A Little Town in Texas

by Bethany Campbell

  Nick’s smile died. “What can I say? He’s the last person I’d want in Crystal Creek.”

  “Is that from a legal aspect or a personal one?”

  “Both,” said Nick and downed his drink with one swallow.

  Cal studied the other man. Nick Belyle was not conventionally handsome, but his face was interesting, or so women seemed to think. Serena had said he looked a cross between an angel and a street punk.

  It was a complex face, and it suited him. He seemed like a complex guy. Going counter to Brian Fabian’s orders had been hard on him. J.T. said so, and so did Cal’s sister Lynn, and Nora said it, too.

  Cal chose his words carefully. “Are you startin’ to wish you hadn’t got messed up in this?”

  Nick pushed away his empty glass. “I don’t regret what I did. It was the right thing.”

  Cal nodded. “We think so.”

  If Nick hadn’t spoken out, nobody would have known what Fabian was up to. As it was, the McKinneys had been able to throw legal roadblocks in his way, and for the time, they had slowed him. The question was, could they stop him?

  Cal met Nick’s cool blue stare. “You think your brother’s comin’ to try to buy more land?”

  Nick’s gaze didn’t waver. “What do you think?”

  Cal tossed back the drink then leaned both elbows on the bar. “Hell, yes. I think we done made Fabian mad.”

  “You’ve made him mad?” Nick said with an ironic smile. “He doesn’t like being crossed. I crossed him.” Nick’s eyes moved to the living room to rest on his young wife.

  Cal followed his gaze. “You worried about her?”

  Nick shook his head, but not with certainty. “This is hard on her. She loves this land. The worst thing Fabian can do to her is buy up as much as possible and ’doze it into housing lots. That’d break her heart.”

  That’d break a lot of hearts, thought Cal. He said, “What’s the worst Fabian can do to you?”

  The other man shrugged. “Professionally? He could move to fine and disbar me. But he can’t if I don’t work against him for a certain time. I know the law.”

  “That’s about your work,” Cal said. “What about personal?”

  Nick paused before answering. “The worst? I guess what he’s doing.”

  “Sending your brother down here?”

  “Yeah.” Nick’s voice was toneless.

  Cal slowly turned the whiskey decanter round on the bar, watching the light refract from the cut glass. He asked, “So how good a lawyer is your brother?”

  “Damn good.”

  Cal kept twisting the decanter to make the light dance. “Is he a feller pretty much like yourself?”

  “No,” Nick said. “He’s more of a company man. To me, working for Fabian was like a game. Sometimes the game was dirty. I ignored it as long as I could. My brother thinks differently. For him, it’s a way of life. He’s absolutely loyal.”

  It was a loaded question, but Cal asked it. “Why?”

  Nick’s expression went cynical. “Somehow he needed that way of life more than I did. He and I never…” The words trailed off.

  Cal’s curiosity prickled. “He and you never what?”

  “It’s—private. But basically, he’s coming here on a righteous mission. He wants to kick my ass.”

  Cal lifted an eyebrow. “Meaning he also wants to kick our ass?”

  “Precisely,” said Nick.

  “How do we stop him?”

  Nick made a tight, exasperated gesture. “I can’t do much. Fabian’s got me in legal handcuffs for at least a year.”

  “I understand,” said Cal. “Daddy explained. He’s hired lawyers in Dallas. What do you think of them?”

  Nick’s face became unreadable. “They’re doing their best.”

  Cal knew what the problem was. The central conflict was a complex question over water rights. J.T.’s Dallas lawyers had forced Fabian to halt construction until it was resolved.

  But Fabian had cleverly used the law to stop the work at a tricky stage. Now that stage threatened danger. The dam holding Fabian’s artificial lake in place was temporary, a mere makeshift levee. With each rain that fell, it became an increasing hazard.

  Fabian complained his hands were tied. The injunction against him forbade work on anything at Bluebonnet Meadows—including the dam. The Dallas attorneys dawdled and dithered and seemed incapable of solving the mess.

  “The lawyers aren’t doin’ so great?” Cal persisted.

  “I didn’t say that,” Nick murmured.

  “I know you didn’t,” Cal returned. He reached into his shirt pocket and drew out a piece of notebook paper. “I got two names here. Other lawyers. Now Daddy probably can’t afford ’em, but me and my partners can. I’d have to try to ease into doin’ it. Not to put his nose out of joint. Would you just look at this for me?”

  He unfolded the paper and laid it on the bar, smoothing it out. He could see Nick’s reluctance. But Nick, grim-faced, looked down and read the names. Cal watched his expression. Slowly, disbelievingly, Nick grinned.

  Cal said, “Now, I know you can’t tell me if these folk’d be good. But you might make some little…remark. Chosen careful, I realize.”

  Nick looked at Cal with something like new-won respect. “Where’d you get these names?”

  “I got connections here and there,” Cal said nonchalantly.

  “I see that you do.”

  “So—can you say what you think?”

  Nick’s smile grin became conspiratorial. “I think you’re one smart cowboy.”

  “Naw,” Cal said. “It was more my partners’ idea. There’s three of us. We call ourselves the Three Amigos. They’re the brains. I’m just a simple country boy.”

  “Right,” Nick snorted. He put his hand on Cal’s shoulder and laughed. “Man,” he said, shaking his head. “Man, oh, man. This is something.”

  Cal laughed, too. Maybe Fabian and Nick’s brother didn’t hold the winning cards, after all.

  KITT HAD NOT SEEN the Hill Country for twelve years—almost half a lifetime ago. She had convinced herself it would seem strange and was startled that it didn’t. Why does it still feel so familiar, she thought with apprehension. It shouldn’t.

  Yet she knew the sweep of these hills with a primal, bone-deep knowledge. It was in her blood to know it—whether she wanted to or not.

  The land had dramatic beauty. There were hills, cliffs and low mountains. Great expanses of sparse ground stretched between them. In the open spaces, only the sturdiest vegetation grew. The twisted mesquite trees crouched low to the ground, and the scrub pines were dwarfish.

  Along the creeks and river banks, though, were lush green groves. Over this mixture of starkness and fertility arched the great Texas sky. It was gray today, threatening rain. In the distance, lightning glimmered like a ghost.

  In her heart, she reluctantly admitted the land’s grandeur. But her head asked: What’s it good for? Cattle and little else. Raising cattle was a back-breaking struggle, and ranching often fell on ruinous times.

  The memory of those hard times killed any nostalgia that might stir her. This land was beautiful, yes. But it was also cruel. She was here only because a story was here, and she happened to know the territory.

  Yet when she reached the stone pillars that marked the entrance to the Double C, she paused a moment, letting the car idle.

  As a child, this ranch had filled her with awe. In spite of herself, she felt a shiver of the old wonder. To her, J. T. McKinney had been rich. Now she realized he’d never amassed the wealth people called “Texas Big Rich.”

  By Lone Star standards, his ranch, thirty-five thousand acres, was respectable. It was hardly dazzling. Kitt thought, It’s not a magic kingdom, it’s only land.

  The Double C would have little importance if it wasn’t so close to Austin—and Brian Fabian wasn’t so greedy for it. She stepped on the gas and headed down the lane toward Nora’s house.

  Nora lived at the ranch in the fo
reman’s house with her second husband. Ken was a fine and reliable man—unlike Nora’s first husband, Gordon Jones. Kitt had despised Gordon.

  She bit her lip in remembrance. Kitt had been considered a tough child, one who could hold her own in an argument, a wrestling match, or an all-out fight. She cried no more than did the most roughneck boys; she would not allow herself.

  Yet when Nora had been forced to marry Gordon, Kitt had bawled like a baby. In secret, of course. In her bed and under her covers. She’d thought Nora’s life was ruined. It almost had been.

  Kitt passed the ranch house, which she’d known well. Her father had been a wrangler on the Double C, and the McKinneys used to give Christmas parties for the ranch hands and their families.

  The house seemed just as impressive as ever. Lights blazed from every window, and the drive was full of cars, many of them expensive. But it was not the sprawling house that made Kitt’s heartbeat speed.

  Beyond the McKinneys’ house, she saw another, more old-fashioned home standing on a rise. It was a tall, angular and white, a Victorian clapboard that more than a century ago had been the original ranch house.

  A swing hung in the porch’s shade, moving gently in the October breeze. Pots of mums marched up one side of the stairs and down the other, overflowing with fat-faced blossoms of bronze and jaunty yellow. On one side was a trellis with an ancient rose bush, still in pink bloom.

  It was a lovely, old-fashioned house. It was Nora’s house.

  For the first time, feeling seized Kitt so hard she couldn’t fight it off. She took a deep breath and pulled onto the house’s graveled drive. She took an even deeper breath, then got out of the car. As she did, the front door of the house burst open.

  Nora came half-running, half-skipping down the steps, her shiny brown hair bouncing against her shoulders. In her jeans and yellow-checked shirt, she still looked as young as a girl.

  She raced toward Kitt and caught her in such an embrace that it nearly knocked Kitt’s breath away. Nora was laughing and crying and talking all at once. “Kitt-Katt—welcome back! How was your trip? I was afraid you’d be stuck all night in Dallas. You haven’t gained an ounce, not a single ounce—I’m going to have to fatten you up. Did you remember the way to the Double C? Does Crystal Creek look different?”

  To Kitt’s astonishment, hot tears pricked her eyes. And when she tried to speak, she couldn’t. Her throat was too choked.

  What’s wrong with me? she thought, bewildered by the force of her emotions. All she could do was hug Nora back and hold her tight.

  Vaguely, Kitt realized someone else had come out onto the porch. Nora drew back, laughing at herself for crying. Kitt fought down her own tears and found her voice.

  “Oh, Nora,” she said gruffly, “Stop the water works. This is like walking into a lawn sprinkler.”

  Nora shook her head wryly and wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist. “If you’d come back more often, maybe the flood wouldn’t build up. I swear, I’m weak-kneed.”

  “So, Nora, your wandering girl’s come home,” said the man on the porch. Slowly he came down the steps.

  Kitt had collected herself enough by now to look at him with her usual cool detachment. Ken Slattery was long and lean—well over six feet tall and all sinewy muscle. He was older than Nora by almost seventeen years, but an attractive man. His pale blue eyes looked sharp enough to count the tail feathers on high-flying hawk.

  Kitt recalled him from childhood, although she hadn’t known him well. The years had not much changed him. Oh, weather had lined his face more deeply, and his brownish hair was going gray at the sideburns, but the strongly boned face was the same. The biggest change was that he walked with a noticeable limp.

  “Little Kitt,” he said, “we’d started thinkin’ we needed to drive to Dallas and fetch you home ourselves.”

  He took her hand in welcome. His own was hard and callused, truly a cowboy’s hand. She realized that he wouldn’t embrace her or kiss her cheek. He had an air of reserve that bordered on shyness.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I missed my first flight, then they kept delaying the next one.”

  Nora took Kitt’s arm and led her toward the house. “Come on in, stranger. I didn’t make anything fancy for supper because I wasn’t sure when you’d get here. You didn’t even stop at the hotel?”

  “Nope,” Kitt said. “I made reservations ahead of time.” She glanced down the slope at the McKinneys’ house. “What’s happening? A party?”

  Nora shook her head. “Not really. Cal and his family are home. So it’s a gathering of the clan. You remember Tyler and Lynn and Cal?”

  Kitt stiffened. She remembered all of them, but most especially Cal. She hoped to God that he’d forgotten her.

  “They’re all married now,” Nora said as they climbed the stairs. “And they’re entertaining somebody you’ll want to meet.”

  Kitt looked at her questioningly. Nora gave her a knowing look. “Nick Belyle. The first lawyer that Brian Fabian sent down here. The one you want to meet. Now Fabian’s sending another lawyer—Nick’s brother.”

  “He’s already here,” Ken said from behind them.

  The two women stopped and looked at him in surprise. “What?” Nora asked. “Since when?” Kitt’s pulses inexplicably quickened.

  Ken nodded. “He’s at the hotel. Just got in about half an hour ago.”

  “How do you know?” Nora asked, looking puzzled.

  “Phone rang just when Kitt drove up,” Ken said laconically. “It was Cal. He said that Nick’s brother just checked into the hotel.”

  “Well, why didn’t you tell me?” Nora demanded.

  “By that time, you were out the door. A-weepin’ on your niece,” Ken said.

  Nora gave him a mock-angry look and pretended to jab him in the ribs with her elbow. He gave her a one-sided smile. Nora squeezed Kitt’s arm as Ken opened the door for them. “That’s coincidence, eh? You and he getting here the same day? Looks like the action’s about to begin.”

  Kitt only nodded. She thought it best not to mention her little adventure in the Dallas airport.

  They entered Ken and Nora’s living room, and Kitt was struck by how homey and right it seemed. The overstuffed chairs and sofa seemed to beckon one to sit down and sink into soft comfort. Family snapshots crowded the mantel, and the walls were lined with overflowing bookshelves. On the coffee table were a vase of golden carnations and the latest copy of Exclusive magazine.

  “Kind of spooky, isn’t it?” Nora mused. “How fast news travels? That people already know he’s here?—Nick’s brother—what’s his name?”

  Mel, thought Kitt, but said nothing.

  “Mel,” Ken supplied.

  “Come into the kitchen,” Nora invited Kitt. “Yes. Mel, that’s it. His ears should be burning, us all talking about him this way.”

  Kitt smiled weakly.

  BUT IF ANY EARS SHOULD have been burning, they were Kitt’s.

  Mel lay on the big four-poster bed in the West Gold Room of the Crystal Creek hotel. He was savoring, with sharp appetite, a smorgasbord of delicious details about Kitt Mitchell.

  “Now wait,” Mel said, “she was a homecoming attendant both years she was at this posh school in Dallas?”

  “Both years,” said DeJames, a grin in his voice. “Queen her senior year. And the Sweetheart of Phi Omega Phi.”

  “What in hell’s Phi Omega Phi?” Mel demanded.

  “The boys’ academic honor society. She was also editor of the high school paper.”

  “And star of the girls’ track team,” muttered Mel. The redhead was clearly an overachiever. Not normal, a driven person.

  DeJames said, “This is what they put under her picture in the yearbook. ‘Some girls break records. Some break hearts. Kitt Mitchell breaks both.’”

  “Cute,” Mel said sarcastically. “What else does it say?”

  “Most ambitious,” said DeJames. “And most likely to succeed.”

  Mel envisi
oned her, a fiery-tressed Scarlett O’Hara, conquering by sly charm. Consumed by ambition, a schemer to beware of—even back then. He intended to have the full goods on her. He said, “But how did she get from Podunk High in Crystal Creek to the Snob-brat School in Dallas? I thought her father was just a ranch hand.”

  “The Stobbart School,” DeJames corrected. “He was. And Stobbart was expensive. Very.”

  “Maybe a scholarship,” Mel muttered. For track. Or academics. Or for just being disgustingly over-talented.

  “Stobbart didn’t give scholarships,” DeJames said. “I haven’t figured out yet how she got there. I will. The school itself’s been closed eight years. But I was lucky—got a copy of one of its yearbooks with her in it.”

  Mel’s brow furrowed. “Yeah. How did you do that?”

  “Because,” drawled DeJames, “I am excellent at my work. And I also have mystical powers. You want me to fax that other stuff to you?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Mel said. “Send it on.”

  DeJames had given him all the basic info on the redhead, where she’d gone to college, her job history, where she lived in New York, even who her last boyfriend had been, a writer who worked for Celebrity Magazine.

  Mel glanced at his watch. “You’re working late, aren’t you, DeJames?”

  “It’s how I’ll get to the top. My excellence. My mystical power. And my legendary tirelessness.”

  “Don’t forget your becoming modesty,” Mel gibed.

  “That, too. You want me to send this yearbook? I can get it there tomorrow by courier.”

  “Do that,” said Mel. “And keep digging. I want to get beneath this woman’s surface.”

  “I think you want to get beneath her skirt,” laughed DeJames.

  “It’s time for you to go home now, DeJames,” Mel said from between his teeth. “To that pitiful, empty thing you call your life.”

  “I happen to have a girlfriend who looks like Jada Pinkett Smith’s prettier sister. A steady girlfriend, Don Juan. You should try it sometime.”