by Ann Major
She drew a deep breath. No doubt he was lying in the arms of that other woman this very minute. Suz Johnson, wasn’t that her name? Oh, God. And she, poor foolish Lizzy, was dreaming of the handsome devil’s warm mouth between her legs. How could she be wet and hot and dying for him?
Her stomach heaved.
It was only a dream. But why had she had it?
She’d gone up to his room to give him a simple message. When she’d seen his bed and read the blatant desire in his eyes, she’d actually wanted him to kiss her and take her to bed.
Glancing about the darkened bedroom, she felt disoriented as she made out oddly distorted shapes. She buried her face in her hands and rocked back and forth. No way could she go back to bed and risk another revealing dream like that.
Galvanized, she switched on her bedside lamp, got up and put on her jeans and T-shirt. Racing out onto her veranda, she began to pace. The quarter moon lit the sky with a brilliant sliver of silver fire. Zillions of stars looked like diamonds sprinkled on black velvet.
The night was alive with the music of cicadas and frogs. Smiling, she leaned over her balcony and listened to the roar of tens of thousands, maybe millions, of darling, adorable frogs.
Because of all the rain, there were ponds all over the ranch. The frogs were croaking so loudly, the ponds seemed to purr like giant wet cats. It was a wonderful sound, a sound from her childhood that reminded her of plentiful rain and good times. The sound was pure country, and it spoke to her troubled soul.
She remembered collecting tiny frogs after the rain and keeping them in jars with holes in the lids, marveling at the wonder of so many little frogs in the grass and on the sidewalks.
But she wasn’t a child anymore. She was a woman, and she’d gone to bed with a man, planning for it to be a lark. Only it wasn’t, and she couldn’t let go of her emotions for that man. She was obsessed by him.
Her mistake had been to fall for the liberated woman propaganda. Sex was not something all women could play at like a game. For her, it was too deep and too personal. But how could she—with her values—have a bondage dream? The mere thought of letting a man tie her up made her hate herself.
I like myself. I like myself.
That’s a bold-faced lie, and you know it.
Don’t criticize. You like yourself.
This isn’t working.
Oh, just shut up.
She could not undo having gone to bed with Cole or having made a fool of herself tonight when she’d gone to his room. All she could do was learn from her mistake, make the best of it and go on.
Silently she ran her shaking hands through her hair, sat down in a wicker rocker and willed her mind to go blank. An hour passed, and still she stayed in her trancelike state with the frogs singing all around her until a truck crunched caliche in the drive.
So, Cole had finally come home.
She got up. She could not go on like this, thinking about him constantly, dreaming tormenting dreams. She didn’t have to. Her hour of meditation had made her realize she had something very important to do.
For the first time since coming home, she knew what she had to do and why. For her own sanity, she would tackle the mammoth job her father had given her with a total determination. She would be a real business partner to Cole.
Tomorrow, she’d talk to Kinky, the foreman. She would call Leo Storm. She would ask Cole how she could best help him. She would get busy, so busy she wouldn’t have time to dwell on Cole.
When she heard him climb the stairs and close the door to his bedroom, she leapt up, grabbed her father’s key ring from her purse and raced down the stairs, heading for the ranch offices, which were outside.
The world wouldn’t miss a baby frog or two. The watcher, who’d been standing in the dark shadows of the Spur Tree squashing little frogs with the heel of his custom-made boots until their bodies popped, jumped back when Lizzy bolted from the house. Her sneakers fell so lightly on the asphalt driveway, she barely made a sound as she raced toward the offices.
He stepped deeper into the shadows and stared at the black truck parked in the driveway. What the hell had gotten into her at this hour?
A few minutes later, lights came on inside the old ice house which now served as the ranch offices. He stood there for a long time, observing her slim shadow leap against different window shades as she moved from room to room.
Whatever the hell she was doing, she had no right to be there. Maybe she was Caesar’s chosen one, but she was a foolish, ignorant girl, who knew nothing about the Golden Spurs. If she ran it for long, she’d destroy everything he’d been trying to build.
He remembered Electra, who hadn’t pleaded for her life, and then Cherry. Without any warning, he felt the despicable hunger to enjoy a woman beg while he rutted on top of her. He swallowed several deep breaths, despising himself for panting like a dog. His appetite was growing stronger. No. It was her fault, not his. Lizzy shouldn’t be out here flaunting herself when he could go only so long now in between women.
Not Lizzy. He liked Lizzy.
Lizzy was in the way. And she was pretty.
They had to be pretty. He couldn’t get hard otherwise.
Still, Lizzy was special. He didn’t want to kill her.
She should have listened to reason.
Inside her father’s very masculine office, which was decorated with hunting trophies, Lizzy hesitated, wondering how and where to begin.
“Oh, Daddy, I don’t belong here. I’m not up to this.”
Slowly she sat down at his desk and leaned back in his leather chair until it creaked, her gaze sweeping his immense desk, his computer, gold pens, notepads, the stacks of yellow sticky notes, the files and ledgers on the metal shelves above his desk, the deer mounted heads and the framed photographs of wildlife that hung on his walls.
The photos were signed Electra, with flashy swirls of gold ink. Lizzy remembered her curiosity about the bronze marker under the Spur Tree. Electra had died recently. She must have meant a lot to her father.
When Lizzy was old enough to read handwritten script, she’d asked her father who Electra was.
He’d been at his desk. He’d looked a little startled at first, but he’d glanced up at the pictures and said, “Nobody important really.”
She hadn’t quite believed him even then. “But who is she, Daddy?”
“Electra Scott, a famous photojournalist,” he’d barked, shuffling his papers. “She visited the ranch once. A long time ago. Before you were born.”
“What’s a photojournalist?”
He wadded several papers up. “Somebody who tells wonderful stories with pictures, and writes.”
“I like to write.”
“You’re gonna be a cowgirl not a writer,” he’d snapped. “Get that in your head.”
She’d asked him more questions and received more terse answers.
“Don’t you like her, Daddy?”
“I like her,” he’d said. But he’d looked odd and a little sad, and angry, too.
Unlike the stuffed heads that seemed so dead, Electra’s pictures were wonderful. Somehow with her camera she’d caught the soul and purpose of each animal or object she’d photographed.
There was a wonderful picture of shiny ibis birds roosting in a barren tree while cattle grazed. There was a great shot of tack drying on mesquite trees as the sun set, painting the world with its magic light. There were several more shots of big blue sky and the thorny flat land beneath it.
Lizzy knew each windmill on the ranch Electra must have climbed to get her pictures ’cause her daddy had climbed them with her to point out his favorite views. Electra’s pictures always gave her the exact emotion she felt when she was awed by the same sight in real life. Electra hadn’t lived here, but she had captured what the ranch was about.
Lizzy ran a hand through her unruly hair. Oh, God, she felt like a child sneaking into her daddy’s office again, or worse, an impostor in her daddy’s office. As her gaze drifted over t
he photographs, she remembered how her father used to bring her here to his office, carrying her high on his shoulder.
Caesar had shown her off to all his secretaries. The women would get up from their desks and circle her, paying homage as if she were a princess. They’d complimented her platinum hair, her clothes, anything. And they’d given her candy, which her stern, domineering father hadn’t allowed her to eat.
She fingered her father’s mouse and thought about turning on his computer. Like Cole, and then Kinky, who’d continued the tour, had told her, ranching technology was changing fast.
“It has to because the margin of profit is so small, Lizzy,” Cole had said.
The calves she’d seen weaned a week ago were definitely wonders of modern technology. Ranchers like her father used DNA fingerprinting to pinpoint genes for tenderness and marbling. Ultrasound could determine a rib eye’s exact size. Not so long ago, ranchers went to auctions and used videos to buy more stock. Cattle buyers now logged onto the Internet.
A financial report lay in the middle of Caesar’s desk. As she began to thumb through the pages that were filled with columns of numbers, she realized what an enormous responsibility she’d asked Cole to assume. Hundreds of people depended on the ranch and the corporation that owned other businesses. She’d been smart to ask Cole for help, but she had no idea if she could trust him or who else she could really depend on.
I trust Cole. Even after New York. How can that be?
Slowly she began to read the report. It made more sense to her than it would have if she didn’t have that degree from A&M in ranch management. Still, she was rusty and no whiz at numbers. After she finished reading it, she was exhausted, and yet somehow not willing to go back to her bed, either. Despite a wonderful year weatherwise along with low feed prices, and high cattle prices, the Golden Spurs had done worse and worse each quarter. Why?
There had been a number of strange accidents. Her father had told her about some of them over the phone, and she’d just read about more of them. There had been the burn last January that had gotten out of control. A barn full of valuable livestock had mysteriously burned on the Chaparral division, as well, when Cole, Uncle B.B. and Bobby Joe had been there. Several truckloads of cattle on the way to market had vanished into thin air. And of course, there were the ongoing lawsuits.
She began opening the drawers of her father’s desk, her fingers rustling through the various supplies she found. In the top drawers there were reams of paper; boxes of diskettes, staples and index cards; scissors and more pens. When she got to the bottom right drawer, it was locked. When no key on Caesar’s ring would fit it, she pulled at the handle several more times before giving up.
She stood and began rummaging through the files on the shelves above his desk, pulling them down one by one and thumbing through them. Apparently these files were his active projects. Several had to do with the museum. But Walker was here now to supervise that, so she thumbed through the pages about the opening, about the hiring of the designer for the building and the artists, reading only key words. She kept going through files until the words and figures began to blur.
Intending to rest for a minute only, she laid her head down on Caesar’s desk. Hours later she awakened to the delicious smell of fresh coffee. Opening her eyes, she pushed her head off the tumble of files that littered the top of her father’s massive desk. Steam curled above a mug of dark brew.
“Working late or working early?” Cole murmured dryly as he raised the shade.
She blinked at the bright sun and then shielded her eyes with her hand.
In an instant she imagined her dream about the elevator when she’d been naked and his mouth had been between her legs.
Annoyed at him, she sat up with a jerk and rubbed her neck in the hopes he wouldn’t notice she was blushing. “Ouch,” she whispered, speaking around a yawn.
“You look awful,” he said, grinning down at her in a friendly, rather than sexy, fashion. “Really bad,” he teased.
“Don’t be rude. I have a crick. You’re the last person I’m in the mood to see first thing this morning.”
“Forget the coffee. You look tired. You’d better go straight to bed.”
When he reached for her coffee, she grabbed the coffee mug and sipped possessively. “How was your date?” she asked, not really wanting to know.
“Great!” He shot her a dazzling smile. “Suz is a nice woman. Pretty, too. Do I dare flatter myself that you’re jealous?”
“Of course not!”
“I thought maybe when you came upstairs last night…you were chasing me.”
“I was delivering your girlfriend’s message,” she snapped. “I’m glad you two had fun.”
The corner of his sensual mouth tightened. “Well, you damn sure don’t sound like it. You sound grumpy as hell. I’ll bet Suz—”
“What do you want from me?” she muttered, her nerves going raw.
“That’s the last thing you want to hear, darlin’,” he teased, his gaze lingering on her body. “Or is it?”
Her breath caught. Was he flirting with her?
He looked at his watch. “Hell. I’m late. The hands headed out for the pens an hour ago. After San Antonio I’m way behind.” He stalked across the office to the door.
“Cole, what was your meeting about?”
His shoulders tightened, but he didn’t turn around. “That’s between Leo and me.”
“I’m supposed to be in charge.”
“Then, so long, boss lady. Don’t let me keep you.” He tipped his hat and then slammed out of the office.
She stood up and stomped her feet a dozen times until she felt better.
“Good. This is good.” Better for him to be mad and me to be mad back than for me to be dreaming about his mouth between my legs.
When her gaze fell to the locked drawer again, she remembered the scissors she’d found earlier. Pulling them out, she jammed a pointed tip into the lock and jiggled it. Before she was done, she’d destroyed the scissors, broken a nail and her coffee was cold. But she’d successfully unlocked the drawer. Chewing on her nail, she yanked the drawer all the way open and began digging through its contents.
Feeling a little guilty, she lifted a large manila envelope with the word Confidential scrawled across it in her father’s bold hand. Underneath the fat envelope lay a thick stack of letters tied together with a wide, blue, satin ribbon. The postscripts on the envelopes were from all over the world, and they were addressed to her father at a P. O. box in Corpus Christi, a city ninety miles north of the ranch, rather than to the ranch itself.
Had her father been carrying on a secret correspondence?
A tremor went through her as she opened the first letter, which was from Kenya. She was right.
Slowly she began reading words that had been written years ago in a strong, loopy hand. When she finished the first paragraph, Lizzy’s heart was pounding in her throat.
Darling,
Had a second and thought I’d dash you a note. The pictures you sent of our precious little Lizzy are so wonderful. You truly have the gift of composition.
Like you say, she takes after me more than she does you, at least, in physical appearance, poor dear. But, she is so beautiful, it almost makes me wish I could be with you both. But it wouldn’t have worked. No matter how much we might have wanted it to. You know that.
I’ll photograph lions today and write a really good description of my adventures here in Kenya for you. Last night a lion came up to my tent and actually slept against the tent right beside me, only he was outside and I was in the tent. I could feel his body warmth all night. It was really quite exhilarating.
Send more pictures and keep me posted on all of Lizzy’s adventures. I’m sorry about that awful beast biting the tip of her little finger off. Poor little dear. Kiss it for me, and don’t worry—you’ll make a true cowgirl of her in the end. I’m sure, you will, even if you did fail so miserably with me. I’m so proud of you both.
Love, Electra
When Lizzy finished the letter, her heart was still thudding violently. Slowly, carefully, she folded it and put it back in its envelope. With exquisite care, she tied the letters up exactly as they’d been in the fat blue ribbon and laid them on top of the desk.
Then she shut the drawer. Before standing up, she traced the scratches she’d made on the wood with her fingertip. They weren’t really noticeable unless one looked closely.
Gathering the envelope and Electra’s letters, she walked toward the door and stepped out onto the porch, which was lit by magical, golden light. Electra’s light. For a long time Lizzy stood in the long dark shadow of a column, clutching the letters and the manila envelope against her heart, feeling connected to the light in a new and different way.
She barely noticed the two pickups, one with a trailer for horses driven by Cole followed by another pulling a trailer for cattle driven by Kinky. They were probably heading for the pens.
Electra Scott was her mother—not Joanne Kemble.
All her life, Lizzy had felt that something was wrong with her, that she didn’t belong here…that she wasn’t a true Kemble. Now she knew why. No wonder Mother had favored Mia.
Not Mother…Joanne.
No wonder Joanne and Mia fit. No wonder her father had been so determined to make Lizzy prove her mettle.
She was his bastard from some sordid affair like the one he’d had with Cherry. He’d forced Joanne to raise her. He’d forced her down everybody else’s throats. Cole had said everybody was jealous of her. How many of them knew the truth? No wonder she had wild, shameful dreams. Her mother had been some sort of artistic, free spirit.
Oh, God…
The early, brilliantly lit morning air suddenly felt so chilly, she shivered.
* * *
From where Lizzy sat in the middle of her big bed as she talked to Mandy on her cordless phone, she could see herself in the gilt-framed mirror over the dresser. Her skin was pale, her lavender-blue eyes huge. Never had she looked so small and defenseless.
