by Nora Roberts
a good family. His maternal grandfather is a senator. His father owns one of the most prestigious and well-respected advertising agencies in the east.”
“And Wade is an adulterer.”
On a little sound of impatience, Milicent waved a hand. The diamond wedding ring on her widow’s hand glinted like ice. “You would blame him, rather than yourself or the woman who seduced him.”
Almost amused, Kelsey smiled. “That’s right. I would blame him. The divorce is final, Grandmother, as of yesterday. You’re wasting your time there.”
“And you have the dubious honor of being the second Byden in family history to divorce. In your father’s case, it was unavoidable. You, however, have done what you’ve made a habit of doing all your life: reacting impulsively. But that’s another issue. I want to know what you intend to do about the letter.”
“Don’t you think that’s between me and my mother?”
“This is a family matter, Kelsey. Your father and I are your family.” She tapped her finger again, carefully selecting both words and tone. “Philip is my only child. His happiness and well-being have always been primary in my life. You are his only child.” With genuine affection, she reached up and took Kelsey’s hand. “I want only the best for you.”
There was no arguing with that. However much her grandmother’s code of behavior grated, Kelsey knew she was loved. “I know. I don’t want to fight with you, Grandmother.”
“Nor I with you.” Pleased, she patted Kelsey’s hand. “You’ve been a good daughter, Kelsey. No one who knows you and Philip would doubt your devotion. I know you’d do nothing to hurt him. I think it would be best if you gave me the letter, let me handle this business for you. You’ve no need to contact her, or put yourself through this turmoil.”
“I’ve already contacted her. I went to see her this morning.”
“You . . .” Milicent’s hand jerked, then settled. “You saw her. You went to her without discussing it first?”
“I’m twenty-six years old, Grandmother. Naomi Chadwick is my mother, and I don’t have to discuss meeting her with anyone. I’m sorry if it upsets you, but I did what I had to do.”
“What you wanted to do,” Milicent corrected. “Without thought for the consequences.”
“As you like, but they’re my consequences. I’d think you and Dad would have to agree it’s a normal reaction on my part. It may be difficult for you, but I can’t imagine why it would make you so angry.”
“I’m not angry.” Though she was. Furious. “I’m concerned. I don’t want some foolish emotional reaction to influence you. You don’t know her, Kelsey. You have no idea how clever or how vindictive she is.”
“I know she wanted custody of me.”
“She wanted to hurt your father because he’d begun to see through her. You were the tool. She drank, and she had men, and she flaunted her flaws because she was so sure she would always win. And she ended by killing a man.” Milicent drew a deep breath. Even the thought of Naomi burned at her heart. “I suppose she tried to convince you it was self-defense. That she was protecting her honor. Her honor.”
Unable to sit any longer, Milicent rose. “Oh, she was clever, and she was beautiful. If the evidence against her hadn’t been so damning she might have convinced a jury to absolve her. But when a woman entertains a man in her bedroom in the middle of the night in nothing more than a silk robe, it’s difficult to cry rape.”
“Rape,” Kelsey repeated, but the word was only a shocked whisper and Milicent didn’t hear.
“Some believed her, of course. Some will always believe that kind of woman.” Eyes hard, she snatched her gloves from the table and began to tap them against her palm. “But in the end, they convicted her. She was out of Philip’s life, and yours. Until now. Will you be so stubborn, so selfish as to let her back in? To cause your father this kind of grief?”
“This isn’t a choice between him or her, Grandmother.”
“That’s exactly what it is.”
“For you, not for me. Do you know, before you came here, I wasn’t sure I would see her again. Now I know I will. Because she didn’t defend herself to me. She didn’t ask me to choose. I’m going to see her again and decide for myself.”
“No matter whom it hurts?”
“As far as I can see, I’m the only one who’s risking anything.”
“You’re wrong, Kelsey, and it’s a dangerous mistake. She corrupts.” Stiffly, Milicent smoothed on her gloves, finger by finger. “If you insist on pursuing this relationship, she’ll do whatever she can to destroy the bond between you and your father.”
“No one could do that.”
Milicent lifted her gaze, and it was sharp as steel. “You don’t know Naomi Chadwick.”
CHAPTER
THREE
NO, KELSEY DIDN’T KNOW NAOMI CHADWICK. BUT SHE WOULD.
Kelsey’s years of higher education hadn’t been wasted. If there was one thing she knew how to do well, it was how to research a subject. Any subject. Naomi was no exception.
For the next two weeks, she spent most of her free time poring over microfilm at the public library. Her first stop was the society page, where she read the announcement of the engagement of Naomi Anne Chadwick, twenty-one, daughter of Matthew and Louise Chadwick of Three Willows Farm, Bluemont, Virginia, to Professor Philip James Byden, thirty-four, son of Andrew and Milicent Byden, Georgetown.
A June wedding was planned.
Kelsey found the wedding announcement. It was a shock to see her father looking so young, so carelessly happy, his fingers entwined at his heart with Naomi’s. He’d worn a rosebud boutonniere. Kelsey wondered if it had been white, or perhaps a sunny yellow.
Beside him, Naomi glowed. The grainy newsprint couldn’t diminish the luster. Her face was impossibly young, heartbreakingly beautiful, her lips curved, her eyes bright, as if on the verge of a laugh.
They looked as though they could face anything together.
It shouldn’t hurt. Kelsey told herself it was foolish to be hurt by a divorce that had happened without her knowledge. But these two young, vital people had created her. Now they were no more to each other than painful memories.
She made hard copies of what she wanted, made notes on the rest, as she would for any report. With feelings of amusement and bafflement, she found her own birth announcement.
There was little after that, an occasional squib about attendance at a ball or charity function. It seemed her parents had lived a quiet life, out of the Washington glitter for the short term of their marriage.
Then there was the custody suit, a terse little article that had merited space in The Washington Post, she imagined, due to her paternal grandfather’s position as undersecretary of the Treasury. She read the names—her own, Naomi’s, her father’s—with a sense of detachment. The Post hadn’t wasted much of its dignity on a domestic squabble.
She found a few articles on Three Willows and racing. One mentioned the tragedy of a promising colt who had broken down at a race and was shot. It merited a single picture, of Naomi’s beautiful, tear-streaked face.
Then there was murder.
Such matters rated more space, a few prominent headlines.
LOVERS’ QUARREL ENDS IN TRAGEDY
PASTORAL VIRGINIA SCENE OF VIOLENT DEATH
Her mother was described as the estranged wife of a Georgetown English professor and the daughter of a prominent Thoroughbred breeder. The victim was somewhat flippantly referred to as a playboy with ties to the racing world.
The story was straightforward enough. Alec Bradley had been shot and killed in a bedroom at Three Willows Farm. The weapon belonged to Naomi Chadwick Byden, who had notified the police. She and Bradley had been alone in the house at the time of the shooting. Police were investigating.
The Virginia papers were a bit more informative. Naomi never denied firing the fatal shot. She claimed, through her attorney, that Bradley had attacked her and she had resorted to the weapon in self-defense.
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The facts were reported that Naomi and Bradley had a friendly relationship, and had been seeing each other socially for weeks. And, of course, that Naomi was in the midst of a messy custody suit over her three-year-old daughter.
A week after the murder, there were more headlines:
VIRGINIA WOMAN ARRESTED FOR MURDER
New Evidence Derails Claim of Self-Defense
And damning evidence it was. Kelsey’s blood chilled as she read of the photograph taken by a detective hired by her father’s lawyers to obtain ammunition for the custody battle. Rather than an illicit affair, the detective had recorded murder.
He’d testified at the trial as well. Stubbornly moving from page to page, she read on. About witnesses who agreed, under oath, that Naomi and Bradley behaved, in public, as intimate friends. That Naomi was an expert marksman. That she enjoyed parties, champagne, the attention of men. That she and Bradley had quarreled the evening of his death over his flirtation with another woman.
Then Charles Rooney had taken the stand and told his story. He’d taken dozens of photographs of Naomi, at the track, at the farm, at various social events. He was a licensed private investigator in the state of Virginia, and his surveillance reports were carefully documented.
They formed a picture of a reckless, beautiful woman who craved excitement, who was eager to break the bonds of an inhibiting marriage to an older man. And one who, on the night of the murder, invited the victim into her home, where she was alone and dressed only in a negligee.
Rooney was unable to swear to what was said between the two, but his photographs and his observations said a great deal. The couple had embraced, brandy was poured. Then, they appeared to argue and Naomi had stormed upstairs. Bradley had followed.
Eager to fulfill his duties, Rooney had climbed a handy tree and aimed his telephoto lens at the bedroom window. The argument had continued there, becoming more heated. Naomi had slapped Bradley’s face, but when he’d turned to go, she’d pulled a gun out of the nightstand drawer. The camera had captured the shock on his face, and the fury on Naomi’s as she fired.
Kelsey stared at the photo for a long time, and at the headline above it that shouted GUILTY! Carefully, she made more copies, then shut off the machine and gathered her files and notes. Before logic could interfere with emotion, she found a pay phone and dialed.
“Three Willows.”
“Naomi Chadwick, please.”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Kelsey Byden.”
There was a small, strangled sound quickly muffled. “Miss Naomi’s down at the stables. I’ll buzz her.”
Moments later an extension was picked up. Kelsey heard Naomi’s voice, cool as sherbet over the line. “Hello, Kelsey. It’s good to hear from you.”
“I’d like to talk to you again.”
“Of course. Whenever you like.”
“Now. It’ll take me an hour to get there. And I’d prefer that we be alone this time.”
“Fine. I’ll be here.”
Naomi hung up and wiped her damp hands on her jeans. “My daughter’s coming, Moses.”
“So I gathered.” Moses Whitetree, Naomi’s trainer, trusted employee, and longtime lover, continued to study his breeding reports. He was half Jew, half Choctaw, and had never taken the mix for granted. He wore his hair in a long graying braid down his back. There was the glint of a silver Star of David around his neck.
Whatever there was to know about horses, he knew. And he preferred them, with few exceptions, to people.
“She’ll have questions.”
“Yes.”
“How do I answer them?”
He didn’t glance up, didn’t need to. He knew every nuance of Naomi’s face. “You could try the truth.”
“A lot of good the truth’s done me.”
“She’s your blood.”
It was always so simple for Moses, Naomi thought impatiently. “She’s a grown woman. I hope she’s her own woman. She won’t accept me simply because we share blood, Moses. I’d be disappointed if she did.”
He set his paperwork aside and rose. He wasn’t a big man, only a few pounds and a few inches over his onetime dream of being a jockey. In his worn-down boots he was eye level with Naomi. “You want her to love you, to accept you, but you want her to do it on your terms. You’ve always wanted too much, Naomi.”
With tenderness she touched a hand to his wind-bitten cheek. It was impossible to stay irritated with him. He was the man who had waited for her, who never questioned her, who had always loved her.
“So you’ve always told me. I didn’t know I would need her so much until I saw her again, Moses. I didn’t know it would matter as much as it does.”
“And you wish it didn’t.”
“Oh, I wish it didn’t.”
That he understood. He’d spent most of his life wishing he didn’t love Naomi. “My people have a saying.”
“Which people?”
He smiled. They both knew he made up half of his sayings and twisted the other half to suit his purposes. “Only the foolish waste their wishes. Let her see what you are. It’ll be enough.”
“Moses.” A groom looked into the office, then tipped his hat toward Naomi. “Miss. I don’t like the way Serenity’s favoring her near foreleg. Got some swelling, too.”
“She ran well this morning.” Moses’s brow puckered. He’d been up before dawn to watch the early workouts. “Let’s take a look.”
Moses kept his office in a small area at the front of the stables. It was cramped and often smelled of horse urine, but he preferred it to the airy space his predecessor had used in a whitewashed building near the west paddock.
Moses often said the earthy smell of horses was French perfume to him and he didn’t want any fancy digs away from the action.
In truth, the stables were nearly as sparkling as any luxury hotel, and usually busier. The concrete slope between the lines of stalls was scrubbed and spotless. The individual stalls were marked with an enameled plaque with the name of each horse scrolled in gold. It was an affectation of Naomi’s father’s that she’d continued when she’d taken over running the farm.
There were scents of horses, of liniment, of hay and grain and leather—a potpourri Naomi had missed sorely during her years in prison and one she never failed to appreciate.
It was, to her, the scent of freedom.
As Moses passed, horses stuck their heads out of stalls. He, too, had a scent, one they recognized. His boots might have clattered quickly along the slope, but there was always time for a quick stroke, a murmured word.
Stable hands continued their work. Perhaps pitchforks or currycombs moved with more enthusiasm now that the man was in view.
“I was going to take her out to pasture when I saw how she favored the leg.” The groom paused beside Serenity’s box stall. “Noticed the swelling and thought you’d want to take a look for yourself.”
Moses merely grunted, passing his hands over the glossy chestnut coat. He studied the filly’s eyes, smelled her breath, murmuring to her as he worked his way down from cheek to chest to leg.
There was swelling just above the fetlock, and some heat. As he applied some slight pressure, the filly jerked back and blew a warning. “Looks like she’s knocked into something.”
“Reno was riding her this morning.” Naomi remembered that the jockey had made a special trip to the farm for the workout. “See if he’s still here.”
“Yes’m.” The groom scurried off.
“She had a beautiful run this morning.” Eyes narrowed, Naomi crouched beside Moses and examined the lame leg herself, gently lifting it forward and back to check for shoulder strain. “Looks like an overreach,” she muttered. There was discoloration, a sign of blood clotting under the skin. The bone was probably bruised, she thought. If they were lucky, there’d be no fracture. “She was due in Saratoga next week.”
“She might still make it.” But he didn’t think so, not on that leg.
“We can get the swelling down. Better call the vet, though. An X ray wouldn’t hurt.”
“I’ll take care of it. And I’ll talk to Reno.” She straightened, hooking an arm around the mare’s neck. They were an investment, a business, but that didn’t negate her love for them. “She’s got the heart of a champion, Moses. I don’t want to hear