by Janet Dailey
“Kit and I just had dinner.”
“How nice.” Her glance flicked to Kit. “Hello again.”
Was it her imagination or had Sondra’s smile turned a notch cooler? Or did she simply want to find a reason to dislike the woman?
Kit smiled and nodded. “Sondra.”
“I believe you know Warren Oakes from my agency. And this is Jess and April Barnes from Oklahoma.” With a graceful lift of her hand, Sondra indicated the others in her group.
After an exchange of hellos and handshakes, John asked, “Would you believe Kit and I were just talking about you, Sondra?”
“Something good, I hope.” She smiled as if she’d made a joke. But like most of the smiles Kit had observed, it didn’t reach those calculating eyes.
“I’ll leave that to you to decide,” John replied. “Kit’s decided to sell her ranch and she asked the name of a good realtor.”
“You’re selling your father’s ranch?” Sondra looked at her with some surprise-as much as she ever showed. “Bannon never mentioned you were considering selling it.”
“He doesn’t know.” Kit tipped her chin a little higher.
He will, darling, Sondra thought. He will. And he isn’t going to like it, not one bit. Aloud, she said, “Naturally I’m familiar with the location of your property, but I really know little else about it.”
“It’s a stunning piece,” John inserted. “Water, mountains, valley, trees.”
“Sounds beautiful. Why don’t I come out tomorrow and you can show me around, give me all the particulars?”
Kit wanted to say no, but that was an emotional reaction, not a logical one. It wasn’t Sondra’s fault her sister had married Bannon, and it was none of Kit’s business if Sondra was now seeing Bannon. It was time she stopped letting such things color her judgments. This should be a business decision, based on Sondra’s qualifications, and Sondra definitely had a reputation for being aggressive, innovative, and successful.
Still, Kit heard herself stalling. “A reporter from People magazine is coming in the morning to interview me. I’m not sure how long that will take.”
“Actually late afternoon is best for me. Say, around three o’clock?”
Kit tried her best to ignore that trapped feeling, and smiled a little stiffly. “That sounds fine.”
With that settled, Sondra turned to John. “By the way, I’m having a Halloween party the end of the month. A Costume affair. I’d love to have you and Kit come if you’re both still in town then.”
“We’ll make a point to be,” he promised, then glanced sideways at Kit. “You’ve never been to a party until you’ve been to one of Sondra’s.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“I’ll drop you an invitation with the date and the time.”
“Do that.” John spotted an opening at the bar. “Excuse us.”
“Of course. See you tomorrow,” she added to Kit.
Kit nodded and gladly let John draw her along with him to the bar.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The day was bleak and dreary, marked with leaden skies and a stiff wind that ripped through the trees, unleashing a rain of falling leaves, a day that warned of autumn’s end and winter’s beginning, a day that depressed the spirits and added to the general gloom Kit was already feeling.
She geared the Jeep down and pointed it at the creek’s ford, then eased up on the brake and let it roll down the sloping bank into shallow water, barely making a splash. The urge was strong to floor it and send high sprays of water shooting into the air, but Kit resisted it, doubting it would get rid of the wretchedness she felt.
When the Jeep climbed the opposite bank, Kit shifted gears again and shot a glance at her passenger. But Sondra was looking out the side window, her face averted, leaving Kit with a view of the back of her head and the equestrian-patterned Gucci scarf knotted behind her neck to keep her smoothly coiffed hair from being blown in disarray by the wind.
The ranch buildings were just ahead. The tour, requested by Sondra, of the areas accessible by Jeep was almost over. Sondra had been silent through most of it. Other than to verify the location of a boundary line or the source of the stream, she had said nothing.
Kit was just as glad. After her lengthy interview with the reporter from People, she felt drained. Interviews, she’d discovered, were work, not fun. Like giving a performance, she always had to be “on.” There was always the pressure, the stress, to be interesting and charming, to make good copy, to skillfully turn aside questions that were too personal, that probed too deeply into her personal life, and, above all, to avoid the trap of “confessing all.”
Unlike a performance, there was no feeling of satisfaction when it was over-only an empty kind of relief.
This tour of the ranch had done nothing to improve her mood. She clenched and unclenched her fingers on the steering wheel as she looked at the mountain peak that loomed behind the house. She wasn’t sure how to describe what she was feeling. Guilt. Regret. Loss. Or a strange combination of all three.
Talking about selling the ranch had been one thing, but taking Sondra around had given a finality to the decision. She knew it was the most logical, practical, sensible thing to do under the circumstances. She also knew it was going to leave a hole in her life.
The Jeep bounced across the rough pasture and rolled through the open gate. From there, it was smooth riding to the house. Kit pulled up beside Sondra’s Mercedes and threw the Jeep into park.
“That’s it outside.” She switched off the engine. “We can go through the house-”
“That won’t be necessary.” Sondra opened her door and stepped out.
Kit sat back in her seat, feeling as if she’d just been hit. The meaning of that remark couldn’t have been clearer, Sondra believed a developer would buy the ranch and the house would be razed. Kit bit back a protest and told herself it was just a house; it was just a bunch of wood and paint and stone.
The wind whipped at her as she climbed out of the Jeep. It felt colder, keener somehow. Or maybe it was just the influence of her own bleak mood.
SONDRA STOOD NEAR THE Jeep’s front fender, the collar of her heavey black cashmere jacket turned up against the burrowing wind, her gloved hands tucked in its big square pockets as she surveyed the site, studying its possibilities. She scanned the aspen grove, ignoring its golden shower of leaves, then lifted her gaze to the high ridge behind it and followed its jagged line to its intersection with the lofty mountain that formed the apex of the triangular valley. She glanced at the ridge that jutted out from the other side, then brought her attention back to the ranch clearing.
A tiny furrow of concentration invaded the smoothness of her brow. Gradually it smoothed away as a picture began to form in her mind. She could visualize the ridges and mountainsides scored with ski runs, chair lifts marching up their slopes, a village at the base of it, sprinkled with ultra deluxe lodges and condominiums, fashionable shops, trendy bars and upscale restaurants, and a residential area with extravagant homes-all very Swiss, very continental in flavor, like Aspen. Another Aspen.
She breathed in sharply at the thought-oh, God, that was it. Another Aspen.
“Would you like to go inside, get out of this wind and have a hot cup of coffee?” Kit suggested after several minutes had passed without Sondra budging from her spot.
The woman turned sharply s if she’d forgotten Kit was there. One look at her face and Kit immediately recognized the triumphant gleam in Sondra’s eyes, a gleam that said, “I know how to handle this. I know how to make it work.” There had been times when Kit had been gripped by the same feeling. It usually came after she had struggled over a scene, searching for the right way to interpret a line of dialogue, the right way to deliver it, the tone and expression she’d need to convey what her character was feeling and thinking. Then there’d be that flash of intuition and she’d know the answer.
Unlike Sondra, she wouldn’t have held the triumph and the excitement in, letting it show only i
n her eyes. She would have given rein to the sudden exuberance-laughed and danced or spun around in gleeful abandon.
Just the same, she felt a new respect for Sondra, seeing her as a sharp, intelligent woman who knew her business.
“Have you thought about how much you want for the ranch?” Sondra asked, ignoring Kit’s previous remark, that is, assuming she’d heard it.
“As much as I can get.” If she had to sell, she saw no point in taking less than that.
The line of Sondra’s lips curved slightly. “Then I suggest putting a price of twelve million on it. That will allow room for negotiation.”
“All right.”
“I assume your terms will be cash.”
“Yes.”
“In that case-if it’s agreeable to you-I’ll draw up a listing agreement for you to sign.”
“Fine.” She felt like Judas Iscariot; only instead of thirty pieces of silver, she’d be receiving twelve million. Inflation.
“Why don’t you drop by my office tomorrow and I’ll have it ready for you?” Sondra handed her a business card. “I’ll need a legal description of the property, too. Bring it along if you have one. Otherwise I’m sure I can get it from Bannon.”
“I’ll bring a copy.” Kit briefly fingered the card, emblazoned with the name Hudson Properties, then slipped it into her jacket pocket.
“I’ll see you then.” Sondra crossed to her car and slid behind the wheel.
As the Mercedes pulled away, Kit watched it leave, the wind tangling her long hair, lashing strands across her face. The leaden gray of the skies seemed to close around her. She turned and walked into the house.
With the cow dogs to aid them, a pair of riders held the herd in a loose bunch against a corner of the pasture, black-coated cattle on autumn brown grass under a dull gray sky. The last six hours had been spent cutting out the weak, the crippled, the inferior, and the young stock destined for market. With less than an hour’s worth of light left in the day, the sorting was almost finished.
Bannon quietly walked the short-coupled bay into the herd, his flat-crowned Stetson pulled low on his head to frustrate the brisk wind. He ran a practiced and critical eye over the cattle shifting out of the gelding’s path. Spotting a husky calf born that spring, an ideal candidate for the feeder market, he pointed the nose of the bay at the calf. Working calmly and patiently, they drove the calf to the outer fringes of the gather.
The instant the calf found itself cut off from the rest, it wheeled to rejoin them. Bannon sat low and deep in the saddle as the quick-footed bay turned back every attempt-sinking low, switching directions on a dime, and coming around with the agility of a cat.
When Bannon and the bay horse had the calf separated from the herd, Hec Rawlins and Dusty Travers rode in from the flanks and pushed the animal into the pen with the others destined for market. Again Bannon rode back into the herd to make another sweep.
It was out of necessity that he was present. His decision and his alone determined which of the animals would be sold. But it was sheer pleasure and a satisfaction he found in the actual work that had him actively participating in the sort. The physical demands it required, the long hours in the saddle, the biting wind, and the dreary day didn’t diminish that.
Completing his turn through the herd, Bannon nodded to the outriders. “That’s it.”
One of them whistled to the dogs, then reined his horse away from the herd. At a trot, Bannon rode over to the pens. He spotted his father perched on a top rail, his shoulders hunched to the wind, his hands buried in his pockets, and his weather-beaten hat pulled low. Bannon swung the bay toward him and halted parallel to the fence. Old Tom had a cold and tired look. Bannon knew better than to suggest he go to the house where it was warm. His father was too stubborn to admit there were some things he didn’t have the stamina to endure anymore-like long hours out in a blustery wind.
“Hec.” Bannon motioned to his foreman, inside the pen, calling him over. The Texan lifted his horse into a trot and crossed to the fence. “There’s about a dozen of the young stock that are on the light side. Cut those and the older stock out. We’ll throw them on some grain for a couple weeks and get some weight on them. All the rest, drive into the loading pens.”
The lanky rider acknowledged the instructions with a dip of his head, then backed his horse from the fence before wheeling it toward the penned cattle.
“The semis will be here in the morning to load up, Bannon said to his father. “We’ll ship the others out in a couple weeks. If the prices hold, we should make out all right.”
Old-Tom grunted in response. Bannon hadn’t expected anything more. Ever since his father had handed over the reins to Stone Creek Ranch, he’d never commented on a decision Bannon made, withholding both approval and criticism. If Bannon asked his opinion, he gave it. If not, he kept his mouth shut.
“Any coffee at the house?” Bannon watched a trio of riders begin the final sort, satisfied that his instructions were being carried out.
“If there ain’t, then Laura drank it all when she got home from school.”
“The boys will finish up here.” Bannon dismounted, feeling the stretch of muscles stiff and tired after a day in the saddle. Yet the ache felt good. “Why don’t you go pour us a cup while I take care of my horse?”
“Sounds good.” Old Tom eased his body off the fence.
Bannon gathered up the reins and headed for the barn, leading the bay. Halfway across the yard, he caught the soft sound of feminine voices. A turn of his head and he saw Sondra walking toward him. Laura skipped at her side, bareheaded, her coat unbuttoned and flapping open to reveal the wool plaid skirt, white blouse, and red sweater vest she’d worm to school. He slowed his steps, watching the two of them for a moment. Laura was talking, quite earnestly, to Sondra, no doubt reciting the little things that had happened at school that day. Sondra’s head was tipped down in an attitude of interest.
Seeing them together like that, Bannon was reminded again that there was a good deal of affection between those two. He frowned, conscious of a resentment he couldn’t control. Laura had a need he couldn’t fulfill-a child’s love for her mother. Sondra was fulfilling it. But it was a love that belonged to Diana, not Sondra.
He continued to the barn, tiredness and that familiar depression sweeping over him. Inside the shadowed barn, he looped the reins through a wall ring and hooked a stirrup over the saddle horn to slip the cinch strap from its keeper.
“Hi, Dad.” Laura’s bright voice came from behind him. “Aunt Sondra’s here.”
Bannon glanced over his shoulder at the two of them. “So I see.”
“We were just coming out to watch you sort cattle. Are you done?” Separating from Sondra, Laura approached the bay horse.
“Yup.” He tugged the strap free of the cinch ring as Laura stroked the bay’s nose. “How about your homework?”
She wrinkled her nose a little. “Almost,” she replied, then said to Sondra, “This is Mighty Mouse. We call him that cause he’s not very big, but he’s fast and quick. He’s got cow sense, too. Dad says there’s no better horse for working cattle in the whole state than Mighty Mouse.”
“I’m sure he’s right,” Sondra murmured, staying well clear.
As Bannon pulled the saddle and blanket pad off the horse, Laura asked, “Are you going to put him in one of the stalls or turn him out in the corral?”
“The corral.” With the saddle and blanket pad in one hand, he opened the tack-room door with the other.
“Can I do it?”
“May I?” Sondra corrected.
“May I, Dad?” she called out when he disappeared inside the tack room.
“Bring the bridle back and hang it up.”
“I will.”
One-handed, Bannon heaved the western saddle onto its rack. The soft plod of hooves came from the barn’s alleyway, accompanied by the croon of Laura’s voice. A movement in the doorway drew his glance. Sondra stood in the opening, a dark figure in
her flat-heeled boots, charcoal slacks, and black jacket. Her face was the one pale thing about her, framed by the silk scarf that hooded her head and hid the silver-ash of her hair.
His glance briefly touched the smooth, classic lines of her features before he brought it back to the task at hand and turned the damp saddle pad woolly-side up, laying it across the saddle. “What brings you out this way?”
“I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by. I spoke with Agnes this morning and she told me you wouldn’t be in the office today.”
“I had work to do here.”
“So I gathered.” She stepped out of the doorway as Bannon walked back.
“Is somebody interested in buying the old Johnson place?” he asked curiously, aware Sondra wouldn’t have been in the neighborhood unless business was involved.
“Not that I’ve heard,” she replied, then paused a beat. “Kit Masters asked me to come out.”
“Kit?” Bannon halted, a frown of surprise narrowing his eyes.
Sondra saw it and lowered her glance, concealing any smugness from his probing eyes. “Yes, she’s decided to sell the ranch and wants to list it with me.”
“That isn’t true.” His voice was harsh, angry, with just a trace of uncertainty.
“It shocked me, too. When she asked, I almost refused. I knew you’d be upset. But-she’s determined to sell, and if I don’t take the listing, some other realtor will.”
“I don’t believe you,” he snapped in accusation. “She would have said something to me. Kit wouldn’t sell Silverwood.”
“Don’t take my word for it. Ask her.”
“You’re damned right I will.” Bannon left Sondra standing there, long strides carrying him out of the barn and across the ranch yard.
Laura came running up. “Where’s Dad going?” She turned a bewildered look on Sondra.
“To see Kit Masters, I suspect.” A small smile edged the corners of her mouth, the tiniest gleam of satisfaction lighting her eyes as Sondra watched Bannon climb into his pickup.
