Daddy?”

  J.T. scowled at him. “No, I don’t. And now I hear this Fabian’s sending Belyle’s own brother down here. Shelby Belyle told Lynn. Plus Nora says we’ll have a reporter on our hands. Not local. Big-time.”

  Cal leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “A reporter could be an advantage to us. Exclusive is a national magazine. It could stir up national sympathy.”

  “Sympathy? That and a dollar’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” J.T. said. “But don’t try it without the dollar.”

  “The pen is mightier than sword,” Cal observed.

  “Fabian isn’t using a sword,” J.T. retorted. “He’s using Uzis and flame-throwers and stealth bombers.”

  Cal raised an eyebrow. “How good is this lawyer that’s coming?”

  “Mel Belyle? I hear he’s good. Very good. And motivated. He’s got a score to settle.”

  Cal uncrossed his arms, hooked his thumbs in his belt and strolled to the fireplace. “How about the other one? The lawyer that deserted Fabian? And married the local girl?”

  J.T.’s forehead furrowed. “Nick? He’s good, too. And he’s on our side. But he can’t do much. Fabian’s got him hog-tied.”

  “Exclusivity clause?” Cal asked. “Confidentiality clause? Corporate secrets, that kind of bull dooky?”

  J.T. gave his son a long, scrutinizing look. It always surprised him when Cal said something knowledgeable about business or law. J.T. sometimes felt that Cal’s wealth was a strange illusion, and that his younger son was still a rambling kid, without a serious thought in his head.

  “Yeah,” he admitted. “That kind of bull dooky.”

  Nick Belyle had revealed company secrets, and it had cost him. He lost his pension,
his company stock, and he would probably never work at the corporate level again.

  Nick was hardly poor—he could easily live on his savings and his own investments for years. He could also open a private practice, which he intended to do, right here in Crystal Creek.

  What Nick could not do for one full year was get involved in any sort of business that ran counter to Fabian’s. That included the Claro County Citizens’ Organization. Nick wanted to help—but he couldn’t even give free advice. If he did, Fabian could have him fined and disbarred.

  “So Martin Avery’s handling most of the legal eagle stuff right now?” Cal asked.

  “Some of it,” J.T. said. “With the help of some Dallas lawyers. But Martin’s tired. He says this case is out of his league. He said—he said that he wanted your advice. That maybe you knew some high-powered people—but not too high-powered. I’m not made of money.”

  Cal nodded, his expression serious. J.T. had another surge of an emotion he couldn’t identify—or didn’t want to. It didn’t seem fitting that a man as learned and careful as Martin should turn for advice to Cal.

  Tyler had always joked that Cal had spent his formative years getting bucked off horses and landing on his head. There’d been times in Cal’s wild years that J.T. could only agree.

  “I want to meet Nick Belyle,” Cal said. “Soon. Could you arrange it?”

  “He wants to meet you, too,” J.T. said, with the same unpleasant feeling. “He’d come over tonight if you’re willing.”

  “I’m willing,” said Cal. “In the meantime I’m going to talk to your better half and mine about Lettie’s shindig.” He paused, then gave his father a level look. “You told Tyler about Lettie Mae—that she’s leaving?”

  J.T. muttered yes. He had told Tyler first because it seemed only fitting. After all, Tyler was the elder and he still lived on the Double C. He saw Lettie Mae nearly every day.

  Cal said, “How’d he take it?”

  “Hard,” J.T. said, suddenly feeling bone-weary. Tyler took everything hard; it was his nature.