“Aw, c’mon, Carrie. Have you forgotten our agreement? The one you signed?”
Halting short, she wrapped herself in the thin nightgown and her dignity. “No,” she said quietly. “I hadn’t forgotten.”
“Here.” He had flung back the sheet to reveal a pose of perfect nudity, from disheveled Greek god head to well-shaped bare feet, and all the stirring, lively parts in between. “Aren’t you the least bit interested?”
She looked on, unmoved. “Don’t you have a property to foreclose on, or a company to put out of business, or something?”
“Caroline. I am crushed. I am absolute crushed, that you would even—”
Too late. She was already gone, and the click of the bathroom door lock followed her disappearance. A lock to which he had no key.
Chapter Twenty
The atmosphere in and around the Ten Buck country house was not conducive to camaraderie. Or even sociality. In fact, it was downright glacial.
And Ben was annoyed.
He had taken great pains to arrange, through Marilou’s efficient management, a marriage that was supposed to operate on greased wheels. Daily schedules were supposed to run along smoothly, without a hitch. Personalities were supposed to mesh as fine as frog’s hair. His wife was supposed to be amenable to his every wish: her mood compliant, her attitude easy-going, her character above reproach.
Well, yeah. He’d give her that last one. But she wasn’t supposed to get upset over the slightest thing he said or did contrary to what she’d expected; she wasn’t supposed to get all bent out of shape because he was simply being himself. She should just accept the fact that he was a very particular individual, God damn it, and what he wanted took precedence over all else. This wasn’t supposed to be the usual marriage. It was supposed to be managed on his terms.
Supposed to be. Supposed to be.
He knew Carrie was hurt, for whatever reason she’d gotten into her head. He knew she was pissed, for whatever other reason. This was precisely why he’d wanted a bloodless, unconventional union, so they could avoid these pitfalls. God knew, life was a lot more pleasant without pitfalls.
And, without pitfall, he could go into his office every day, or visit ports of his far-flung empire, without feeling guilt or remorse about what was brewing on the home front. He could just work.
He didn’t think he had to be the one to make amends. Not when Caroline was turning a cold shoulder to his words and a cold front to his knock at her bedroom door.
Why in bloody Hades hadn’t someone talked him out of this whole crazy mail order bride idea?
Best scenario, with all this going on? Get the hell out of Dodge.
This time, Ben wasn’t considerate enough to hand over his itinerary in person. His driver picked him up very early one morning, only a few days after the single night he had spent in his wife’s bed, and Marilou had apologetically handed over the list to Caroline some hours later.
“My, that’s an impressive number of miles he plans to rack up,” Caroline said calmly, looking over the pages of information in her hand. “I see he plans to be gone at least a week.”
“Yes, he scheduled—I mean, a number of meetings were scheduled that he felt he had to attend. Some shareholders’ groups, a few corporate dinners, that sort of thing.” Marilou, whose own love life with the agreeable Jimmy seemed to be going so well, eyed her boss’s wife with sympathy.
“Carrie—”
Equable, refusing to be affected, she looked up. “Yes?”
“Ben—Mr. Taggart—well, he sometimes gets these hair-brained ideas…I mean, you can’t really follow his reasonin’, but…” Marilou, who felt some odd compulsion to defend her boss to the wife he had so uncaringly left behind, heard her voice trail off. “Well, you know men.”
“No, Marilou,” said Caroline coolly. “I’m afraid I don’t know men. Especially this one. But I thank you for your concern.”
“Carrie, you wanna go t’ supper sometime, just you and me?” the secretary asked impulsively. “A girls’ night out.”
A small smile in return. Would it be absolutely proper for a mere office employee and Mrs. Mogul to socialize? Well, why not? Caroline realized she didn’t care what the mores might be here in Texas hill country. She would by God set her own rules. And look who had given her the freedom to do so, and fired up the spark of rebellion in her soul—Mr. Mogul.
“I’d like that, Marilou. Let me just check around about babysitting availability, so Sophie won’t be left alone. Right now I have to go sack the cook.”
Mrs. Wyeth’s frosty attitude toward Caroline had not improved since taking her “sick day.” In fact, it had deteriorated so badly that she either responded to her employer’s comments with a sneer, or not at all. Dissension in the ranks! Had she felt such incredible loyalty to the first Mrs. Taggart that she refused to see anyone in her place, even though the woman had been gone for some six years?
It was a strange thing. No one in the house ever spoke of her. If not for Lila Sampson filling in some of the missing background puzzle pieces, Caroline would have no information at all. What was there about Diane Taggart that everyone was keeping a secret?
Caroline had no answers. Nor had she any experience in dealing with hired help. And, thus far, the cook had refused to sit down and talk with her, so that they could try resolving their differences.
She could hear a vacuum humming away upstairs, which meant Maria was already busy with her household chores. Esperanza, who worked only part-time, was gone for the day. That meant that Mrs. Wyeth would be alone in the kitchen. Probably preparing some exotic meal for dinner that would be far too rich and heavy for anyone’s palate.
“Mrs. Wyeth?”
Sure enough, she was stirring something in a pot on the stainless steel range. Something? Or someone? Slowly she turned. Did the woman’s expression ever lighten?
“May I have a few words with you?”
Inclining her head, she simply stood still in her bovine pose, hands folded together, and waited.
“Here. Come, sit down, please.”
With that much, at least, the cook felt uncomfortable. “Miss Fi—Mrs. Taggart—”
“It’s all right.” Caroline mustered up a thin smile. “Join me.”
As soon as she had reluctantly taken a seat at the sparkling kitchen table, Caroline moved her chair aside to fetch the coffee pot and two cups, a sugar bowl, the creamer, and spoons. Mrs. Wyeth’s face registered a mixture of shock and disapproval. “You needn’t go waitin’ on me.”
“Why not? You wait on me often enough.” She paused for a few minutes, until her employee was tentatively sipping at the rich dark brew before announcing, “Mrs. Wyeth, I have to let you go.”
The cook choked and barely managed to swallow her mouthful of Kenya’s finest. “What!”
“Yes. I cannot have you undermining my authority, or causing problems in the household. Or, worse, disrupting Sophie’s routine. You must see that your attitude is to blame for whatever has gone wrong between us.”
Brave words; cool, calm, and collected words, as befits an employer to employee, especially one behaving badly. But Caroline was quaking inside. Earlier confrontations had simply not prepared her for this direct, one-on-one opposition, and she had both dreaded the moment and longed to have it over. But it must be done.
“How soon do you want me to leave?” Her mouth was set hard. Yet her chin—both of them— trembled. Perhaps she wasn’t so much of a termagant as imagined. Perhaps she could be saved.
“Customarily, it would be at once,” said Caroline gently. “But shall we say—two weeks? Will that give you enough time to get your affairs in order?”
The plain china cup rattled as she set it on the table and made as if to rise. “That will be plenty of time. I’ll just get my things together, and I’ll—I’ll—”
Caroline forestalled her with a light hand on the wrist. “Mrs. Wyeth—Emma—may I call you Emma? I admit I have my own way of doing things, and there are
some changes I’d like to make in the kitchen. And I’ve no doubt I’ve made some mistakes right from the first day of my arrival. So, if I’ve caused offense to you in some way, I apologize. But won’t you at least talk to me, and tell me what’s wrong?”
“You want me gone, I’ll go. No two ways about it. Oil and water can’t mix, no matter how you try, and I’ve got—”
“But we’re not oil and water, are we? We’re two capable women, with the common goal to keep this household running smoothly. You’re a wonderful cook, Emma, and you’ve done a wonderful job overall so far. It’s just your—um—well, it’s your very strong dislike of me, and I can’t tolerate it. No one can deal very long with being disliked. So, if you’d but—”
“Sophie,” blurted out Mrs. Wyeth.
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s Sophie.”
“I don’t understand.” Caroline moved aside her brimming cup to actually take the cook’s veiny, work-worn hand in her own. “What about Sophie?”
Mrs. Wyeth paused to catch her breath and steady her emotions. Amazingly, the sharp glare behind her glasses had softened, and a few actual tears had pooled, ready to ooze and fall. As slow as she had been to look a problem head-on, and discuss it, she was even slower to confess to a very human failing: jealousy.
“Because she was mine,” the cook said softly. “And you stole her from me.”
“I stole her? But—” Caroline was honestly bewildered. “There was a nanny, wasn’t there? When she lost her mother, as a baby—didn’t Sophie have a nanny to take care of her?”
“She did. Her name was Patricia Mendez, and I supervised every minute she spent with the child.”
“Well, that’s admirable, I’m sure. But—”
“And when she got to be too old for a nanny,” continued Mrs. Wyeth, as if the interruption hadn’t taken place, “I watched over her. She spent time here with me, in the kitchen; she played blocks and did colorin’ books. I helped raise her; I took her places; we did things together. It was like—I was like—sort of a—grandma. And then you came along.”
And took my place.
The words were not spoken. But they hung in the air, almost audible; the muted cry of a broken-hearted woman striking back in the only way she knew how.
“I see.”
Another puzzle piece, another one of an unexpected shape, to be fitted into the whole of this unusual Texas Taggart family.
Was too much love for a lonely, motherless child ever wrong?
Caroline’s grip tightened. “Thank you for telling me, Emma. I’m very sorry for hurting you, even though I didn’t mean to. You see, I’ve been trying to do a job myself, and—well…”
The cook exhaled a long, quivering sigh. “Yes. Well, I’d best get back to my chores, so I can red up and start packin’.”
“Emma.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I really don’t want to see you leave, and I don’t think you want to leave, either. Couldn’t we pretend this is the first time we’ve met, and start all over?”
“You’d do that? Why would you do that?”
Caroline smiled. “Because you make the very best flapjacks in seven counties. Along with a host of other mouth-watering dishes. C’mon, Emma. Say yes, and stay.”
Even though her eyes puckered, her lips puckered, and her whole lined face seemed to crumple up like tissue paper, she couldn’t capitulate too easily. “Well, if it means that much to you…”
Bursting into laughter, Caroline jumped from her seat to fold the cook into an embrace very unbosslike. “It does. I’m so glad. And I won’t be selfish with Sophie’s time, anymore. You can be sure you’ll sometimes have the pleasure of her company.”
Yes. Finally a smile. A very small one, to be sure, but there was a definite easing of the rough edges. “Thank you, ma’am. Mrs. Taggart.”
Caroline was able to wait until she had left the kitchen, and was out of sight, before she high-fived herself and her results with a little triumphant, “Yes!”
Chapter Twenty-One
Although the community was still a week out for the great Independence Day celebrations, with a Marigold parade, picnic, carnival, and fireworks, plenty of smaller festivities were going on, not only in town but at family homes and ranches. With Ben traveling, and nothing definite about the date he would return (no doubt the good ole boy was still sulking, because he had yet to contact her directly), Caroline felt that the Ten Buck ought not to host any events. At least not this year.
However, Lila Sampson was planning a barbeque later in the week, and the Taggarts had already been invited. Ads in the local paper had announced festivities at the Cattlemen’s Bar & Grill, and more in the Marigold Central Mall’s parking lot.
Choosing a spiffy little blue Ford Fiesta for her personal use, out of a whole stable of vehicles—from the dusty farm truck to a sleek silver Mercedes to an huge honkin’ black SUV, and more—Caroline and Sophie stopped by the Sampson house and picked up Becca, for a day’s outing. The chatter of two little girls for every mile of the trip would bring a smile to the face of even the most jaded of adults.
Excited as they were, the children were absolutely beside themselves with the thrill of wandering through the aisles of a dollar store, to choose anything (within reason) from the shelves. Eventually they walked out carrying boxes of sparklers and bags of balloons, and both wearing headbands with bobbers of red, blue, and silver attached.
Lunchtime first, at a fast-food restaurant (Caroline reflected, with a wry grin, that the girls were certainly getting a taste of the cheap on their date). Next, a movie; finally, ice cream sundaes piled high with whipped cream and topped with a cherry. Exhausted but happy, both nearly fell asleep in the back seat on the way home.
Another evening, true to her word, she left Sophie in the care of Emma Wyeth and rode with Marilou to a four-star place halfway between Marigold and Austin, that offered, according to the menu, fresh seafood and superlative pasta.
Back in Juniper, an eon ago, the number of her friendships had been limited by her work life, with a demanding schedule early and late at the school; and her personal life, during which household care was interspersed with care for her invalid father. She’d had no spare time, and usually no energy, for friends.
This overture from Marilou Gilbert had come as a surprise, and a pleasant one. She found herself relaxing enough to enjoy the evening, and share little tidbits just like a normal girl. The admin confided thoughts about her one main love, Jimmy Beaudreaux, a city boy who had decided to learn ranching from the ground up, and was using (with Ben’s approval) the Ten Buck as a stepping stone.
Did Marilou see marriage in her immediate future?
Romantic stars almost overflowed her luscious green eyes. “I wouldn’t be surprised,” she admitted. And giggled.
Even two icy-cold salt-rimmed Margaritas before dinner, and a potent Irish coffee after, were not enough to break down any barriers about Ben, however, or to divulge any details about her own unusual arrangement. Some private things must just remain private.
The hours of each day began with a burst of sunshine that gradually melted down into dusk. Had Caroline been required to keep a diary of her comings and goings, she would have been hard-pressed to see where those hours had gone. But somehow each was filled, and each slipped away to be never retrieved.
And it was wonderful.
If for nothing else, she was grateful to Ben for granting her the freedom to live unencumbered by financial worry or fear. Her single regret in leaving Juniper behind was losing her father. He would have so loved seeing her settled and well-off, and a mother—even if vicariously. And she would have so loved having him here with her.
Some days the physical ache of a migraine or a healing limb was nothing compared to the emotional ache of her bruised and battered heart.
Meanwhile, she, and often Sophie, visited with Tom, while he made the rounds of the ranch, checking on stock or equipment or water holes. Being in
his quiet, unassuming, unquestioning company gave her the solace, sometimes the advice, she could no longer get from Clayton Finch.
And so the time passed. This was a golden time, a halcyon time, with any problems arising only very minor ones. The Ten Buck seemed to be in a state of stasis: waiting patiently and silently for its master to return.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ben breezed back into town and the ranch house (but without expectations of getting into Caroline’s bed) two days later. His arrival actually came ahead of schedule, when no one was expecting him, so everyone was occupied elsewhere when he walked through the front door.
“Hey!” he called, setting down his luggage onto the foyer’s polished floor. “Anybody home?”
He heard the sound of giggles and the click of puppy claws approaching and turned for the usual exuberant greeting. “Oh, hi, Daddy!” said Sophie, with a wave, and kept on running.
Huh. Bit of a disappointment there.
Next to appear, as he took a few steps farther, was Mrs. Wyeth.
“Oh, good afternoon, Mr. Taggart,” she said, unsurprised. And continued on her way, like a magnificent ocean liner pushing into port, toward the downstairs linen closet.
Ben frowned. The cook was still ruling her kingdom? Hadn’t Caroline planned to fire her, because their relationship was past repair, and nothing could be done to save it? Or had he dreamed that middle-of-the-night conversation?
He had just loosened the knot of his tie and pulled off his suit coat when Tom casually strolled on through. “Oh, hiya, Ben. Back, I see.” And disappeared into the kitchen.
At this the master of the house was beginning to feel a few twinges of annoyance. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they realize he might appreciate a little welcome? “Home is the sailor, home from sea, And the hunter home from the hill.” Thank you, Robert Louis Stevenson. Now, could some member of the family kindly acknowledge his presence?
Caroline, he was surprised to see, had taken up residence at the marble counter and was staring intently at the screen of her laptop. In between clicks at the keyboard, she was nibbling on some sort of pastry and offering compliments all around.
Daddy In Charge_A Billionaire Romance Page 67