by Brenna Todd
She linked arms with J.B. and Will Rogers, then fluttered her lashes at the photographer, laying it on even thicker. "Will this be a flattering pose?"
The flash went off, and Erin shot Waite an are-you-satisfied-now? look. But it didn't seem to be enough for him. He didn't glare at her again, but his bemused expression disturbed her even more.
Wyndham sidled up next to Will Rogers as their group began to disperse, pulling a 101 program from his front pocket. "Would you honor me with an autograph, Mr. Rogers?"
Erin shifted her attention from Waite to the two men—the Boston banker and Oklahoma's favorite son—and wondered why the heck she was worried about Waite MacKinnon's facial expressions when she was standing next to Will Rogers. Incredible! God, what an incredible day! Just how many people her age—she pictured herself telling her grandchildren someday—can say they saw the real Will Rogers Follies?
"It's an honor being asked," Rogers said with a boyish, crinkle-eyed smile. His lasso was still looped over one arm, and the battered cowboy hat Erin had seen in so many pictures of the man was tilted back off his forehead. "That Boston I hear in your voice?" he asked, scribbling his name.
"Yes, it is," Wyndham replied, clearly impressed.
Erin caught J.B. giving Rogers a covert wink. "My friend Wyndham, here, is a banker, Will."
Rogers chuckled. "You don't say. My daddy was a banker, you know," he told Wyndham. "Wanted me to be one in the worst way."
This seemed to tickle Wyndham to death. His smile broadened. "I didn't know that! You almost became a banker?"
"Oh, now, I didn't say that." He handed the program back to the man with a self-deprecating grin. "As a banker, Mr. Wyndham, I would have made a damned good roper."
He laughed right along with the rest of them, then shook hands all around. Erin probably held on to his hand just a moment longer than she should have, but couldn't help herself. History, she thought, marveling again that she had actually met Will Rogers.
Then the four of them, Wyndham, J.B., Waite and herself, climbed into the Packard for the return trip to the mansion, and Erin leaned back in the luxurious seat. Exhausted, she closed her eyes.
The sensation that her seatmate was studying her was strong, and though she tried to ignore it, after a few more miles, she couldn't stand it another minute. She opened her eyes, locking gazes with him. "You told me to stay the hell away from you," she said quietly enough that the comment went unheard by the men in the front seat, who were caught up in their own conversation. "So take your own advice and do the same."
He looked angry with himself, then turned away from her. "I did say that, didn't I?"
"Yes, you did."
"I wonder why that's become so hard to do," he muttered to his window.
FRANKLIN THOMAS SPLASHED cold water on his newly clean-shaven jaw, then shut off the faucet and reached for the towel the hotel provided. Glancing up at the mirror, he almost cried out in alarm.
Without the beard, it was his brother's face he saw, not his own. Henry, he thought, grief slicing through his gut. Henry, will I always see you when I pass a mirror now?
The water dripped from his chin like tears, and he quickly blotted them, then tossed away the towel. Too many tears had been shed. By his mother, his sister, everyone who had loved Henry.
Franklin hadn't cried. And he hadn't questioned God as everyone else had. Because he'd stopped believing in God when Henry had died.
God in his mercy... God in his mercy...
Franklin remembered the priest's words at Henry's funeral. Over and over the man had chanted the words, lying...lying...lying. Rage had flooded Franklin's veins and he'd wanted to scream, had wanted to shake the mourners who sat nodding their heads, accepting the lie. He'd wanted to shout at them, Look at this young man, my brother, who only wanted to serve your benevolent Father, and tell me of your God's "mercy"... his "tolerance" and "forgiveness."
But he hadn't. He'd only kissed his grieving mother and sister goodbye, then left to find the woman responsible and mete out justice in a way that Henry's God would approve of.
An eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth. Franklin gave a cynical laugh as he put on his suit coat and left the Tulsa hotel room, thinking there were select tenets in the Gospel he agreed with wholeheartedly.
He pushed thoughts of his beloved brother aside, concentrating on where he would go next. His plan was to get out of Oklahoma, but not so quickly that it appeared he was fleeing. Justice had been served, and Franklin didn't care so much that he might have to pay for his sin, he just didn't want his family to suffer anymore. They had suffered enough.
He bought a paper from a boy hawking them on the sidewalk outside the hotel, then hailed a taxi.
"Where to?" the cabbie asked.
Franklin climbed into the back seat. "Train station."
The taxi had pulled up to the station when Franklin saw the picture of Della Munro.
"Here ya go, mister. Train station."
A mistake. It had to be a mistake! But the caption said otherwise. The picture had been taken yesterday at the 101 Ranch.
The fevered rage that had left him after he avenged his brother's death returned, dragging with it the hatred, and the pain. A sob rose in his throat, but he forced it back. He'd killed her, goddamn it, killed her with his own hands! She'd been dead when he'd left her on the floor of that cave!
"Mister? Said we're here...."
The voice broke into Franklin's frantic thoughts. He looked up, saw the impatience in the driver's expression. "I—" He glanced out the window, noting the crowds of people streaming in and out of the station "Yes... H-how much do I owe you?"
"You okay?"
Franklin slapped the paper closed and dug into his pocket for money. He was certain his face was as pale as parchment. "I'm...fine. Here," he said, handing the man a fistful of money and stumbling out of the cab, newspaper in hand.
Dead, he thought again after purchasing a ticket back to Munro. He could have sworn the bitch had been dead.
WAITE SHOOK HIS HEAD, declining the servant's offer of a cocktail. Though the hour was late, the party J.B. had thrown for Harrison Wyndham's last night in town was still in full swing. The guest list was made up of oil barons, ranchers, state and city politicians and their wives. The cream of Munro society, all dressed in their finery and celebrating. The celebratory mood was due to J.B. and Waite's successful wooing of the Boston banker. Triumphant smiles and hearty handshakes told the story. The man was as impressed as hell with J. B. Munro's Oklahoma, and he hadn't been subtle in relaying that to all the businessmen in attendance. Edgy and annoyed by the loud music, Waite moved to the wall of glass that overlooked the back of the estate. He slid his hands into his pockets to stifle the urge to check his pocket watch again. He was J.B.'s partner. So why wasn't he as thrilled as J.B. and the others at the prospect of more prosperity? Why, lately, had his success begun to feel pointless?
There bad been a time when pride in his accomplishments had meant everything, when he had wanted to show the world that he was something... someone.
But was it really the world he'd been out to prove himself to? Or just one woman? Or one woman and her husband—Della and J.B.
He couldn't remember ever making a conscious decision to give up the goal of owning his own ranch, but he did recall the drive and ambition he'd been fired with to move all the way to the top of Munro Rail Lines after J.B. had married Della. Later, he'd told himself. After I've made it here, I'll have my dream. His partner had told him several times through the years that he'd done Waite a favor by marrying Della. She would have ruined Waite. She was a scheming, deceitful woman, and J.B. had known Waite would never have become the success he was with her as an emotional albatross. Waite hadn't been so naive he'd believed that was J.B.'s sole motivation, but he'd come to believe J.B. had been right.
But Waite hadn't been insightful enough to understand why he'd remained with Munro Rail Lines all these years, had he? The light suddenly dawning
, Waite shook his head. It hadn't been the world he'd been fighting to prove himself to; it had been them. She had rejected him, and his pride had been torn to shreds; J.B. had thought he wasn't man enough to "handle" Della. But he'd shown them both. He had come out on top. A successful man.
J.B. approached him just then, clapping him on the shoulder. "Seems Wyndham wants to discuss business, Waite," he said, his eyes gleaming. "In my office."
"Congratulations, J.B. It worked out just as you'd planned."
"Usually does."
"Yes, it does, doesn't it?"
"You'll want to be in on this. After all, you got the ball rolling."
Waite looked away, gazing out at the velvet night, the ebony sky strewn with stars. Not diamonds or twinkling jewels, as J.B. liked to describe them to visiting luminaries. Just stars.
"Not this time, J.B.," he said in a quiet voice.
"Something wrong, son? You deserve as much credit for convincing Wyndham as I do. I don't think now is the time for that country-boy modesty."
Waite met his gaze, irritated by the condescending edge in his partner's tone. "I'm not trying to be modest, J.B. I just., .need to think some things over. Going to turn in early tonight."
Wyndham appeared at their side, a fat cigar in one hand, a cocktail in the other and a cowboy hat on his head. His eyes were bright from the liquor he'd imbibed all evening, but Waite knew the man wasn't intoxicated on alcohol alone. He recognized the expression on the banker's face; he'd seen it so many times in his own mirror. There was no mistaking the look of a man satisfied that he was about to make a killing.
"Munro?" he said, looking altogether ridiculous in the Stetson George Miller had given him. "I'm anxious to make some plans."
"I like the sound of that, Harrison." J.B. gave Waite another concerned look before leaving with the banker.
J.B. would want an explanation in the morning, but Waite really didn't care at the moment. It was frightening, in fact, just how much he didn't care.
As he caught sight of Della out of the corner of his eye, Waite's apathy disappeared. He watched her peer after her husband and the banker until they had left the room. Then she made excuses to the oilman's wife she'd been talking with, and wove her way through the crowd to a set of doors that led outside.
If there was a woman on earth Waite should despise, it was her. But as long as he was facing truths tonight, he might as well own up to another one. Damn it, she made him feel. Too much. Eight years ago, she'd been the woman he'd wanted beside him forever; then she'd shattered his soul. He'd thought he had drummed her out of his mind and his heart all these years since. He frowned. He had. He hadn't wanted a thing to do with her again.
Then she'd come out of the tunnels that night. And ever since then, he'd wanted her again.
Why?
ERIN STRUCK OUT for the guesthouse, feeling like some sort of commando on a night mission. She had purposely worn a black sheath to the party tonight, not wishing to be spotted outside. If there was a door to the tunnels in the guesthouse, and she was certain the tour guide had said there was, then she would find it. She just wished she could have broken away last night as she'd planned, but J.B. had kept a close eye on her.
Ducking behind a row of hedges, she quickened her pace. J.B. and Wyndham's little meeting might last for hours.. .or only minutes. Since Erin had no way of knowing, time was of the essence.
The hedge ended several yards in front of the guesthouse door, so Erin glanced about for signs of servants, then peered up at J.B.'s office window, which overlooked this side of the grounds. Good. The curtains were drawn. Feeling reasonably certain she wouldn't be seen, she sprinted the distance, hoping like hell the thin letter opener in her clutch purse would do the trick if the door was locked.
Which it was. Erin sweated it out for several anxiety-ridden moments, jiggling the letter opener this way and that, sending up prayers and mumbling curses. The lock finally clicked open and she closed her eyes and sighed with relief, then slipped inside.
She peered out the window, checking J.B.'s office again to make sure the curtains were still closed before switching on a small table lamp. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the sudden brightness, then gasped. Erin had known, of course, that this was the room where she had first seen J.B. in 1994, but it chilled her to see it again. She wasted no time in finding the door she felt sure led to the tunnel. It was located between the living room and a bedroom, and was similar to the one in the fireplace-industrial gray, made of heavy steel. There was no padlock on this door, but it was locked all the same. And this time Erin's letter opener didn't work.
She paced back to the living room. Okay, she thought, and glanced around the room, a fingertip at her temple. If I were hiding a key to that lock, where in this room would I put it?
CHAPTER ELEVEN
WAITE STARED AT THE guesthouse door after it closed behind her, not proud of the licentious thoughts slinking through his head.
Walk away. Just walk the hell away from here...from her. You don't want to know why you want her. Why she's changed. You just want her.
But in his mind, he tumbled back in time, remembering their clandestine meetings when she had sneaked away from J.B.—her guardian at the time—to be with him.
Remembering. Remembering. Remembering.
Young. They'd been so young. Her hair had been long then, and had felt like warm silk in his hands, the auburn strands forever catching the light.
Sunlight...lamplight...candlelight... And he'd been unable to resist holding it in his fingers, draping it over his body. He remembered its warmth. His clearest recollection of their time together was of his constant need for warmth in his life.
And he'd thought he'd found it in her. Looking past her cool persona out of bed to the heat they generated in it, his inexperienced heart had decided she was his future.
But she'd wanted J.B., and Waite had learned his lesson well. With every woman since, he'd known not to mistake the carnal or the prurient for love.
Cold... Uncaring... But the woman who had just switched on the light in the guesthouse was neither of those things. She was different now. How was that possible? He'd watched her save a stranger's life, pouring her breath into him and shedding quiet tears of relief when he lived. And the day before, when Waite had kissed her, when he had thought to prove to her and to himself that she was the same conniving bitch she'd always been, she had apologized for the pain she'd inflicted. Was such a remarkable transformation possible? She'd said the bump on the head had made her see how wrong she'd been, but Waite had thought her apology was just another ploy. Was he wrong?
He pictured her eyes again, the way they seemed a darker green than before, and thought of the things she'd said she had "forgotten." His mind swirled with images and the heady sensations he'd felt when he'd held her in his arms beside that creek—her taste, the feel of her slender body molded to his. And for one insane moment Waite actually entertained the theory that she wasn't Della. Then he shook his head and almost laughed aloud. Insane was the word for it.
He approached the guesthouse quietly, deciding he wanted—no, needed—answers after all. He opened the door, but didn't move immediately into the room. He simply stared at her in silence. She had stacked pieces of his empty luggage next to the tall bookshelves that lined one wall and was climbing the tower of baggage. As he watched, she held on to a high shelf with one hand while reaching to the top shelf with the other. Waite watched quietly for a few seconds more as she extracted the books, one by one, felt around in the space behind, then replaced them.
"Just what the hell is it you're looking for?"
She shrieked, and lost her footing on the cases. Before Waite could get to her, she tumbled to the floor, pulling a few of the books—heavy ones-down with her.
"For God's sake, Della." He lifted the book that covered her face. She groaned. The damned cut on her forehead was open again.
"This thing is never going to heal," he muttered, whipping out his handke
rchief and pressing it to the wound.
She swatted at his hands and sat up. Yanking the handkerchief away from him, she said, "Well, it might have a chance if you'd quit sneaking up on me and shouting all the time. This is the second time you've done that, you know. And it's not the cut I'm worried about. I think I've sprained my ankle."
She reached for it, but Waite pressed a hand to her shoulder. "Sit still. I'll look at it." He turned and reached for the ankle, not able to avoid looking at the silk-covered length of leg that led to it. He'd told himself he hadn't noticed her legs earlier at the party, but he'd been lying. He'd noticed. God, how he'd noticed.
He picked up the heavy tome that had landed on her ankle, then slid the black sequined high-heeled shoe off her foot. Already it had started to swell. He touched it.
"Ow!"
He glanced over his shoulder at her. "I guess asking you to stand on it would be out of the question."
Her eyes were closed, her mouth pinched, her head thrown back. "Crap," she said through gritted teeth, then opened her eyes again. "I'll bet it's sprained at the very least."
"Well, you can't just sit here all night. I'll move you to the— "
"Waite, watch out!"
His gaze followed hers to the bookshelf as she glanced up. Another big book was teetering on the edge, threatening to catch him right on the head. Waite reached up to grab it, but she shoved at his shoulders with both hands, knocking him aside and warning, "It's going to hit you!"
She shouted in pain when the book hit her instead, landing square on her injured ankle.
"Damn it, I could've caught it!" He picked up the book and flung it away.
"Ouch!"
"Well, what did you expect?" His gaze sharpened and he shook his head at her. "Why the hell did you do that?"
"Instinct," she mumbled.
"You instinctively want to be hurt?" He lifted her in his arms, stunned by the immediate reaction he felt to touching her. "This ought to be just the thing, then," he said sarcastically, not liking his body's instant response to holding her.