A Little Town in Texas

by Bethany Campbell

  “I thought you wore the pants in the family, Bubba,” Mel chided. “You’d let a woman decide this? So you die on your precious land. Then what happens to it? Is she going to run it alone—a woman nearly sixty?”

  “She’s run it before,” Bubba retorted. “And she ain’t alone. We got a grandson who’s comin’ of age to take my place. There will always be a Gibson on this land. And we got a topnotch foreman. He and me got a deal. I ain’t backin’ out on it.”

  Dammit! “Just listen to me,” Mel argued. “I’m going to name a price. Think about this price. Think hard. Then talk to the little woman again, and talk some sense into her. You can’t—”

  “I don’t want to hear your price,” Bubba roared. “You ain’t tryin’ to buy my land. You’re tryin’ to buy my soul. Get thee behind me, Satan.”

  He hung up. Mel swore as he smashed down the receiver. He’d gambled that Bubba’s weakness was greater than Mary’s strength. But no, she’d made Bubba have a fit of integrity. What a waste—a perfectly fine traitor ruined by the love of a good woman.

  To hell with that scheme. Well, Fabian had an arsenal of other tricks ready; he never entered a fray with only one weapon. Tomorrow Mel would arrange for the heavier artillery to rumble in.

  He heaved himself up from the bed and paced to the window. The rain still beat down outside. He stared at it and remembered Kitt’s lips beneath his own.

  J.T. HUNG UP the phone, heart pounding dangerously. Cal had just strolled, uninvited, into his study. Did he know what was happening? Maybe he did, because he looked uncharacteristically serious.

  “Hi, Daddy,” Cal said. “You all right?”

  J.T. sank against the back of the leather sofa. He had a half-empty glass of bourbon in one hand. “That was Bubba. Mel Belyle’s been after him, trying to make him another offer. Bubba just told him to go to hell.”

  Cal’s familiar grin flashed. “Good for him. I been scared he wouldn’t hold out. Old Bubba loves money.”

  J.T. gave him a dark look. “He loves the land more.” Not like you, he thought, then felt guilty for thinking it.

  Cal’s grin died. “I knocked, but you didn’t answer. I guess you were on the phone. Cynthia said I could come on in.”

  Cynthia. J.T. sighed and took a stiff slug of bourbon. “Where’s she?” he demanded.

  “She said she was goin’ to bed,” Cal said.

  Going to bed. Thank God. J.T. could wait until she was asleep then slip in beside her undetected. He finished his drink, rose and poured another. He put his foot on the brass rail and stared morosely at the framed map of the Double C behind the bar.

  Cal moved to his side. “Mind?” he asked. J.T. grunted in answer, and Cal poured himself a shot of bourbon. J.T. could feel his son eyeing him, studying him, and he clamped his lips together to hide his emotions.

  “I know what’s wrong,” Cal said quietly. “I just talked to Tyler. He said he talked to you about him and Ruth leavin’.”

  J.T. gave him a resentful glare. “Tomorrow. They’re leaving tomorrow—out of the blue. He suspected this might be coming. He’s known for weeks it might be coming. He’s even arranged for somebody from Fredericksburg to come manage the winery. But he never mentioned a word to me—until tonight—when he’s packed and ready to go.”

  Cal gazed into his glass. “He was hoping it wouldn’t happen. That it wouldn’t come to this. They’d hoped her father wouldn’t get sicker, but he did. You can’t blame Ruth, Daddy. She needs to be with him.”

  J.T. felt sickly himself, but it was mostly with deep disappointment. He was overwhelmed by abandonment, even betrayal. Tyler had mentioned that Ruth’s father was ailing, but he’d never hinted at how serious the situation was. Or, if he had, J.T. had not allowed himself to hear it.

  He muttered, “She’s going to inherit that winery.”

  Cal shrugged, as if it was an inevitability and not to be fought. “It’s a good one. It tops a lot of lists of Californian wines.”

  “What’s wrong with the one here?” J.T. snapped. “Tyler’s put damn near ten years work into it. Now he talks like he might—might just walk off and leave it. California. Leave Texas for California.”

  J.T. couldn’t help himself. He spat out the word California as if it were the worst obscenity. Cal looked at him with pity, and he hated that.

  “He don’t know how this is going to come out,” Cal reasoned. “He’ll see if he can run two places—”

  “He’s had trouble running one place,” J.T. said in frustration. “Now he’ll handle two? He says if he can’t, he’s asked you to buy the winery here. Is that true?”

  Cal looked him in the eye. “Yessir.”

  “And would you?” J.T. demanded. “If you don’t, it’ll go to some outsider. Maybe even Fabian.”

  Cal stood straighter. “I’d have to talk it over with Serena. But if he wanted me to buy it, I’d do my best.”

  J.T. looked at him askance. “But you wouldn’t stay around to run it. You’re too busy—elsewhere.”

  “I’m not a winemaker, Daddy. Hell, I can hardly make Kool-Aid.”

  “You can’t stay put in one spot, either,” J.T. grumbled. “I always thought that Tyler would. California. Hell.”

  “He might not stay in California. Nothin’s settled. He may be back here for good in six months. Ruth’s emotional right now. She probably don’t know what she really wants. Her father—”

  “Her father is my friend,” J.T. interrupted, his voice righteous. “A good friend. I feel rotten about losing him, too. They should have told me sooner. Warned me. Tyler springs this on me all at once.”

  “You had enough on your mind,” Cal said, putting his hand on his father’s arm.

  “Enough on my mind?” J.T. said with an angry glance. “Do you two think I need protecting? Has it come to that?”

  “No sir,” Cal said, his face going stiff with control. “It’s just that Ruth hated talking about it, and Tyler—”

  J.T. hardly heard him. “Too much is changing. Too much is—slipping away.” He turned to face Cal, his expression almost combative. “What about you? Where do you slip away to next?”

  “South America,” Cal said. “There’s cattle land in Argentina that—”

  “There’s cattle land here.” J.T. hit the bar with his fist for emphasis. “Oh, hell, what do you care? Just leave me alone for now, will you?”

  Cal tossed down the rest of his drink and set the glass on the bar. His usually lively face had gone impassive. “Sure, Daddy. I understand.”

  He turned and left. When the door closed, J.T. put his elbows on the bar and stared at the map again, his face taut. Tyler—dependable Tyler, always his right hand—was leaving. At a time like this. And Cal would never stay. It wasn’t his nature.

  WEDNESDAY KITT STAYED busy—news kept breaking. Mel Belyle had tried to cut a private deal with Bubba Gibson, but Bubba had refused. It was the talk of the town.

  But then came word from the Double C that Tyler McKinney was leaving for California with his wife. Her father was seriously ill, and rumor said they might stay and run the Napa Valley winery. Tyler leaving? The townsfolk were stunned.

  J.T. canceled his interview with Kitt. Clearly he didn’t want to talk about the situation. And like sinister background music, thunder rumbled and rain poured down all morning, all afternoon, all evening.

  Kitt didn’t see Mel. She was grateful, yet wondered where he was, what fresh mischief he was up to. That night she and Nora and Ken talked into the small hours about what might happen next. And the rain fell relentlessly.

  Kitt stayed out so late that Thursday morning she over-slept. She awoke with the foreboding that strange weather could sometimes bring. Even in the hotel room, she could feel a heaviness in the atmosphere, a closeness and an unpleasant electrical charge.

  A glance at her watch told her that she had no time for a run. Her first appointment, with Mayor Douglas Evans, was at nine-thirty, only an hour away. She decided to go to the Longho
rn to have a cup of coffee with Nora.

  She showered and dressed, then examined herself in the mirror critically. Her travel clothes were practical, not pretty.

  So what? she thought defensively. It was how she always dressed on assignment. Once, an angry boyfriend had called her clothes asexual. He’d taunted her, demanding to know why she was so frightened of her own femininity.

  Again she thought, So what? She knew she wore these clothes as a sort of armor. Mel Belyle had pierced the armor, and now he was making her doubt both its power and worth. To hell with him.

  I’m as tough as he is, Kitt thought stubbornly. And just as much a loner. I can’t let him play mind games with me. And I won’t.

  SOMETHING HAD HAPPENED. Kitt sensed it as soon as she walked into the Longhorn.

  The air crackled with tension. At each table and booth, people hunched in tense, unhappy discussions. At the corner booth, Bubba Gibson stood up, his face brick-red with anger. He jammed his hat more tightly on his head and stomped out of the café, slamming the door behind him.

  Nora stood behind the counter, her face strained. She met Kitt’s eyes, and her expression said, There’s trouble, big trouble. Nora tilted her head in a signal to meet in the kitchen.

  “What’s going on?” Kitt asked once they were alone.

  Nora reached into her apron pocket. She handed Kitt a business-size envelope, thick and important looking. “This came from New York this morning. By special delivery, no less. I think everybody in the blooming county’s getting a copy.”

  Kitt withdrew the document, unfolded it and scanned the first paragraphs. A sudden queasiness rocked her stomach. “Good grief,” she breathed.

  “An Open Letter to the Citizens of Claro County:

  “The Bluebonnet Meadows project has suffered undeserved abuse from a group calling itself ‘Concerned Citizens of Claro County.’

  “These so-called ‘Concerned Citizens’ have used every possible legal ruse, no matter how dubious, to stop work on Bluebonnet Meadows.

  “Yet who forms the core of this organization? Typical, hardworking citizens like most of you?

  “No. The leaders of these self-styled ‘Citizens’ are the power elite of Claro County. They are the families who have monopolized the land for generations—for one reason: their own profit. They have enjoyed this privileged monopoly at the expense of others, people like you.

  “LOOK FOR YOURSELF at the growth, income and jobs Bluebonnet Meadows can bring to the city and the county!

  “SEE FOR YOURSELF how a stunted town can bloom into a prosperous city—a city with unlimited opportunity for you and your children!

  “THINK FOR YOURSELF how Bluebonnet Meadows can make your future brighter and more secure!

  “The following statistics show the growth that Bluebonnet Meadows will create for you and yours…”

  Kitt was no expert at economics, but the charts and graphs and lists were clear. Almost every business in the county would grow and prosper. New businesses would spring up, more jobs would be offered. Money, money, everywhere.

  Kitt saw that it was a convincing argument. But was it true? Or only Fabian’s clever propaganda? She looked at Nora. “These statistics—are they right?”

  Nora made a gesture of mock helplessness. “I’d need a crystal ball to answer that. It’s what everybody’s arguing about.”

  “Mel Belyle did this,” Kitt said bitterly. “He sat in your house night before last, so charming, so down-to-earth. But then he tried to buy Bubba, and when that didn’t work, he pulls this, the bastard.”

  “It’s not from him,” Nora reminded her. “It was mailed from New York. From a public relations firm.”

  “Owned by Brian Fabian,” Kitt said, her eyes narrowed. “I’d bet money on it. And Mel knew it was coming. He had to.”

  “Maybe he wasn’t allowed to say,” Nora ventured, her voice hesitant.

  Kitt stared in surprise. Was Nora defending the man? Why? Did she want to believe all this wealth would really flow into the town, plating the streets with gold?

  Nora said, “It says those figures were computed by a firm that specializes in predicting economic change. Henderson and Associates.”

  “Fabian probably owns them, too,” fumed Kitt. “They’ll say whatever he tells them to say.”

  Nora shrugged and pointed to the bottom of the letter. “It also says this information’s going to be released to the media tomorrow.”

  “Damn!” Kitt said. “This is inflammatory. It makes the major landowners sound like a bunch of medieval barons oppressing the serfs.”

  “That’s why Bubba’s so angry. Yesterday he was a hero for not selling. Today he’s a selfish thug.”

  “Has J. T. McKinney seen this? Or any of the ranchers besides Bubba?”

  “I don’t know. If they haven’t, they’ll hear about it soon enough.”

  “Can I borrow this?” Kitt asked, giving the document a little wave. “I want a copy for myself and to fax one to Exclusive. The research department can see if these figures are valid.”

  “Of course,” Nora said. She shook her head worriedly. “Oh, J.T.’s going to be furious. All the McKinneys will.”

  “I’ve got to see the mayor,” Kitt said. “And then I’m going to track down Mel Belyle and rake him over the coals. God, this is underhanded.”

  Kitt stuffed the envelope into her vest pocket and left by the back door, stalking out almost as angrily as Bubba had. The document was designed to split the townspeople into warring factions.

  Reverend Blake had guessed right. If Fabian wanted to win, he needed to divide and conquer. It was exactly the ploy he was using, and Mel Belyle was his instrument of division and conquest.

  KITT WASN’T SURPRISED when Mayor Evans wouldn’t see her.

  His secretary was a plump little woman with curly white-blond hair and a frilly white blouse. “I’m sorry,” she said. “The Mayor will try to schedule another appointment with you. Something unexpected came up.”

  And I know what that something is, Kitt thought ruefully. It was the same document that was folded in her vest pocket. She could feel it there over her heart, like some malignant packet emitting poison rays into her.

  “I’ll try again tomorrow,” Kitt said.

  “Fine,” said the secretary. The phone rang and she answered. “Mrs. Trent?” she said in a perky voice. “The mayor’s on another line. Do you want to hold or leave a message?”

  Kitt turned away. She knew the caller had to be Carolyn Trent, J. T. McKinney’s sister-in-law. She was a prime mover in the Concerned Citizens of Claro County.

  Now, according to Fabian’s insinuations, she was also an enemy of the people. Like J.T. and Bubba and the others, she was privileged and powerful—and selfishly standing in the way of a brighter future for those less fortunate than she.

  It sickened Kitt that Carolyn, an honorable woman, was suddenly cast as a villainess. She clenched her jaw more tightly and strode out of the courthouse and headed back to the hotel.

  She used the hotel’s machine to fax the document to Exclusive. Then she ran up the stairs to her room. Picking up the phone, she flopped onto the bed and dialed the number of the research department. She asked for the department head, Gideon Hammer.

  “Gideon,” Kitt said. “I just faxed something I need you to check out. It’s important. I’ve got to know if the statistics are reliable.”

  Gideon vowed to do it as soon as possible. “But that might not be soon,” he warned. “It sounds like a complex piece of work. We’ll do our best.”

  “I know you will,” she said. As she hung up, she heard footsteps in the hall, the sound of a nearby door opening. I think he’s here—right now. I’m going to pounce on him so hard it’ll rattle his teeth.

  Like a shot she was out of her room and rapping on his door so fiercely her knuckles stung. Her heart banged, rata-tat-tat.

  The door eased open. Mel stood there looking down at her skeptically. He was shirtless. The sight of his tann
ed and sculpted chest took her back.

  “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked.

  She pulled out the envelope and brandished it under his nose. “To this. You did this to start trouble, didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t do it at all,” he said. “A public relations company did. Blackmun and Fielding.”

  “Don’t play word games,” she retorted. “Fabian’s behind it, and you’re his point man on this project. Do you think this is ethical?”

  He sighed and swung the door wider. “If you want to talk, come inside. I don’t want to have this conversation in the hallway.”

  Reluctantly she eased inside. He’d barely moved, so she had to squeeze by carefully to avoid brushing against him. A yellow shirt hung over the back of the armchair.

  He moved to the chair and flipped the T-shirt onto the bed. “Have a seat,” he said.

  He leaned against the dresser and crossed his arms over his bare chest. The movement made his arm and shoulder muscles undulate distractingly. He wore low-slung gray jeans and black cowboy boots that made him even taller.

  “I ran again this morning,” he said. “It wasn’t the same without you. Nobody to shadow me and enjoy my pain.”

  She ignored the remark. She waggled the envelope again. “Would you please explain this?”

  He shrugged one naked shoulder. “I thought it was self-explanatory. What do you want to know?”

  She yanked the document out of the envelope and unfolded it. “These so-called facts. These projected figures. It’s mostly propaganda—isn’t it?”

  He raised one dark brow as if in sardonic pity for her naivete. “Why would Fabian be such a fool? Why would he lie?”

  “Because it serves his purpose,” she answered, her chin tilted defiantly.

  “One of the finest economic consulting firms in Texas did the statistics,” he said. “They specialize in economic impact analysis. Want to see their qualifications?”

  He picked up a blue folder and handed it to her. She opened it suspiciously. But just the opening page stunned her. It listed the firm’s recent projects and clients—and they were stellar.