Texas! Lucky

by Sandra Brown

  He moved further into the room. The confinement was beginning to tell on him, she noted. It caused a strain on all the inmates of this facility. To a man, they complained of the boredom. Accustomed to being movers and shakers in big business, they found it difficult to adjust to the forced idleness. Worse yet was that they no longer had the privilege of making their own decisions.

  Instinctively Devon knew that he wouldn't welcome a broad smile and a cheerful "Good morning," and, fortunately, a subdued greeting coincided with her mood. So she stood stoic and silent in front of the windows as he crossed the room.

  He didn't stop until they were within touching distance. It wasn't until then that she noticed he was carrying a newspaper. She glanced down at it curiously, then back up at him. His face was taut with rage. So unexpectedly that it caused her to jump, he slapped the newspaper onto the windowsill, then turned on his heels and strode from the room.

  Her arid mouth opened, but she couldn't utter a single sound. She waited until he had cleared the doorway and turned down the hall before retrieving the newspaper.

  It had been folded once. She opened it and noted that it was a Dallas paper, a competitor of the one she worked for. Greg had gratuitously underlined in red the pertinent headline.

  She slumped against the armrest of the nearest chair and skimmed the incriminating article. For long moments afterward she sat there, clutching the newspaper to her chest, eyes closed, heart tripping, head throbbing. She had so carefully outlined what she was going to say to him, when, as it turned out, it hadn't been necessary to say anything. The newspaper account was disgustingly accurate.

  * * *

  "Promise me you won't fly off the handle and do something stupid." Chase, casting a tall, dark shadow across the office floor, filled the doorway.

  Lucky was angled back in the swivel desk chair their grandfather and father had broken in for them. His boots were resting on the corner of the desk, another relic of oil-boom days. A telephone was cradled between his shoulder and ear. He waved his brother into the room.

  "Yeah, we can send a crew out tomorrow to start setting up." He winked at his brother, and made the okay sign with his thumb and fingers. "We didn't lose all that much in the fire, so we're set to go. Just give me directions, and our boys'll be there by daybreak."

  Bringing the chair erect, he reached for a pad and pencil and scribbled down the directions. "Route Four, you say? Uh-huh, two miles past the windmill. Got it. Right. Glad to be doing business with you again, Virgil."

  He hung up the phone, sprang out of the chair, and gave an Indian whoop. "A contract! A biggie! Remember ol' Virgil Daboe over in Louisiana? He's got four good prospects for wells, and wants us to do the drilling. How 'bout that, big brother? Is that good news or what? Four new wells and a baby on the way! How can you stand that much good news in a twelve-hour period?"

  On his way to the coffee maker, he walloped Chase between the shoulder blades. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he said, "I'll call all the boys and tell them to get their gear—" He broke off as he raised the mug of coffee to his lips and realized that his brother wasn't sharing his jubilation. "What's the matter?"

  "It's great about the contract," Chase said.

  "Well, you sure as hell can't tell it by looking at you." Lucky set down his coffee. "What's wrong with you? I thought you'd be dancing on the ceiling about this."

  "I probably would be, if I wasn't afraid I might have to hog-tie you to keep you out of more trouble."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "Somebody squealed, Lucky."

  "Squealed?"

  Chase had folded the front page of the newspaper lengthwise four times so he could slide it into the hip pocket of his jeans. Reluctantly he removed it and passed it to Lucky.

  He read the story. The first words out of his mouth were vile. Subsequent words were even viler. Chase watched his brother warily, unsure of what he might do.

  Lucky threw himself back into the desk chair. It went rolling back on its creaky casters. Bending at the waist, he plowed all ten fingers through his hair and recited a litany of oaths. When he finally ran out, he straightened up and asked, "Has Devon seen this yet?"

  "Mother doesn't think so. She left early for the prison. They had coffee together, but Mother didn't open the paper until after she left."

  "Just what the hell does this mean?" Lucky demanded, referring to the copy in the article. "'According to an unnamed source.'"

  "It means that whoever leaked the story is scared of what you might do to him if you ever find out who he is."

  "He damned sure better be," Lucky said viciously. "And I'll find out who the bastard is. 'Agents were injured in the fracas that broke out when Tyler's mistress was allegedly insulted,'" he read.

  "'Fracas'? What the hell kind of word is 'fracas'? Devon wasn't 'allegedly insulted," she was insulted. And calling her my mistress!" he shouted. "We were together once. Once dammit."

  Lucky flung himself from the chair and began pacing the office in long strides. "This is what I wanted to prevent," he said as he ground his fist into his opposite palm. "I wanted Devon to be protected from scandal."

  "She would have lost her anonymity during the trial," Chase reasonably pointed out.

  "I figured the case would never go to trial. I counted on something happening first. I thought maybe Susan would—" He stopped his pacing and rounded on Chase. "That's it." As heated and agitated as he'd been only seconds earlier, he was now remarkably calm. The switch was as sudden as closing a door against a fierce storm. "Susan."

  "She leaked the story?"

  "I'd bet Virgil's contract on it." He told Chase about seeing the banker's daughter in the squad room.

  "Yeah, I saw her there too," Chase said. "She was grinning like the Cheshire cat. But would she risk having her name attached to this mess?"

  "She lied to those agents, didn't she?" Lucky headed for the door.

  Chase, well aware of Lucky's volatile temper, followed him outside. "Where are you going?"

  "To see Miss Young."

  "Lucky—"

  "Hopefully between here and there I'll come up with an alternative to murder."

  * * *

  Clara, the Youngs' housekeeper, demurred when he asked to see Susan. Lucky was persistent, and eventually wore her down. She led him through the house to the backyard, where Susan was enjoying a late breakfast on the stone terrace. Like a hothouse orchid, she was surrounded by giant ferns and flowering plants.

  He pinched a sprig of lilac from the fresh flower arrangement on the foyer table and carried it outside with him. As he crossed the lichen-covered stone terrace, he could hear Susan humming beneath her breath while liberally spreading orange marmalade over an English muffin. Lying on the table in front of her was the front page of the Dallas paper.

  "You sure do make a pretty picture sitting there, Susan."

  At the familiar sound of his voice she dropped her knife. It landed with a clatter on the china plate. She sprang from her chair and rounded it, placing it between them, as though filigree wrought iron could prevent him from snapping her in two.

  "Lucky."

  Her voice was feeble and airless. There was little color remaining in her face. The fingers gripping the back of her chair were bloodless. She backed up a step as he moved inexorably forward.

  When he reached her, he raised his hand. She flinched.

  Then her terrified eyes focused on the flower he was extending to her. "Good morning," he whispered, bending down and planting a light kiss on her cheek. She gaped at him wordlessly as he pulled back, then automatically accepted the flower.

  "I didn't expect you," she croaked.

  "Sorry I'm here so early," he said, nonchalantly pinching off a bite of her English muffin and popping it into his mouth, "but it's been days since I've seen you, and I just couldn't wait any longer. I hope—"

  He stopped, made a point of noticing the newspaper, and muttered a curse. The look he gave her then was a mi
x of sheepishness and exasperation.

  "Damn! I wanted to get over here before you saw that." He gestured down to the article. "Susan, honey, I'm sorry."

  She stared at him with speechless dismay.

  Feigning disgust, he expelled a deep breath. "Some loudmouthed snoop found out who I was with the night of the fire and leaked that story about the Haines woman." Appearing to be supremely exasperated, he plopped down into one of the wrought iron chairs and hung his head.

  "One mistake. One lousy mistake," he mumbled in self-castigation. "How was I to know she was married? And to a convict. Jeez!" He swore. "Of course, now you'll have to tell the authorities that you lied to them about being with me the night of the fire."

  "I … I will?" Her voice had gone from low and faint to high and thin.

  "Of course, honey." He rose and took her shoulders between his hands. "I can't let you stick your neck out any further than you already have. Yesterday, when I saw you in that ugly squad room, I nearly died."

  He touched her hair, smoothed it away from her neck. "I knew the kind of questions they had put to you. Personal things about us. Lord, how embarrassing that must have been for you. How do you think I felt, knowing you were making that sacrifice for me?"

  He laid his hand over his heart. "And then do you know what the bastards told me to throw me off balance? They said that you claimed I had bragged to you about setting that fire. Can you believe that? Sure, you joked with me about it the other night, but you weren't serious, right?"

  "Uh, uh, right."

  "Don't worry. I didn't fall for the ploy. I knew they were bluffing, trying to trap me into admitting something. You'd never betray me like that. Not when we were planning to get married. The last thing I ever wanted was for you to be dragged into this mess." He pulled her close and spoke into her hair. Astonishment had made her body limp.

  "I appreciate everything you did to try and save me from prosecution, but I can't let you do any more. I can't let you be called into that courtroom to perjure yourself."

  "Perjure myself?"

  "Sure," he said, angling away from her. "If you testify under oath that I was with you the night of the fire, then the Haines woman says under oath that I was with her, I'll have to testify under oath that she's telling the truth. You'll be caught in your lie, sweetheart," he said gently. "That is, unless you recant your story immediately. The sooner, the better."

  She pushed away from him, staring up at him whey-faced, on the verge of panic. "I never thought of that."

  "I know you didn't. All you thought about was me, us, our marriage. Which, of course," he added regretfully, "er be."

  "Why not?"

  He spread his arms at his sides in a gesture of helplessness. "Do you believe your mama and daddy would let you marry me now, a guy who would sleep with a con's wife? Think about it, sweetheart. They wouldn't stand for it. Your daddy would probably cut you out of his will and leave all his money to charity. They'd rather see you dead than married to me. And, frankly, so would I." His voice was laced with so much earnestness that she didn't hear the irony underlying it.

  Clasping her against him again, he hugged her tight for several seconds before releasing her abruptly. "Good-bye, Susan. Since all this has come out in the open, I can't ever see you again."

  Before she could speak another word, he left her, choosing to take the gravel path around the house rather than going through its sepulchral hallway to reach the front.

  At the corner of the house he turned and looked back.

  "Save yourself while you can, Susan. Don't even give yourself time to think about it. Call Pat."

  "Yes, yes. I'll do that today. Right now."

  "I can't tell you how much better that'll make me feel." He blew her a kiss. "Goodbye."

  Hanging his head, he walked with the measured gait of a self-sacrificing patriot on his way to the guillotine. But he was laughing up his sleeve and felt like kicking up his heels.

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  Devon was waiting for him the following morning when he arrived at Tyler Drilling headquarters. Sitting in a straight chair as prim and proper as a finishing-school student, she was talking to Chase and cradling one of their chipped, stained coffee mugs between her hands.

  They shared a long stare across a shaft of sunlight in which dust motes danced as crazily as Lucky's pulse was racing at the sight of her.

  Chase was the first to break the thick silence. "Devon showed up a few minutes ago," he explained awkwardly. He, too, was evidently at a loss as to why she was there.

  "We were just having some coffee. Want some, Lucky?"

  "No thanks." He hadn't taken his eyes off Devon. Nor had hers strayed from him.

  "The, uh, the crew has already left for Louisiana."

  "That's good."

  Chase's futile attempts at conversation only emphasized the teeming silence. Uneasily he cleared his throat. "Uh, well, I need to be, uh, doing some things outside. See y'all later." As Chase went past Lucky on his way out, he jostled him with his elbow. It was a silent brotherly communiqué that said, "Snap out of it."

  Once Chase had closed the door behind himself, Lucky remarked, "I'm surprised to see you here."

  Her smile was swift and unsure. "I surprised myself by coming."

  He sat down in a ladder-back chair, his eyes roving hungrily over her face.

  "I've been trying to call you since yesterday afternoon, Devon."

  "I took my phone off the hook."

  "I gathered that. Why?"

  "After reading yesterday's newspaper, everybody in the world was trying to call me, it seemed."

  Lucky frowned. "I hate like hell that the story came out. I wanted to keep you anonymous for as long as possible. Please believe that."

  "I know you had nothing to do with it. Who do you think was responsible?"

  He told her about Susan. "She looked guilty as hell when I confronted her. I'm convinced she made it her business to find out who you were and, out of spite, spilled the beans to a reporter."

  "Well, it doesn't really matter now how the story got out. The damage is done."

  He studied her a moment, noticing that her face was drawn and pale. The last twenty-four hours must have been pure hell for her. She was gripping the coffee mug as though it were a buoy in a turbulent lake.

  "Do you really want that coffee?" he asked. Shaking her head, she passed the mug to him. He took it and set it on the desk, then turned back to her. The question uppermost in his mind couldn't be avoided any longer.

  "How did things go with your husband yesterday?"

  A small shudder went through her, though it was uncomfortably warm in the office. "By the time I arrived, Greg had read the story," she said softly. "He merely dropped the newspaper and walked out."

  "Without a word?"

  "Words would have been superfluous, wouldn't they?"

  "I guess so," Lucky murmured.

  He was thinking that if he had a wife whom he loved as much as any husband should love his wife, he would have given her the benefit of the doubt and asked a few questions. He wouldn't have reacted until she either denied or confirmed the newspaper story.

  If she had denied it, he would have comforted her, then immediately set out to get a retraction. If she had confirmed it, he probably would have gone nuts and carried on something terrible.

  A furious outburst, tears, anguish, teeth-gnashing, threats of retaliation. Those would be the expected jealous reactions. They denoted feeling, passion. Simply stalking out was an almost inhuman response that made Greg Shelby sound cold, unfeeling.

  "What did you do?" Lucky wanted to know.

  "I read the story through. At first I just sat there, stunned. My character suffered in the translation. Somehow, once they were written down, the facts sounded ugly and shameful. So tawdry." She shivered again.

  Lucky reached beyond the back of his chair to take one of her hands. "It wasn't, Devon."

  "Wasn't it?" she asked, her e
yes brimming.

  "No."

  The stare they exchanged then was so powerful, she prudently withdrew her hand and used her tears as the excuse. She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes.

  "I had the prison guard try to get Greg to see me again, but he refused. Once I returned to Dallas, I called the warden and got permission to speak to him by telephone. I wanted desperately to explain." She shook her head mournfully. "He wouldn't even accept my call."

  Lucky mentally called Greg Shelby every dirty name he could think of. "So what now? Do you want me to go with you to see him?"

  "No!" Leaving her chair, she began roaming the office restlessly. "I don't believe he'd be willing to see either of us right now. After thinking it over and discussing it with Greg's attorney—who isn't at all pleased with me either—I think it's best to leave him alone for several days. He needs time to cool off and clear his head, so that when we do see each other again, he'll be able to listen calmly to my explanation."

  "I don't know, Devon," he said doubtfully. "Given time to think about it, I would just get madder."

  "Greg isn't as volatile as you."

  "You're right about that." Lucky's concession wasn't intended as a compliment to Greg. "If you were my wife and some guy had messed with you, I'd've busted down the walls of that prison by now and be on my way to tear out his throat."

  "Greg's not that … physical."

  "Do you really think he'll eventually forgive and forget?"

  "I hope so. Yes, in time, I believe he will."

  The answer didn't cheer Lucky as it should have. Her husband sounded like a sanctimonious creep who could hold a grudge forever.

  Lucky hated to think of Devon being tied to Shelby for the rest of her life.

  Somewhat querulously he asked, "Did you come all the way from Dallas to tell me this?"

  "No. There was another reason." She returned to her seat. "This whole thing has blown up in my face. Since I went into that lounge and ordered a beer, I've had nothing but trouble. It's out now that I'm your alibi in an arson case. Until the trial is over, and God only knows when that will be, my life is going to be a three-ring circus. I can't have that. I won't have it."