by Janet Dailey
At first glance, it looked like any other big log house, yet it gave evidence of care in its framing and fitting. His father, Elias Bannon, had built it a century ago, and he’d built it to stand for a hundred more. The logs were solid and fitted to one another without a crack or crevice. No chinking here, each log had been faced with an adz until it lay cheek to cheek against the other, creating a wall two feet thick or more.
Old Tom eyed it with pride. That big old house had withstood many a blizzard, winds howling around it like raging banshees. It had known its share of good times, when the surrounding mining towns had needed the beef, hay, and draft animals it raised. It had known its hard times, too, when the mines shut down and the town died. The Great Depression had been a lean time as well, but the house had weathered them all, the good times and the bad. And through it all, it had known many a rake of a cowboy’s spur, many a swish of a pretty dress, many a tear and many a laugh.
This had been home from the time the first timber had been cut. His father had built a house in town, but it had never been more than a place to stay, a place to practice as a lawyer. This was where his heart was, right here in Stone Creek.
Old Tom knew it was the same for him. He’d been born in the bed he slept in. Forty-odd years later Beauty had delivered their son in it. The Good Lord willing, he’d die in it. The thought was a pleasing one.
“The phone’s ringing.” Laura broke into a run for the front door, charging up the stone steps and across the porch, her boots beating a rapid tattoo on the rough-planked floor.
The storm door banged shut behind her. She paused long enough to hit the light switch on the inside wall and throw a yellow track of light across the porch before racing off to grab the ringing phone.
Bannon mounted the steps ahead of his father and entered the house. Out of habit he took off his hat and hung it on a wall peg, automatically running fingers through his dark hair to comb away its flatness. The lodge-like living room sprawled before him, rustic and solid, a timbered stairway rising to a railed balcony circling three walls off which four doors opened.
Laura had the phone to her ear and both elbows on the oak table. Unbuckling his spurs, Bannon listened while Laura chattered away to the caller, recounting the day’s adventures and expounding on the stampede, turning it into a moment fraught with danger.
“He’s here.” Laura swiveled on one elbow to look at him, then added in response to something the caller said, “Sure.” Straightening, she held out the phone to him. “It’s Aunt Sondra. She wants to talk to you.”
Bannon hooked his spurs on a peg next to his hat, then walked over to take the phone from his daughter. “You’d better go clean up and get your things together,” he told his daughter, cupping a hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece. “And don’t forget to pack your toothbrush.”
“I won’t.” She headed for the stairway.
“And don’t be all night in the shower,” Old Tom called after her, then glanced at Bannon. “I’m gonna get me a beer. Do you want one?”
Refusing with a shake of his head, he uncovered the mouthpiece. “Hello, Sondra. What’s the problem?”
“I’m still at the office.” When she heard the rich timbre of his voice, tinged with a faint drawl, Sondra Hudson turned toward the framed photograph on her desk, her lips softening, losing much of their usual cool and sober curve. “I called to let you know I’m running late, but from what Laura just said, you will be, too.”
“Not too late, I hope,” Bannon said. “Laura is spending the night at the St. Clairs’. We’ll drop her off first, then come by the house to pick you up-”
We. That obviously meant his father was coming along. What with one dung and another, it had been more than a week since she and Bannon had been alone-to talk, to touch, to love. She had hoped that tonight, after the dinner, they could-but that wasn’t to be. Not with his father along. She contained her annoyance.
“Sounds perfect,” she lied. “I have one or two things to finish up here, then I’m going directly to the house. With luck, I’ll be ready when you arrive.”
“In roughly two hours I should hope so,” he remarked dryly.
Sondra smiled. “It always takes a woman longer to dress than a man. Haven’t you learned that by now, Bannon?”
“I guess I’ve forgotten.” His voice had a smile in it.
“That comes from not having a woman in the house,” she said, then instantly regretted the remark that, by inference, raised the specter of her late sister. She hurried on without giving Bannon a chance to speak. “I’d better let you go or I’ll be even later.”
After she hung up, Sondra reached for the photo, an enlargement of a snapshot taken almost ten years ago. It showed a winter scene in the Aspen mall, a trademark street lamp and artful snowbanks forming a backdrop for the smiling threesome in the center of the shot.
Bannon stood in the middle, his features softer, smoother, younger, a cowboy hat raked to the back of his head. Sondra was on his left, her head tipped to rest on the point of his shoulder while she smiled at the camera with a self-contained poise. The paleness of her platinum dyed hair made her as fair as the girl on his right was dark. Her younger sister, Diana-with her ebony eyes and long black hair; spoiled, tempestuous Diana, thoughtless and selfish. She hadn’t cared that Sondra had met Bannon first.
Diana had always been like that-just like their father, never caring about anybody but himself. He’d only cared about having a good time and living well, even if it was off somebody else.
The only thing Sondra had ever learned from her father was how to use charm and wiles on people. It had worked, because she’d been smart enough to make it work. She’d scrimped and saved to get enough money to buy a small wardrobe of the “right” clothes and have her mouse brown hair bleached to a champagne blond. As soon as she had obtained her real estate license, Sondra had left Denver for Aspen and her piece of its dream. She’d gone to work for an agency that had treated her like a mindless errand girl. But it had been a beginning.
Then Diana had called-she and some friends were in Aspen for the winter carnival. When she’d suggested Sondra meet them for drinks, Sondra wished now she’d refused. She wished she’d said she was too busy, that her boss wanted her to take a contract to some couple for their signature. Instead she’d agreed, then left the agency to drive up-valley to some godforsaken chalet-style home.
After she’d gotten the required signatures, she started back to town to meet Diana and her friends….
It was dusk. Snow flurries danced in her headlight beams. She had promised to meet Diana at the J Bar for drinks at five. It was almost that now.
Speeding, Sondra rounded a curve and hit an icy patch. The car skidded out of control, sliding off the road and careening down a bank, plowing through drifts and sending a spray of blinding snow over the windshield. Gripping the steering wheel, Sondra slammed both feet on the brake pedal and braced herself for a crash.
The car slammed into something, throwing her against the wheel. Then everything stopped.
Shaking, she rested her forehead against the wheel and waited for her heart to stop pounding. At some point, she realized the engine was still running and switched it off. The silence was crushing. Suddenly she was angry-angry with herself for speeding, angry at the maintenance crew for not salting the curve better, angry at the client for living on this horrid road, and angry at her boss for sending her in the first place when it was his client.
But anger wasn’t going to get her back to town. Sondra started the car again, flipped on the wipers to sweep the heavy coating of snow from the windshield, and shifted into reverse. The wheels spun uselessly.
Five minutes of trying and the car hadn’t budged an inch in any direction. It was stuck, hopelessly and impossibly stuck.
Sondra pounded a gloved fist against the wheel in frustration, then yanked the key out of the ignition and grabbed her purse off the passenger seat. She pushed the door open and climbed out, slamming the door shu
t behind her, the sound magnified by the surrounding silence and the hush of softly falling snow. She glared at the fence post that jutted from the front of the car like an off-center hood ornament.
Turning, she faced the road and the snow-filled ditch she had to cross to reach it. With jaws clenched in temper, Sondra glanced at her stylish snow boots. Dainty and fur-trimmed with pointed heels, they were ideal for Denver’s slush but totally unsuited for trudging through deep snow. One step and she’d be over the top of them.
The loud snort of an animal came from behind her. Sondra whirled around, half expecting to see some wild beast charging out of the snow. Instead she saw a horse and rider on the other side of the fence, looking like they’d ridden straight out of a Marlboro commercial-the horse stocky and brown with a shaggy winter coat, the man rugged-jawed and lean, dressed in a cowboy hat and a heavy sheepskin-lined parka.
“Are you all right, miss?” he said in a pleasant baritone voice.
“I’m fine. It’s my car. I hit an icy patch.”
He dismounted and waded through the snow to the front of her car. He crouched down to inspect the situation, then swung a long leg over the fence, briefly straddling the wire before crossing the rest of the way. After walking partway around her car, he came back to the driver’s side.
His mouth curved in a gentle, commiserating smile, “I’m afraid you’re going to need a wrecker.”
She was tempted to say-: Tell me something I don’t know. But she discovered she was reluctant to sharpen her tongue on this man.
“I was afraid of that,” she murmured instead.
“Our ranch house is a half mile from here. I’ll be happy to give you a lift.”
“A lift? You mean-on that horse?”
A glint of humor appeared in his dark eyes, his look softly teasing and giving Sondra the impression he was laughing with her, not at her. “He won’t mind us riding double if you don’t.”
Sondra smiled back, a little surprised to discover how easy it was. She usually didn’t like men, their arrogance, the way they looked at women like they were some dessert to be eaten. This one wasn’t like that.
“I don’t mind.”
“Good. By the way, my name is Tom Bannon.” He thrust out a leather-gloved hand to her, in the manner of an equal meeting an equal. “But I go by just plain Bannon.”
“Sondra Hudson,” she said as her slim, soft-gloved hand became lost in the large grip of his, the warmth and the strength of it flowing through like a current. “I go by just plain Sondra.”
“Well, Sondra.” He grinned. “Shall we mount up?”
Within minutes she was balanced crosswise in the saddle in front of him, his arms comfortably caging her, his chest offering more solid support.
“Warm enough?” His face was so close she could feel the heat of his breath on her cheek, like a caress.
“Yes.” She felt very warm, but more than that, she felt safe, protected. It was a new feeling, one she had never realized she needed.
Sondra no longer remembered what they talked about during that short ride to his ranch house. She only remembered the light swirl of snowflakes in the air, the gathering darkness that enhanced the feeling that they were the only two people in the world. That, and the rhythmic swish of the horse’s legs through the snow and the sensation of being in Bannon’s arms, the lazy warmth of his voice near her ear, their breaths commingling into a single vaporous cloud, the solidness of his body.
When they reached the house, Bannon had called a wrecker service for her. The man informed him he was buried under with calls and it would be the next day before he could make it out. So Bannon had driven her into town. On the way she’d persuaded him to let her buy him a drink as a way of thanking him for his help.
They had gone to the bar at the Hotel Jerome. Bannon had taken one look at Diana and from that point on, Sondra had ceased to exist for him.
She stared at the picture of the three of them. Less than two months after it was taken, Bannon had married her sister. A year later Diana was dead. But not once in all these years had Bannon forgotten her. Sondra loved him for that-and she hated him for it, too.
Still, she knew she had gained his loyalty and his trust after she’d stood by him when all those questions were raised concerning the circumstances of her sister’s death. If it wasn’t for that nasty business, she was certain he would have forgotten about Diana long ago. In time, he would. In time, he’d belong solely to her.
Abruptly she set the framed photograph down and briefly laced her slender fingers tightly together. A second later, she reached over and pressed the intercom button, buzzing her secretary.
“Inform Warren I want to see him in my office.”
“Yes, Miss Hudson.”
With that done, Sondra rose from her chair and stepped away from her chinoiserie desk. She paused a moment, her glance traveling over the plush sitting area in her private office, the deep, overstuffed sofa and chairs, elegant but inviting. As always her eye was drawn to the Chinese painted panels on the wall and the pair of late-Qing jars on the Venadan table by the sofa-visible symbols of her change in status.
She now owned her own real estate company. More than that, Hudson Properties, Inc., was one of the largest, if not the largest, in Aspen. Her roster of clients read like a list of Who’s Who in society, politics, science, industry, state, and screen. It was a list she guarded jealously and expanded constantly. But it wasn’t enough.
She crossed to the corner windows and the view they commanded of the Aspen mall below, its thoroughfares paved with wine-colored bricks and strewn with trees, signature iron lampposts and planter boxes brimming with autumn flowers. Slipping a hand partway into the pocket of her boxy wool suit jacket, she gazed at the collection of upscale boutiques, trendy galleries, and arty bookstores housed in buildings designed to resemble the old brick and stone edifices of Aspen’s silver-rich past.
Idly she studied the people-a trim jogger in a designer sweat suit with a golden retriever at his side; a pretty blonde in stenciled suede pants and alligator boots from Smith’s, no doubt; and a slender woman, easily forty, sporting a shopping bag from Nuages.
Money and power were the only things people respected. Jerome Wheeler had known that in the late 1880s when he’d arrived in Aspen and set about transforming the rough, raw mining camp with more prospects than prosperity into the richest silver-producing area in the world, bending the town to his will, creating a place of beauty and culture by planting trees to shade its streets, constructing an opera house and a luxury hotel to rival any west of the Mississippi, bringing not one railroad but two into Aspen, making it a town with a sophisticated urban outlook, complete with electricity, streetcars, and telephones, turning Aspen into a place for eastern capitalists, touring royalty, and visiting dignitaries.
A half a century later, in the mid 1940s, Walter Papecke had come to Aspen and repeated the process, taking the sleepy mountain ghost town littered with abandoned, broken-down buildings and transforming it into a fashionable ski resort in the winter and a center of cultural and intellectual pursuits in the summer, attracting the likes of Albert Schweitzer to speak at the issue-based conferences at the Aspen Institute for Humanistic Studies, Itzhak Perlman to play in the famed Music Tent at the Aspen Music Festival, And Ballet West to perform at the Aspen Dance Festival. Again, power and money had allowed Papecke to impose his rule.
Another fifty years had nearly passed. Time for another to emerge and rule.
A light rap intruded on her thoughts. Sondra turned to face the door as it opened and Warren Oakes walked through, a tall and tanned forty-year-old with the dark good looks of a fifties matinee idol-and all the surface charm of one, too. Unfortunately he lacked the class to make it in a world of high-rollers.
Still, he was useful to her, especially when she’d first started the agency almost ten years ago-a time when a sugar bowl of cocaine was almost a standard favor at Aspen parties and nearly every transaction included at least one
glassine envelope of the white powder as part of the deal. Rather than personally involve herself in such activity, she’d left it entirely in Warren’s hands.
A pipe bomb rigged to the Jeep of a local dealer in 1985 had marked the end of both the prominence and dominance of cocaine in the Aspen scene. But Warren still had his uses, both as a storehouse of potentially valuable information about the “old” days and as a man who was strong enough to carry out her orders, yet weak enough to take them.
“Hello, Sondra.” He flashed his white teeth at her, all of them capped. “I didn’t expect you to be here yet. How did things go this afternoon with the Arkansas chicken king and his plump little wife?”
“You mean the Atchisons, I assume.” She thought of the coarse, ruddy-cheeked millionaire who had somehow managed to make a sizable fortune out of processing chickens for supermarkets across the country. A small flicker of contempt passed over her expression. “The poor man is under the illusion know-how still counts in this world when it’s really know-who. He’d never even heard of the Mosbachers. Fortunately for him, his wife is a little smarter.” She moved away from the windows. “However, to answer your question, I think the afternoon will ultimately prove to be successful.”
“Wonderful.” Warren wandered over to the chair in front of her desk and sat down, crossing his legs and automatically smoothing the crease of his gray slacks.
“Did you get that copy of the guest list for tonight’s party? I didn’t find it on my desk.”
“I have it right here.” He reached inside his double-breasted blazer of navy wool and pulled out an envelope, then half rose from his chair to hand it to her.
Sondra removed the list from the envelope. “Get me the fact sheet on that commercial block in downtown. I want to dangle it in front of Lassiter tonight. I think it may be big enough to interest him, but I’ll need some specifics to give him.”
“Your copy is in here.” He tapped a folder on her desk top.
When she went to pick it up, her intercom line buzzed. She punched the button instead. “Yes, what is it, Susan?”
