Texas Rich

by Fern Michaels

  “Moss? Darling, how are you?”

  “Fine. How’s my girl? Not letting the old man make you sorry you married into the Colemans, are you?”

  “Never. Never ever. Are you still in San Diego? Have you written? I didn’t receive any letters. Did you get mine?”

  “Every single one of them, honey. I didn’t write; they’ve been keeping me pretty busy. I’m being shipped to Hawaii along with my squadron. Thad Kingsley’s here, too, and shipping out with me. You remember him, don’t you? Tall guy from New England.”

  “How could I forget? I danced with him at our wedding. Will you write when you get to Hawaii? I miss you, Moss.” Billie glanced over at Seth, who was standing beside Agnes and Jessica. There was so much she wanted to say to Moss, but how could she with everyone listening to her every word?

  “I miss you, too, Billie. Take care of yourself and the baby. Do what your mother tells you and everything will be okay. Hear?”

  She wanted to ask if he really missed her. She wanted him to say he loved her. “Moss, when do you think we’ll be together again? Will you be home for Christmas?”

  “Don’t think so, honey. Hawaii’s half a world away, don’t forget. Write to me, Billie. I love hearing from you. Write me all the news, okay?”

  “Okay. And Moss?”

  “Yeah, Billie?”

  “Take care of yourself, won’t you? I worry.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m going to come home as good as I left. I’ve got to go now, honey. There’s a hundred guys waiting to use the phone. Take care of yourself. I miss you.”

  Billie gulped, trying to ignore the three pairs of eyes that watched her. She wished for one instant of privacy. Turning her back, she whispered into the phone, “Moss, I love you.”

  “I know you do, Billie.” Click.

  Billie held the dead receiver in her hand, feeling it grow cold in her grip. “Well, what did he say?” Seth demanded.

  “He ... he said he missed me.”

  “No, I mean did he say anything important? When is he coming home? Will he be coming back to the States?”

  Wordlessly, Billie turned and climbed the stairs to her room. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts of Moss, and more than anything she wanted to spare herself Seth’s inquisition.

  Moss pushed his cap back at a jaunty angle and crossed the hotel lobby to where Thad Kingsley waited. “Didn’t I tell you,” Thad said, “it’d be better coming into town to call Billie? At least you didn’t have to compete with two hundred men for use of the phone. Besides, sometimes the lines from the base are so jammed it takes an hour for a call to go through.”

  Moss signaled the barman for another drink. “Pap’s having trouble with a well in Waco. That old man thinks I’ve got the answer to every one of Sunbridge’s problems. I told him to get hold of a wildcatter I know in Oklahoma. If anybody can find oil, that bastard can.”

  Thad’s brow wrinkled as he balanced his long lean body on the high bar stool. “Wasn’t Billie home? Didn’t you get to talk to her?”

  “Billie’s fine, or so she says. She was having a little morning sickness last time I saw her, but I guess that’s passed.”

  “Don’t you know?”

  “How should I know?” Moss asked honestly. “I’m here in San Diego and she’s in Texas.”

  “Didn’t you ask her?” Thad persisted.

  “Hell, I just phoned to tell my wife I’m leaving for Hawaii and I don’t know when I’ll see her again. Do you think I want to talk about vomit at a time like that?”

  Thad considered himself properly chastened. Moss’s relationship with Billie was really none of his concern. It was just that his impression of Billie was that she was fragile and too terribly vulnerable. And Moss Coleman could be such a bastard. “I suppose a phone call like that can get pretty heavy. It can’t be easy to leave a girl like Billie, especially when she’s carrying your first child.”

  “Pap’ll take good care of her.” Moss sipped his drink, oblivious to the frown creasing his friend’s brow.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Billie was determined to make Moss’s home her own. But so many things puzzled her; Texas was so different from Philadelphia. Seth entertained business friends and associates at Sunbridge, for instance, often completing financial transactions right on the front porch. Soft voices would discuss details over and over and then the deal would be formalized with a hearty handshake. Only later would contracts and agreements be put on paper; a man’s hand on a promise held more weight than his legal signature.

  And Billie’s own life became internalized, as her focus turned more and more to the small life within her. The changes in her body came quickly and were always accompanied by a fresh bout of queasiness, if not sickness. Her breasts were swollen and painful, her balance seemed awkward, and she noticed in the mirror that her pelvis was tilting forward, which made the hem of her dresses hang unevenly. Agnes decided it was time for maternity smocks and skirts with tummy holes. Often, Billie yearned for the familiarity of Philadelphia. It would be nice to go shopping with a girlfriend or just walk into town and look in the windows. She had to remind herself that all her friends were at college and the only window-shopping available was nearly forty miles away in Austin.

  When the subject of Billie’s pregnancy came up at the supper table, Seth insisted on referring to his grandchild as a boy—and his tone said he’d accept nothing less. Jessica had told her kindly, “Billie, it doesn’t do any good to argue with Seth. I’ve been married to him for nearly thirty years and you can believe me.” She knew Jessica commiserated with her during these conversations and that was comforting. After all, once the baby was born, regardless of its sex, it couldn’t be sent back. As long as it was healthy, what did it matter? Nevertheless, Billie wisely never mentioned the words baby girl or even hinted at a feminine name. But the pressure of Seth’s possible disap- ’ pointment was giving her headaches even Tita’s potions or the doctor couldn’t cure. She kept her miseries to herself and spent hours rereading Moss’s sparse letters, which ran a half to a whole page, never more. At least she’d heard from him; for that she was grateful. If his letters were less than romantic, she would accept it. She spent long hours writing letters that she was certain he never read. It was something to do.

  Billie found herself upset over Agnes’s silent aversion to Jessica’s company: her mother seemed to prefer accompanying Seth whenever she could on his rounds of the ranch, and she sat with him in his study listening to the radio news. While Billie and Jessica read Moss’s letters, Agnes was reading prospectus reports on Seth’s latest venture into the electronics industry. They got along well, these two, seeming to have a quiet understanding of one another. Cantankerous as Seth was, he had met his match in Agnes and he respected her for it.

  Billie was seeing her mother as if for the first time. No longer did Agnes appear matronly and middle-aged. Now, with her new upswept hairdo, stylish dresses, and dainty shoes (instead of the durable, sensible ones she’d always bought in Philadelphia), Agnes was a very attractive woman. Even some of Seth’s associates who came to the house seemed impressed with the Colemans’ Yankee kin, and she’d been invited to dinner several times.

  Agnes had set Seth straight almost from the beginning. She let him know that as Billie’s mother she was in control of her daughter and of the child she carried. Sons left home. Daughters stayed and obeyed. Seth was to understand that if things didn’t go well at Sunbridge, Agnes would pick up her daughter and return to Philadelphia. She should have been a man, Seth found himself thinking.

  On the last day of September Billie and Jessica were sitting outdoors in the rose arbor drinking iced fruit punch when Tita wobbled out waving an airmail letter. Jessica’s hand went to her throat in alarm; Billie rushed to her while snatching the letter from Tita’s outstretched hand. “It’s all right, Jessica. It’s from England.” She handed the letter to her mother-in-law and sat down opposite her, feeling the same relief that was evident on Jessica’s fa
ce.

  “It’s from Amelia! I’ve been worried about her I think the last I heard from her was just before you came to Sunbridge, Billie.” Quickly, Jessica skimmed the contents, her face brightening and softening with maternal love. “Amelia has married! An RAF pilot, and she now has a small stepson. Isn’t that wonderful?” There was a shadow lurking in Jessica’s expression. “I would have liked to give her a wedding, but I suppose that’s unreasonable, considering she’s in England, and then there’s the war, of course. But I’m very happy for her, nevertheless.”

  “A ready-made family,” said Billie.

  “Amelia deserves happiness,” Jessica went on. “She has so much love to give. She’ll be a wonderful mother. Both my children married, and we didn’t get to attend either wedding.”

  Moss Coleman stood on the ramparts of Fort Kamehameha and looked down into Pearl Harbor at the lady he loved. She was 827 feet long, 114 feet wide, and displaced 20,000 tons empty and unarmed. His lady was both a warship and an airfield, the USS Enterprise. Four huge bronze propellers driven by steam turbines gave her more than thirty knots of speed, and behind the props a single rudder as big as the side of a barn swung at a touch from the bridge to provide an enviable maneuverability. In her breast she carried a new and secret device called “radar,” which could find the enemy in the black of night or shrouding fog. Captain and mess cook, firemen and pilots, and more than two thousand men lived and fought on her. Her pilots, who romanced her from high above her decks, knew a special love for their lady. It was from her that they went to do battle, but it was always to her that they prayed to return. And no pilot’s love was greater than Moss’s own.

  As Moss’s eyes squinted lovingly over her, from the superstructure to the aft deck, he knew the reason for her existence was the flight deck that covered her from stem to stem. Her deck was broken only by the island amidships on the starboard side where the control centers of the ship were housed. On both bows were catapults to launch the planes, and forward, aft, and amidships heavy-duty elevators lifted the planes from the cavernous hangar deck below. Over eighty aircraft were stored below—stubby Grumman F4F Wildcats with squared-off wing tips.

  Moss throbbed with anticipation. Today was October 16, 1942, and his lady had taken a hew master, Captain Osborne B. Hardison. Preparations were being made to get under way. In the month since he’d arrived, he’d been engaged in practice flights and drills. He was ready, like the lady, to engage the enemy. The controls of his Wildcat—affectionately christened the Texas Ranger—felt right in his hand. His ear was tuned to the drone of the engine and the lift of her wings. In less than an hour he would report to duty, along with his team of eager pilots. In a few hours the lady’s lines would be cast off and she would cruise out into the narrow channel toward the blue Pacific, past Hospital Point and Fort Kamehameha. And when Diamond Head was lost beyond the horizon, scuttlebutt had it that she would turn her bow toward the Solomon Islands. The Japanese troops on Guadalcanal were pressing hard against the marine lines that protected Henderson Field.

  One week later, Moss and Thad Kingsley stood bareheaded on the Enterprise’s aft flight deck, their gazes turned to Rear Admiral Thomas Kinkaid as he inspected the decks of the floating airfield. That morning, at dawn, they’d met their supporting ships and the tanker Sabine. Hours ago the carrier class Hornet had joined the task force.

  “Kinkaid’s briefing was an eye-opener,” Thad said, exhaling a cloud of smoke that was drawn away in a thin stream by the wind.

  Moss agreed. “Let him handle the tactics and we’ll do the rest. Some of the guys are worried he’ll get so fancy with his moves that we’ll never find the ship before we run out of fuel on our return scat. Not me, though. I’d find this beauty if she was six fathoms under.”

  Thad laughed guardedly. Moss’s bravado sometimes worried him. It was too easy to be too cocky. “Just follow orders, Coleman, and the Big E will be waiting for us. Remember the objective.”

  Moss tossed his butt over the side. “We have to stop the Japs from taking Henderson Field. It’s an important link in the U.S.-Australian lifeline. And the Japs’ strongest naval forces since Midway are at sea: four carriers, eight heavy cruisers, two light cruisers, and twenty-eight destroyers. That’s a hell of a lot of targets and I’m going to get my shot at them!”

  “We’ve got targets of our own to protect, don’t forget. The Saratoga, the Wasp, now us and the Hornet. The battleship Washington will look mighty good to those zeros. Kinkaid’s worried that we’re undermanned and he may be right.” Moss’s seeming overconfidence was, a trait Thad knew was keeping his friend from making full lieutenant. The command worried that he’d take unnecessary risks with men and machines.

  An announcement came over the loudspeaker:

  “All pilots to the wardroom. All pilots to the wardroom.”

  “That’ll be for Crommelin’s briefing,” Moss said. There was admiration in his voice for their flight trainer. His combat record was impeccable and when training the Enterprise pilots under his command, he’d given them confidence in their F4Fs by showing them a slow roll at under a thousand feet: he required nothing of them he was not able to perform himself. Moss could still hear Crommelin’s voice coming over the radio: “... over and over and over and over again.”

  Thad and Moss sat together among the other pilots. Everyone wore open-necked khaki. The green-covered tables held brimming coffee mugs, and cigarette smoke rose in blue clouds up to the cables overhead.

  “You’ve all been thoroughly and carefully trained,” Crommelin began. “You know how to drop a bomb and hit a target, and that’s what I damn well expect you to do. Our marines have had a long, miserable struggle for Guadalcanal and now they’re depending on us. There’s no room for waste, no excuse for misses. If you can’t do the job, it’d be better if you stayed back in the States and give men who could do it your bunks and your crack at the Japs.” There was a long moment of silence. “Now I want you to get some rest, write a few letters, eat light, and lay off the coffee. Come morning, I expect you to knock those Jap sons of bitches right off the face of this earth!”

  The sound of the men’s uplifting cheer was still ringing in. Moss’s ears as he wrote to Billie.

  Darling Billie,

  Things are happening quickly around here and I wanted to write. I know I have been remiss in the letter department, honey, but it hasn’t been because I don’t think about you and our child. I left for San Diego so suddenly that we hadn’t even had a chance for those little games parents-to-be like to play. We never even discussed a name for our son. Mam’s family name was Riley and I’d like it if that’s what he is named. Expect to get some objection from Pap but stand firm, won’t you?

  I miss you, honey. More than you know. But I know I’m doing what I have to do and there is consolation in that. You are so young, Billie darling, and I was so selfish to send you off to Sunbridge, especially at this time when you would probably like to be in familiar surroundings with friends you have known all your life. Sunbridge is my life, Billie, and it’s a good one and one I want for you and our child.

  I guess it is at times like these that a man takes stock of who he is and what he has done. Little wife, if I have anything to be proud of, anything to fight for, it is you. From the first, your trust and belief in me have made me a better man. I’ll come home to you, Billie. I will.

  Moss

  Before dawn on October 26, while first-shift breakfast was being served to sailors still grumpy with sleep, a message was received from the headquarters of the commander, South Pacific Force. It was in the familiar style of Admiral Bill Halsey. Three words:

  ATTACK. REPEAT. ATTACK.

  The flight deck of the Enterprise was a confusion of efficiency as aircraft were raised from the hangar bay and rolled to the catapult mechanisms on the runway. Yellow-jacketed men wearing radio headsets listened for the order to signal takeoff amid the roaring whine of the engines and the thrum of the props.

  Moss sto
od among the pilots, helmet and goggles in hand, waiting for his squadron to be signaled. His leather jacket was opened to the early-morning wind. Thad Kingsley pushed through the others and grasped Moss’s hand in a firm shake. If there was a time for farewell, this was it. He knew without doubt that Moss held him in great affection and friendship but that it wasn’t his style to initiate the gesture. “Hey, buddy, don’t get too eager for those meatballs,” he said, referring to the Japanese flags that were affixed to a pilot’s plane to indicate a kill. He clapped Moss on the shoulder affectionately. “I’ll meet you back in the wardroom for debriefing when this is over, you Texas bastard.”

  “I’ll be there, you Yankee cracker. Make certain you are.” Moss flashed a white smile. “There’s my plane.” As he loosened his grip on Thad’s hand and moved forward, he turned suddenly and grinned, shouting above the roar. “Hey, Thad, did I tell you what my son’s name is? Riley! Riley Moss Coleman!” Turning again, he sprinted for the Texas Ranger, his mind shifting gears from the elusive reality of his unborn child to the business at hand.

  In the cockpit, eyes forward, expression grim, he adjusted his headset and tested the elevator flaps. Efficiently he performed his checklist, switching on controls and inspecting gauges. His parachute pressed into his back but he disregarded it. Mentally, he became one with his machine; if she went down, so did he.

  The battlefield had been chosen; a thousand square miles of South Pacific lying just north of the Santa Cruz Islands. The sea was calm except for the long ground swells that never ceased. Above, at approximately 1,500 feet, drifted white-and-gold clouds. As the Big E probed ever westward, the scouting fighter squadrons would return by appointment for refueling. Again and again they would land and depart in their relentless search, until the enemy was met.