by Linda Warren
With that, he turned and took the steps two at a time. He got into his white truck with the Brewster Farms logo on the door. The door slammed with a deafening sound, and he sped down the driveway to the gates.
Abby held on to the iron railing that curved to the bottom of the steps. Her insides were a hard knot of nerves. She’d been wishing that Jonas would talk to her, but not this way. He was rude and accusing. He made her feel as if she’d betrayed her father. That was the last thing she’d intended. She was going to get justice for her father—one way or the other. And she didn’t need Jonas Parker’s interference.
AS ABBY DROVE to her mother’s house, her mind was a jumble. She’d believed that writing Mr. Brewster’s memoirs would be easy. He’d talk and she’d write, then they’d discuss her father. But so many other emotions—and people—were interfering. People like Jonas. In her job as a reporter, she’d come up against men like him. The strong, silent types, who never wanted to talk or share emotionally. She was always uncomfortable around them. She had to admit, though, she wasn’t a really great judge of men. Just look who she’d chosen to marry.
She’d met Kyle at the paper. He was fun, loving and caring…and he’d swept her off her feet. Within three months they were married. They were happy for a while, but then she noticed he was drinking to excess. She didn’t worry too much because they were both dealing with a lot of stress at work. She began to get bigger assignments and awards for her writing. Kyle became jealous and bitter, and Abby began to turn down stories because her achievements angered him so much.
He wanted a child, and she told him that they had to work on their marriage first. She wouldn’t bring a baby into a home that was fraught with tension. That only increased his anger. His drinking got worse, and he started staying out late. Then he was fired from the paper. That brought matters to a head. Kyle blamed her for everything that was wrong in his life. He became so enraged one night that he hit her. She packed her things and left. The next day she filed for divorce.
Kyle began calling and showing up on her doorstep, wanting to reconcile, but he had destroyed any feelings she’d ever had for him. She had no intention of ever going back. He harassed her for weeks until she had to get a restraining order. Finally, the divorce was granted, and she headed home to heal.
She forced the depressing thoughts from her mind as she parked behind her mother’s car and hurried into the house.
Gail Duncan sat at the kitchen table, flipping through a magazine. “You’re late,” she said, not looking at her daughter.
Abby got the message. Her mother was upset. She dropped her purse and carryall by the refrigerator and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I’m sorry. Things ran long today.”
Her mother was in her late fifties and still an attractive woman, with her short, neat graying hair and trim figure. She didn’t answer or look up as Abby spoke, just turned a page with a jerky movement.
Abby sat next to her and took her hand in hers. “Mom, you know why I took this job, so be patient with me.”
Her mother glanced at her, her green eyes—so like Abby’s—swimming with tears. “I don’t like you anywhere near that man.”
“I know, Mom, but I have to find out what happened with Daddy, and I’m getting close. I think Mr. Brewster will tell me.”
Her mother squeezed her hand. “Don’t you trust Simon Brewster for a minute.”
Jonas had said almost the same thing. But she wouldn’t think about him and his insulting words.
“I won’t,” Abby assured her. “But there has to be a reason he fired Daddy.”
“Your father never would say. He said to forget about it, that he was tired of working for Brewster, anyway. Then he found out about the cancer and—” Her voice cracked.
“It’s all right,” Abby said softly. “It’s time to get on with our lives. But before I can do that, I need to have some answers.”
Her mother got up. “You were always like that—needing to know the who, when, where, what and how about everything.” She took lasagna out of the oven and brought it to the table. Setting it on a hot pad, she added, “I guess that’s what makes you a good reporter. But,” she continued wistfully, “sometimes you have to let go.”
Abby stood and kissed her. “I’ll try, but right now I’m so hungry, especially for your lasagna. I’ll wash up and be right back.”
She ran to the bathroom, hoping she was doing the right thing about Simon Brewster. She knew her mother was worried that Mr. Brewster was going to hurt her the way he’d hurt her father. Funny, but Jonas seemed to feel the same way. Stop thinking about him, she admonished herself.
Maybe she should forget about the memoirs and let go of the past, like her mother had said. No, she couldn’t. She had to know. She washed her hands, then stared at herself in the mirror. Her natural blond hair was in disarray around her shoulders and her green eyes lacked their usual sparkle. She looked awful. Had Jonas noticed? Probably, she thought, answering her own question. He wasn’t blind. But then, why should she care? A man was the last thing she needed in her life. Besides Jonas wasn’t interested in her in any way, shape or form. And that was a good thing.
Wasn’t it?
JONAS LEFT HIS OFFICE and walked through the big metal building that housed the offices of Brewster Farms. Juan, one of the warehouse employees, tried to stop him.
“Mr. Jonas, I—”
“Handle it, Juan, I’ll be back later,” Jonas threw over his shoulder as he made his way to his truck, which was parked out back.
In less than five minutes he pulled up in front of Mick’s Tavern in town. He got out of the truck and went inside. The place was a dive—peanut shells littered the worn floor, a jukebox hummed in a corner and a Mexican couple necked at a table that could have used a good cleaning. Jonas came here often to unwind. God, he needed to unwind today. That Duncan woman was beginning to get to him.
“Coke and peanuts,” he said to Mick, who stood behind the bar. Jonas and Mick were old friends. Mick had been there for him when no one else had—not even his own parents. In fact, Jonas thought, Mick was probably the only person who’d cared about him when he was a kid.
Mick had married a Mexican woman, and they’d settled in this small border town so his wife could be close to her family. Mick was a die-hard Texan with rough edges and a spit-in-your-eye attitude. He was equally at home with the locals and the Mexicans. Everyone knew that Mick was a good man to turn to in times of trouble. He had helped many other people as well as Jonas.
Not all of Mick’s endeavors were on the up-and-up, though. Even as a kid Jonas had figured that out. A brothel was illegal in Texas, yet Mick operated one in plain sight of the sheriff and the town. Jonas knew that Mick had some sort of arrangement with the sheriff. For a certain amount of money, the sheriff turned a blind eye. A lot of illegal activity—drugs, prostitution, smuggling—went on in this town, yet nothing was ever done about it. Brewster was the only one who could put a stop to it—and he chose not to.
Illegal immigration was also a big problem. No matter how tight the security, Mexicans always managed to find a way to get across the Rio Grande undetected. It was routine for illegals to show up at Brewster farms wanting work. Brewster had always hired them, and Jonas continued that practice. If they proved to be good workers, he tried to help them get a Green Card so they could continue to work without fear of being caught. It was a lengthy process, but worth waiting for. Many extended families—parents, brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts and cousins—came to work for Brewster. Once here, they usually stayed—only going home for visits.
Some went farther into Texas or other states. It made Jonas sick when he heard of illegals dying from heat, exhaustion and thirst while hiding from the border patrol. Then there were the “coyotes”—as the Mexicans called them—who smuggled illegals across the border for a price and transported them deeper into Texas. They jammed as many people as they could into a concealed truck. If the Mexicans didn’t die from suffocation, and if th
e driver managed to slip through the checkpoints without suspicion, they had a ticket to freedom. It was a roll of the dice and the Mexicans took it.
Jonas remembered the first time he had helped to burn the sugarcane for harvesting. Three bodies were found huddled together. No identification, nothing on them, and everyone knew they were illegals. Unfortunately, it was something that happened too often. When Jonas took over Brewster Farms, he warned the Mexicans when the cane was going to be burned. He wanted the word spread on both sides of the border. He then had Juan use a foghorn and circle the fields, informing everyone in Spanish that the burning was about to begin. So far he hadn’t had to witness such an awful scene again.
During peak season, temporary Mexican laborers came by the busload with a special pass to work. They couldn’t go farther than twenty-five miles from the border and they had to return to Mexico at night. It was a good arrangement and it helped everyone. In the winter months, seasonal workers came from up north to avoid the bad winters. The trailer park was a hive of activity during that time. Some workers came regularly and a reunion took place every year. All in all, everyone got along. Everywhere there was Mexican music mixed with country.
Mick slid an iced cola can and a bowl of roasted peanuts across the bar. Jonas took them and sat at one of the tables, propping his feet up on a chair. He took a swig of the cola and began to break the peanut shells.
Mick came over to the table. A white apron covered his large form. He chewed on a cigar. He never lit the thing, but he always had one in his mouth. “Why do you come in here, Jonas? You never buy any liquor or make use of my girls.”
“I don’t drink and I don’t need to pay for sex,” Jonas said, popping a peanut in his mouth. He glanced at Mick. “You got a problem with that?”
Mick held up his hands. “No problem. Just bad for business. In the old days I couldn’t keep you outta here.”
Jonas removed his worn hat and plopped it on the table. “The old days, Mick? I’ve forgotten what the hell they were like.”
“No, you haven’t,” Mick said, pulled up a chair and rolled the cigar to the other side of his mouth. “You made a mistake. You were young. Now it’s time to say adios to all that.”
Jonas ran his thumb over the sweat on the cold can. “Yeah, if only it were that easy.”
“Brewster can’t control you forever,” Mick told him. “Not unless you let him.”
Jonas looked at his friend.
“You’ve paid your dues,” Mick added forcefully.
Jonas went back to rubbing his thumb over the can. He didn’t want to talk about Brewster or the past. It was over, but his dues would never be paid, not until…
Mick caught that stubborn look and changed the subject. “I got two illegals over at my place. They’re scared but they need work.”
“How old are they?”
Mick sighed. “Why do you always have to ask that?”
“Because I’m not working kids.”
Mick chewed on the cigar. “They’re both sixteen.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me, would you?” Mick knew that sixteen was the youngest age that Jonas would allow.
“I haven’t lied to you since you were eight years old. I told you the truth even when it hurt.”
He had. Mick had always been straight with him, so there was no reason to doubt him. Jonas had a strict rule about children. He refused to work them. Brewster gave him enough leeway to enforce it.
“Send them over,” he said. “I think there’s a couple of beds in a trailer. Make sure they’re aware of the rules—no liquor or drugs on the premises. As long as they behave, they’ll have a safe place to work. Tell them to ask for Juan and fill out papers, and they can start work tomorrow.”
“Thanks, Jonas,” Mick said. “How about another Coke?”
“Sure, why not.”
On his way to the bar, Mick asked, “What’s Brewster got you in a snit about today?”
“It’s not Brewster.”
Mick set another can in front of him. “Then, it has to be a woman.”
Jonas took a swallow. “Women, Mick? How in the hell do you figure them out?”
“I don’t. I just enjoy them.”
Jonas laughed. “That’s very good advice.”
“Then, why the hell don’t you take it?”
Jonas didn’t answer. Mick wouldn’t understand, anyway. Jonas tipped his head back and drank thirstily.
Mick watched him for a moment. “Why don’t you get on your Harley and head for parts unknown. What the hell can Brewster do?”
Jonas pushed hair away from his forehead. “In my dreams, Mick…only in my dreams.”
Neither spoke for a moment, then Mick said, “Is this about the pretty Duncan woman who’s been hanging around the Brewster mansion? She’s a nice piece of—”
Jonas stopped him. “Don’t talk trash.”
“Then, it is about Abigail Duncan.”
“Brewster’s using her, and I can’t figure out why.”
“It’s not your business, is it?”
Jonas gulped down more cola. “No, but…”
“But what? You’re concerned for her?”
“No, dammit. She needs to get her ass back to Dallas where she belongs.”
Mick chuckled. “Or maybe she belongs in your bed.”
Jonas’s eyes narrowed on Mick. “Is that all you ever think about?”
Mick chuckled again. “It’s good business and it’s why you’re so wound up. You can’t get the Duncan woman out of your head.”
Jonas twisted the can. “Your dime-store psychology stinks.”
“But I’m right, ain’t I?” Mick said gleefully. “Take the woman to bed and get her out of your system. That will solve the problem, and you’ll definitely be in a better mood.”
Jonas stood, laid some bills on the table, picked up his hat and walked out. Mick was wrong, he told himself. He didn’t want to take Abigail Duncan to bed.
Liar! resounded a voice in his head. Okay, she was attractive with her blond hair, green eyes and knockout body, he admitted, but she was a career woman with a divorce behind her. He didn’t need someone like that. His life was messed up enough the way it was.
On the way back to the office, Jonas decided Mick was out of his mind. He also decided he would stay out of Ms. Duncan’s life. He’d warned her. Now she could do whatever the hell she wanted.
CHAPTER TWO
THE RINGING OF THE TELEPHONE woke Abby at two in the morning. She groped for the receiver and brushed hair out of her eyes at the same time. “Hello,” she mumbled.
“Ms. Abigail Duncan?”
“Yes.”
“This is Hope Medical Center. Mr. Simon Brewster has had a heart attack, and he’s asking for you.”
Abby scooted into a sitting position. “Is he all right?”
“He’s still alive, if that’s what you’re asking, and he wants to see you.”
“Me? Why?”
“I’ve just been instructed to call you.”
“Oh.” Mr. Brewster wanted to see her. She wasn’t part of his family. Maybe it had something to do with the memoirs.
“Ms. Duncan?”
“Yes.”
“Are you coming?”
“I…uh…” She hesitated for a moment, then added, “I’ll be right there.”
Abby hung up the phone wondering if she’d made the right decision. Her mother wouldn’t like this, but the man was probably dying. Abby had to see him. She dressed hurriedly in jeans and a knit top. Luckily the phone hadn’t woken Gail. Abby made her way out the back door and to her car. Within minutes she was parking in front of the small hospital.
Mr. Brewster was in ICU, and Abby was shown into a waiting area. Three people were sitting in the small room. Abby recognized them immediately. They were Mr. Brewster’s so-called family. Edna Kline, tall and heavyset, was Mr. Brewster’s sister-in-law. His wife’s sister. She had been at Mr. Brewster’s house several times while Abby was working on the m
emoirs. Edna always had her son, Jules, in tow. In his fifties, Jules was short and thin, very unlike his mother. He didn’t seem to have a job. Abby knew that Mr. Brewster supported them.
The other person was Darby, a cousin who turned up when he needed money. He was in his sixties and traveled a lot…mostly at Mr. Brewster’s expense.
“What are you doing here?” Edna asked cattily, her ample bosom heaving as she got to her feet.
“Mr. Brewster asked to see me,” Abby answered, feeling as if it was none of Edna’s business.
“Whatever for?” Darby asked. “You’re just someone who works for him.”
As he walked closer, she got a whiff of his breath. The man had been drinking.
“You’ll have to ask Mr. Brewster,” she replied evenly.
“Have you got your eye on Uncle Simon’s money?” Jules asked nastily.
Before Abby could respond, Edna moved close to her. “Let me tell you something, missy. Take your little notepad and tape recorder and get the hell away from Simon.”
“Ms. Duncan,” a nurse called from the doorway. “Mr. Brewster will see you now.”
“What?” Edna choked. “We’ve been waiting much longer than she has.”
The nurse stepped into the room. “Mr. Brewster asked that you all go home. He only wants to see Ms. Duncan.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Edna hissed. “We’re his family.” She pointed at Abby. “She’s nothing.”
“I’m sorry,” the nurse said. “Those are Mr. Brewster’s wishes.”
“Well, I never.” Edna expelled a long breath and sank heavily into a chair.
Abby followed the nurse out the door, but not before she heard Jules say, “We have to put a stop to this.”
Oh God, Abby thought. She didn’t want to be here and she was certainly no threat to them.
The nurse showed her into a darkened room. Mr. Brewster lay in the bed, hooked to machines and oxygen. His skin was pale, his breathing shallow.
“Come in, Abigail.”
His voice sounded strong enough. She stepped closer to the bed. “You wanted to see me?”