A Little Town in Texas

by Bethany Campbell

  “Not too shabby, eh?”

  “Statistics can lie,” she argued.

  “Not at this company,” he said, nodding at the folder and crossing his arms again. His biceps bulged, and she wished to hell he’d put on his shirt.

  “If you’re so proud of this, can I copy it?” she challenged.

  “Take it,” he said. “Copies have already been mailed to all the major newspapers and broadcast stations in the area.” He smiled. “Including Horace Westerhaus. Right here in Crystal Creek.”

  “Horace is against Bluebonnet Meadows,” Kitt said defensively.

  “Horace was against Bluebonnet Meadows,” Mel countered, his smile growing more smug. “I spent most of the morning talking to him. He’s a convert. He’s seen the light. Bluebonnet Meadows will be buying a lot of media advertising in Crystal Creek—from good old Horace.”

  Oh, hell, Kitt thought, her spirits plummeting. She met Mel’s gaze and held it. “You really do fight dirty, don’t you?”

  “It’s business,” he said. “That’s all.”

  She pointed to the document she’d got from Nora. “This isn’t clean business. It’s a plain old-fashioned smear campaign.”

  His brow arched higher. “A smear? But it’s true, isn’t it?”

  Kitt tossed her head angrily. “This says that the people fighting Fabian are—are practically robber barons. It calls them the ‘power elite.’”

  He gave a short, ironic laugh. “You’re saying they’re not?”

  “Certainly not,” she shot back. But she knew she had to qualify her statement, for part of what he said was true. “At least, not all of them.”

  “Like who?” he gibed. “The good mayor? Douglas Evans? He could make a lot of money from Bluebonnet Meadows. He’s a Realtor. He’s got this hotel—he could only prosper from a larger population.”

  She rose to the bait. “He could. But he wants to keep the town as it is.”

  “Exactly,” Mel said, his smile fading. “He came here because it was a sleepy, old-fashioned place, unchanging, stuck in the past.”

  “It has its charms,” Kitt said stubbornly.

  “Does it?” he asked, his voice edged. “Not for you. But for someone like Doug Evans—yes. He can afford the luxury of no change. He owned the lion’s share of a major distillery in Scotland. Why should he worry about bringing more money to the town? He doesn’t need it. He’s rich.”

  Kitt stiffened in the armchair and her hand tightened on the document. She’d known Doug Evans was from Scotland. She hadn’t known he was independently wealthy. How had she missed that fact?

  “There’s Dan Gibson,” Mel said silkily. “You probably remember him as a hardworking young farmer. Just making ends meet. But he married well. A millionairess. He’s got thousands of acres. She’s got millions of dollars. If that doesn’t make you the ‘power elite,’ what does?”

  “J. T. McKinney?” Mel asked. “For seven generations his family’s owned most of the county. He’s like a king. Was your father like a king, Kitt? Was Nora’s?”

  Kitt struggled not to squirm. Uneasily she remembered how awed she had been by the McKinneys as a child, struck by their land and wealth.

  Mel’s eyelids lowered almost seductively. He glanced at another folder on the dresser and picked it up. He flipped it open and drew out a photograph. He held it up for her to see.

  She sucked in her breath sharply. It was an old snapshot of the tenant houses on the Double C. They were mobile homes, six of them. J.T. had leased them to his married wranglers.

  Perhaps the homes had once been nice. But Kitt remembered only shabbiness. The Texas rains had rusted them and warped them. The Texas heat had scorched them until their paint peeled. No grass grew in the yards, and the children had played in the stones and dirt.

  Her breath stuck in her chest. “The wranglers were responsible for the upkeep,” she managed to say. “That was part of the—the arrangement. But most of them didn’t hold up their end of the deal.”

  “What?” Mel asked. “Still defending the great J.T.? Was it programmed into you? His kids were living like royalty.”

  He sighed and dropped the photo back into the folder. He held up another snapshot. It showed the McKinneys’ patio, the three good-looking McKinney children lounging by the pool.

  “Not quite the same as where you grew up,” he said.

  Her sensation of suffocation grew, and she felt almost dizzy with anger. “Our fathers didn’t take care of our places—” she began.

  He cut her off. “Why should they? They didn’t own them. J.T. did. He owned everything.”

  “Those trailers are gone now,” she countered. “It was an experiment that didn’t work. Nora says there are some nice little houses there now—”

  “Yes,” he said, dropping the picture of the McKinneys back into the folder. “Nice little pre-fab houses. For the have-nots.”

  Kitt knotted her left hand into a fist. “You make us sound like sharecroppers or slaves—it wasn’t like that, dammit.”

  He raised both brows innocently. “I said there are ‘have-nots’ in the county. Isn’t it true? Let’s talk about Nora, for instance. Nora and Ken.”

  “Leave Nora out of this,” she ordered. She was sure he was about to make fun of Nora and Ken, and she wouldn’t tolerate it. If he did, she would slap his face.

  “Nora’s a good woman,” Mel said. He straightened and uncrossed his arms. He inched closer to Kitt. “She’s symbolic of this whole situation.”

  Kitt shook her head. “She’s a person, not a symbol.”

  “Listen to me,” he demanded. “Where’d she grow up? In one of those damn trailers. Who owned it? J. T. McKinney. Where’s she live now? Well, she has moved up in the world. She lives in the foreman’s house. But who owns it? J. T. McKinney.”

  Kitt’s head buzzed from the pounding of the blood in her temples. “She loves living there. It’s a great old house. It’s got charm, history—”

  “—but it isn’t their house, is it?” Mel retorted. “And the land they live on isn’t their land. All this great, beautiful land—and how much of it do they own?”

  Kitt, breathing hard, refused to answer.

  He answered for her. “They own a tiny lot with a tiny house in town, right? It used to belong to Dottie Jones. And Nora owns the Longhorn. Or maybe it’s the other way around. The Longhorn owns Nora.”

  “What do you mean?” Kitt felt he was pushing her toward the edge of a steep precipice.

  “She’s not doing what she wants, is she?” Mel challenged.

  “They—they had setbacks,” Kitt stammered. “And they have Rory to put through college.”

  He threw the folder back onto the dresser. He stepped to the chair, looming over her. “Setbacks. She lost her teaching job—why?”

  “The school had to cut back,” Kitt answered, pressing against the back of the chair.

  “Right,” he said, leaning over her. He put one hand on each arm of the chair, effectively trapping her. Kitt looked away from him, staring at the curtained window. The scent of his cologne muddled her thinking.

  “And why did the school cut back?” He almost purred the words.

  “The town was low on money.”

  “And, my dear, sweet, smart, informed Kitt, why was it low?”

  His face was only inches from hers. She made the mistake of looking into his dark blue eyes. “Crystal Creek was losing population,” she breathed. “The tax base shrank….”

  Her voice trailed off, but his took up the explanation. “And what did the town do for itself? Did it try to attract business? Industry? Create jobs? Housing? Did it do any of those things?”

  Kitt turned her face to avoid that sapphire gaze. “No,” she admitted in a little voice.

  “No other county this close to Austin is this undeveloped.” His breath was hot and tickling against her cheek. “None. Nobody here wants to look ahead. They’re too busy looking back—at a past that nobody will admit is gone forever.”r />
  “Get away from me,” she said. His nearness overwhelmed her.

  To her surprise, he stepped away. She felt both relieved and strangely disappointed. He walked to the closet, took out a clean white shirt. He slipped it on but didn’t button it.

  He went to the window and pushed back the curtains. He stared out at it. “There it is. Charming—but unchanged for almost forty years. On weekends and holidays, they crank up the town carousel, and the animals move in the same old circle, going nowhere. Just like the town.”

  He turned to face her, his smile mocking. “If the town never changes, Ken and Nora can probably still make enough to live comfortably. They’ll get the boy through school. Someday they’ll retire to Dottie’s little house in town. Maybe some days Nora’ll be called in as a substitute teacher—if the school’s still open—and she has energy left to try.”

  Kitt rose, pressing the folder against her chest. “I’m going. I’ve heard enough.”

  “No, you haven’t,” he said. “If the Bluebonnet Meadows project goes forward, do you know the value of the Longhorn would skyrocket? She just manages now—the motel’s repairs will eat up her whole year’s profits.”

  Kitt had meant to move, but now she stood as if paralyzed. She stared at him.

  He nodded. “She could make plenty if the sale was handled smartly. In the meantime, a thousand families in Bluebonnet Meadows would bring more students. That would mean more teachers, better salaries.”

  He paused, letting his words sink in. “Finally she’d be doing what she loves. She’d be dealing with poems and novels, not burgers and fries. She’d be teaching kids, not making sure Horace Westerhaus has his eggs cooked right or Bubba Gibson’s coffee cup is filled.”

  He walked to her, looked her up and down. “Think of it, Kitt. She wouldn’t have to carry the responsibility of that restaurant around on her shoulders six days a week.”

  She took a deep breath and held her ground.

  Mel’s smile grew more ingratiating. “She’d have real vacations. She and Ken could go places. She could even visit England, see the London of Shakespeare and Dickens. The moors of Wuthering Heights.”

  He reached out and stroked a wayward strand of hair from her cheek. He said, “And if Bluebonnet Meadows went to Phase Two—if two thousand families moved in—who knows how much Nora’s property might bring? She could go back to the university, get a master’s degree—even teach in a college or junior college.”

  He took another strand of her loose hair between his fingers. He held it as if it were a ribbon he enjoyed touching. “With Bluebonnet Meadows, so many good things might come to Crystal Creek. So many.”

  She squared her jaw to keep it from trembling. “You’re a devil,” she accused. “That’s what you are.”

  “Am I? Devils tempt. Do you feel tempted?”

  “No,” she lied, dashing his hand away. “I don’t want anything you’ve got to offer. And neither does this town.”

  She wheeled, her heart thundering, and flung open the door to escape.

  “We’ll see about that,” he said from behind her. “Won’t we?”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHE WAS GONE, slamming the door behind her.

  Her absence seemed to suck all the oxygen from the air. Mel was breathing hard, and the pulses in his temples hammered. What he’d told Kitt was true, dammit.

  And she was smart enough to understand, if only she’d admit it. Bluebonnet Meadows could be very good for Nora and her family. How could Kitt be against anything that was good for Nora?

  True, Kitt might write against it, but her heart wouldn’t be in it. If public sympathy turned in Fabian’s favor now, he’d hold all the aces. The Hill Country around Crystal Creek could no longer belong only to the very rich few. The town itself would profit from it.

  Mel’s fax machine began to clatter. He tried to push Kitt from his mind. But the message wouldn’t let him. It was from DeJames.

  “Mel—Call ASAP. Cal McKinney has some hotshot lawyers investigating the possibilities of getting a court order about the dam. Working at this end to stall them. Find media outlets to emphasize dam’s condition is fault of Concerned Citizens of Claro County. Repeat: emphasize their responsibility. DeJames.”

  Mel gritted his teeth and dialed Fabian’s private number. There was no answer. He phoned DeJames. “I need to talk to Fabian. Where is he?”

  “He’s spending the day at the clinic. He’s been having a bad time of it lately,” said DeJames.

  Mel sighed. Fabian was not well. He had never been well. He was plagued with arthritis, and a mild case of Asperger’s syndrome. He was a small man, with twisted limbs and a nerve disorder that gave him facial tics and made his hands tremble and flap. He might have seemed pathetic, except that his drive and irritability had made him powerful, and when he chose, he could be venomous as a hornet.

  Mel said, “Look, DeJames, I have to talk to him. About this dam. He’s got to stop fighting the lawyers and fix the bloody thing. He should beat McKinney’s lawyers at their own game and head them off at the pass. It’s been raining for two weeks here. If that thing gives, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  “Fabian hates backing down. You know that.”

  “He’s spent a fortune down here trying to make himself sound like a hero. Tell him it’s time to act like one. Fix the damn dam.”

  “I’m not saying that to him,” DeJames laughed. “He’d have my head on a plate. I’ll tell him to call you.”

  “Do that,” said Mel.

  KITT HAD AN APPOINTMENT with Shelby Belyle, Nick’s new wife. Kitt knew the woman would be careful what she said; she could not compromise her husband.

  Still, Shelby had a degree in biology and had worked for two years as a nature guide at Hole in the Wall Dude Ranch. Now she was working on her master’s. She knew a great deal about the land Fabian had bought and the impact he would have on it.

  Shelby had asked Kitt to meet her at Rimrock State Park, at the scenic overlook above the Claro River. Kitt, eager to escape Crystal Creek and thoughts of Mel, arrived early.

  Yet early as she was, Shelby was already there. She sat at a cedar picnic table by the overlook’s low stone wall. Before her was a stack of folders and a map weighted down at the corners with pebbles.

  Shelby rose when Kitt got out of the car. She was a beautiful woman, dark and lushly pretty. She offered Kitt her hand and said, “Thanks for coming clear out here.”

  “It’s kind of you to meet me at all,” Kitt said.

  “I can’t say anything that might jeopardize Nick,” said Shelby. “He has nothing to do with this. Whatever I show you is data I got from the University and the Environmental Protection Agency—on my own.”

  Kitt nodded. “I understand. I can make that clear.”

  “In fact, it’d be better if you didn’t use my name,” Shelby said nervously. “Just call me an ‘anonymous source.’”

  Kitt promised that she would, and the two women sat at the table side by side. The air was still and humid. It seemed pregnant with more rain, and dark clouds covered the sun. Kitt looked out at the Claro River and the hills beyond. Far below, the river twisted and flashed with foam.

  “The river’s high, and so are the creeks,” Shelby said. “That’s part of the problem. The most serious issue’s water. J.T. wasn’t going to take on this fight until it involved the water.”

  On the map Shelby circled the land that Fabian owned. She pointed at a Y-shaped line. “Here’s the complication, at this fork.” She explained that both a small creek and an underwater stream fed into Lower Crystal Creek. Fabian had diverted both to fill his lake.

  Kitt nodded. “And the lower creek’s an important water source to everyone downstream. Especially J.T.”

  “It was,” Shelby said, tapping the map with her pen. “And back when Fabian dammed the water, we were having a dry spell. The lake itself was half full. But the lower creek went dry.”

  Shelby’s brow furrowed as she exp
lained how intricate Texas law was about surface water and underground water. “So,” she said, “is Fabian within his legal rights, diverting this water? Only the courts can say. But in the meantime, with all this rain and only a temporary dam—who knows what could happen?”

  Kitt studied the map. “Where would the flooding hit if it came?”

  “It would sweep right through Fabian’s construction site, for starters,” Shelby said. “Which would serve him right. But it could do damage farther downstream, starting with the Double C. It would cover mostly grazing land, but it could affect roads and bridges, too.”

  Kitt bit her lip. “Can I have a copy of this map?”

  “I brought it for you,” Shelby said. “And these reports, too. I wish—I wish I could talk more frankly. There’s more I’d like to say. But I can’t.”

  Shelby looked so pensive that Kitt knew she was thinking of the rift between Nick and Mel. Impulsively Kitt put her hand over Shelby’s. “I’m sorry, too. I hope things work out.”

  “So do I,” Shelby said with a sad smile. “But I don’t see how.”

  J.T. SAT in Dr. Purdy’s office fervently wishing he could disappear. “All I want,” he said gruffly, “is some of that Viagra stuff. Just write the prescription, will you?”

  Now in his sixties, Nate Purdy had been a doctor and a colonel in the Vietnam War. He had steel-gray hair, a steel-gray mustache and steel-gray eyes. Over the tops of his glasses, he gave J.T. a reproving look. “Not so fast. I don’t pass this stuff out like Halloween candy. I need more details.”

  Details were the last thing J.T. wanted to give. “You said I’m healthy. And I said I want some Viagra. I’m—getting to a certain age.”

  Nate’s eyes narrowed. “You passed your physical with flying colors last spring. You seem healthy enough now—except your blood pressure’s up. Now what’s this problem about sex?”

  J.T. fought not to flinch. He had never enjoyed talking about sex. He only liked having it—or he had liked it—up until now. “It’s not really a problem,” he hedged. “I mean, I’ve read that everybody has some, eh, times they don’t, eh, well, you know.”