Leslie LaFoy

by Jacksons Way

  “I want you to clear your belongings out of the office, Lindsay,” her brother went on blithely. “And give Ben his notice. I'll be taking charge two weeks from today. I'd do it sooner, but I have social plans that I don't want to cancel or miss.”

  “There are circumstances,” Lindsay countered coolly, “of which you're unaware, Henry. But as I said before, now is neither the time nor the place to properly discuss them. I think that—”

  Henry snorted and rolled his eyes. “I'm the heir of the MacPhaull Company. I don't have to care what you think.”

  Lindsay sighed, nodded once, and then half-turned to gesture toward Jackson, saying as she did, “Henry, I'd like to intro—”

  “All the brainless brawn in the world isn't going to keep me from taking control,” Henry said, his smile confident, his gaze raking Jackson from hat to boots and then looking away dismissively. “Two weeks, Lindsay. No, make it three; there's a boat race that slipped my mind. Three weeks and then you and your household of misfits and cripples will be the ones on a miserly allowance. What a delightful change that will be.”

  With that pronouncement, he turned on his heel and swaggered away. Lindsay chewed on the inside of her lower lip as she watched him go.

  Studying her, marveling at her grace and fortitude, Jackson quietly drawled, “I don't much care for your brother.”

  Still watching Henry's progress down the walkway, she answered, “I suspect that very few people do.”

  “And he doesn't have the slightest inkling about the company's finances.”

  Lindsay turned her head to look at him. Arching a slim brow, she smiled ruefully. “I recall having mentioned that to you yesterday.”

  “That you did,” Jack freely admitted, stepping to the carriage door and opening it. “Does he always speak to you like that?”

  “I must say that it was a fairly typical exchange.” She accepted his hand and assistance into the vehicle. “My sin-cerest apologies for having subjected you to the unpleasantness of it all.”

  “Seems to me that if anyone needs to apologize for anything,” he said, settling onto the seat opposite her, “it's your brother for his lack of manners. And me, for not shaking some into him.”

  Her smile trembled and she looked away to take an- other fortifying breath. Staring out the uncovered carriage window, she said blithely, “The air's a little heavy this morning. I think it may rain within the next day or so, don't you?”

  Jackson nodded and sat back, knowing with absolute certainty that Lindsay MacPhaull had never had a champion of any sort, and that she didn't have the vaguest idea of what she was supposed to do with one.

  He'd had a champion once; a brother, a friend, a fellow rowdy. They'd laughed together, cried together, and, from time to time, even pounded fists on each other. But no matter what, they'd always been there for each other when they were needed. His first and deepest lessons about loyalty and friendship had been learned at Daniel's side. And when Daniel died, the pain had been immeasurable, all consuming, and so deep that he'd wanted to die, too. He'd been truly orphaned that day. It still hurt to think about it. And so Jackson looked out the window and thought about the day that lay ahead.

  Jesus. Damnation, he was a glutton for pain this morning. He was on his way to congratulate a man he didn't know on the birth of his first child. He was going to see Jeb's wife holding their child and remember how he'd once stood at a bedside and watched the shadow of death steal over his happiness. He'd remember the pain of loving and losing, of being utterly powerless to change the course of life and death, of how his pleas and offerings had been worthless in the eyes of God.

  But, Jackson sternly reminded himself, he'd traveled a lot of roads since that dark day. He'd learned how to hide the bruises of his heart. He'd mutter something appropriate right at the first and then get as far away as he could. He'd think about the MacPhaull Company ledgers instead of his ghosts. He would pretend he didn't know the lifelong, inescapable heartache Jeb Rutherford was courting.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LINDSAY STARED OUT the window and desperatel tried to collect her scattered wits. It had been a shock to walk into the office and find Jackson Stennett seated behind Richard's desk. She'd resented the ease with which he occupied the space, the books open before him, and the scent of Richard's shaving soap lingering in the air around him. Her world had been rudely upended by this stranger a mere twenty-four hours ago and he didn't have the good grace to pretend to be even the slightest bit uncomfortable about it all. Neither had he shown any hesitancy in getting on with the task of dismantling what little order there was in her small universe.

  And yet, despite every good reason to loathe the man, despite her determination to remain disdainfully aloof, she'd found herself bantering with him in the office and then reassured by his presence during the ugly confrontation with Henry. His apology for not having taken Henry to task for his behavior had been as thrilling as it was startling. Even now, her heart was still racing.

  What was it about him that so disarmed her? What was it about herself that allowed him to do so? The answers were important, she told herself. She needed to keep a clear head and sense of purpose, to keep a distance between them not only for the sake of her own financial survival but also that of those who were her responsibility to care for.

  The key to keeping a safe distance, she quickly decided, lay in learning all she could about the man, in discovering how and why he thought and behaved as he did. She knew that Richard would encourage her to ferret out a vulnerability that could be used to her advantage. As always, part of her felt guilty at the manipulative course. The more pragmatic side of her remembered all the discussions she and Richard had ever had on the subject of business ethics. Richard maintained that all was fair in love and war and business. She didn't like it, but as Richard had frequently pointed out, it was the reality in which they had to survive. Since Richard wasn't able to employ the strategy himself this time, she had no choice but to undertake it on her own.

  “It would seem, Mr. Stennett, that you've had some experience at being the lord of the manor,” Lindsay observed, as the carriage made its way into the crowded, noisy stream of city traffic.

  He gave her an offhanded shrug while replying, “In Texas, every man is a lord.”

  It was a diplomatic statement if she'd ever heard one. It was also evasive. “But I doubt that every man in Texas commands with the ease and grace that you do,” she pressed with equal diplomacy. “Your instructions to Ben were masterful. There are very few in New York who could do as well. How did you come by the skill, Mr. Stennett?”

  He studied her for a moment and then said quietly, “My mother grew up with a certain degree of wealth. Then she married my father and while his wealth trickled away, her patrician manner remained. She always saw her sons as growing into men of power and privilege and saw to it that we were taught how to exercise it properly.”

  “Do your brothers excel at it as you do?”

  His gaze went to the world passing outside the carriage window. “I had only one. Daniel. He died when I was thirteen. He was breaking horses and they broke him instead.”

  “I'm sorry,” Lindsay said softly, sincerely.

  “It was a long time ago.”

  But not long enough that he'd forgotten the heartache. “I can't imagine any pain worse than that of losing a child. It must have been difficult for your parents.”

  “They were already gone,” he answered, his gaze coming back to hers. The sadness that had tinged his voice in speaking of his brother was replaced by a matter-of-factness. “My mother to a snake bite. My father in a co-manchero attack two years before that. Texas is a hard life. Pretty much the only guarantee it gives you is that you'll learn how to dig graves.”

  And he'd learned how as a child. It was a miracle that he could smile at all. “Why did you stay then?” Lindsay asked. “Wasn't there family elsewhere to take you in when you found yourself alone?”

  Again he shrugged. “My m
other's family disowned her when she married beneath her. My father's was never close and the winds scattered them all. And I wasn't really alone anyway.” He smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Billy took me in and managed, against considerable opposition, to whip me into a fairly decent man.”

  “What a very sad life you've had, Mr. Stennett. I'm sorry.”

  “Sad?” Jackson Stennett repeated, his brow cocked. “I've never considered it that. With the good comes the bad. It's the same for everyone, no matter where they live or how much they've got. That's just the way life is. You remember the good times and try to learn something from the bad.”

  “And what have you learned from the bad?”

  “Not to get too attached to the folks who pass through my life,” he answered readily. “It makes standing over the grave a mite easier. What have you learned from your hard times?”

  It was one thing to ask questions of someone. It was entirely something else to have someone ask them of you. “I don't know that I've ever given it much thought,” she lied. “It seems as though there's always another crisis to be faced and resolved. Having to look forward doesn't allow one to look back very often.”

  He nodded and then tsked before saying, “It doesn't make for much of a life either.”

  She heard the unmistakable notes of censure in his comment. “Oh, I disagree, Mr. Stennett. There's a great deal of satisfaction to be found in meeting one's obligations and in fulfilling one's responsibilities.”

  “That's admirable. Definitely.”

  The unmistakable tone of derision edged his words. Anger shot through her. “But?”

  “But nothing.”

  “What you're so artlessly trying to avoid saying,” Lindsay persisted, “is that you see my determination to meet my responsibilities as a lesson learned from my father's having run away from his. You're absolutely correct, Mr. Stennett. While I don't know much about his other personal characteristics, I can at least assure you that when it comes to cowardice, I'm not—nor will I ever be—my father's daughter.”

  She regretted the outburst the instant it was done. It was too late to call the words back, though; too late to consider what they revealed about her. Stennett studied her, and rather than bear his scrutiny, Lindsay looked out the window of the carriage. Now was a fine time, she silently groused, to wish that she'd listened to her mother and cultivated the self-discipline necessary to keep her emotions carefully hidden. The controlling of such impulses had been just one among many of her mother's expectations that Lindsay had failed to meet. The one thing she had learned well was the value of a timely apology.

  Lindsay turned back and met his gaze squarely. “I regret my remarks, Mr. Stennett,” she offered with every bit of poise she could muster. “It was unseemly and indifferent to your feelings.”

  His lips parted, but he apparently reconsidered whatever he had been about to say. After a slight pause, he said, “You know, the road between us seems to get a little rocky when we talk about Billy. I'm thinking that it's a subject we'd be better off to avoid whenever possible.”

  “It might be the wisest course,” she ventured, “but given our circumstances, do you really think that's possible?”

  “I think,” he answered, exhaling hard and long, “we ought to agree to disagree on the man's personal qualities and not discuss them again. As for the mess he's left us to sort out, we'd do best by dealing with the specific business issues in a purely businesslike way. Can we do that?”

  “I'm certainly willing to try.” And more than willing to find a less distressing subject of conversation than the one they'd been pursuing. “So what do you think of New York so far, Mr. Stennett?”

  “It's big and tall and packed close together,” he said, once again watching the world outside the carriage. “I can kinda appreciate now how a cow feels when squeezed in a chute. And then there's the fact that a man can't see enough of the sky, the air burns your lungs, and you couldn't hope to hear a prairie chicken warble over the general din of so many people doing so many things all at once.”

  In short, he detested her city. How provincial. How irritating. “I don't believe we have any prairie chickens in New York.”

  “They're smart birds.” He seemed to hear the undercurrent of derision in his comment and quickly added, “Tasty, too.”

  The belated effort didn't do much to dull the barb, but in the spirit of accommodation, she let him sidestep without challenge. “I'll have to see if Primrose can find you one at the market. How do you prefer to have it prepared?”

  Jackson wasn't at all sure that he'd want to eat any prairie chicken that turned up this far east. The odds were good, however, that one wouldn't and so he could afford to be open to the idea. “Baked or fried; either way's fine,” he said as the carriage angled out of the flow of traffic and began to slow. For the first time since climbing into the vehicle, he looked out the window with actual interest. The carriage was drawing to a halt in front of a large, squarish, wooden structure badly in need of a new coat of whitewash. The numbers painted in black above the entrance, while only slightly darker than the surrounding wood, were still visible.

  “I remember seeing that number on the holdings list,” he said, opening the door and stepping out in one smooth motion. He extended his hand to assist Lindsay, asking, “Do you own this building?”

  “Yes,” she said, picking up two gaily wrapped packages from the seat with one hand and putting her other hand in his. “My grandfather bought it, making it one of the oldest properties we have in the portfolio. Though in recent years, it's become a bit costly to maintain. And one can only charge so much for rents and still have a clear conscience, so the profit to expense ratio has been narrowing. Richard's suggested that we should begin thinking about selling it before age converts it from an asset into a liability.”

  “So why haven't you sold it?” he asked, thinking that it was the most animated response she'd given since they'd left the office. But then it was a business rather than personal subject. It didn't take a genius to know that Lindsay found the former far less threatening than the latter.

  “I haven't been able to find a buyer willing to meet my price,” she said, standing beside him on the walkway, her hand still in his as she looked up at him. He could feel her pulse racing in her fingertips. Was that business or personal? he wondered.

  “Once the Panic ends, though,” she went on, easing her hand from his and exhaling, “the market will turn and you'll have no problem disposing of it. I'd recommend that you put the proceeds toward the cost of getting the coal mine up and running again.”

  Sometimes her business sense was brilliant. And sometimes he wondered how Richard could have slept at night knowing he was letting her make the decisions. “Judging by the books,” Jackson said, “the mine is your chief source of income. It seems to me that getting it up and running can't wait until the Panic ends.”

  She arched a brow and her smile was knowing. “You've learned quite a bit in a very short amount of time.”

  Had she really been testing him? The notion amused him. “While there's a difference between buying and selling cattle and buying and selling businesses and property, the basic principles are the same. It's a matter of opening the books, lining up the assets and the liabilities, and knowing what your priorities are.”

  “And the first one is to make a profit,” she added, turning toward the steps of the building.

  “Profits are all well and good,” he countered, taking the packages from her so that she could manage her skirts with both hands, “but they don't mean much if you're spending more than you're making.”

  “True.”

  He cupped her elbow in his free hand as they started up the stairs.

  “Well, hello, Lindsay. It's been simply ages since I've seen you.”

  He felt her start, felt her body go taut. She took a quick, deep breath and pasted a false smile on her face just before she turned in the direction from which the voice had come. “Winif
red,” she said, her voice musical and light and belying her tension. “It's always a unique pleasure to see you. How are you?”

  “I'm quite well, thank you,” replied a rather large-boned woman in a bright yellow dress and a hat of matching feathers. Her gaze flicked between Lindsay and Jackson and her smile took on a sardonic edge. “I'm sure you've heard that Edward was made vice president of the bank last year. Little Edgar is the first in his class and Mrs. Glasgow says that Myrtle is the best harp student she's ever had. And how are you doing, Lindsay?” She pointedly glanced between Jackson and Lindsay again, clearly expecting a polite and customary introduction.

  “Very well, Winifred. Thank you for asking. It was as lovely as always to see you.”

  Pleasant, musical and light and deliberately cutting. Lindsay didn't like this woman at all. Why? Jackson tilted his head so that the shadow of his hat brim concealed his eyes and his interest in the puzzle.

  Lindsay turned away, obviously intending to continue her course. Winifred arched a brow, then hastily said, “We're gathering at the boathouse this Saturday afternoon to watch the races. Would you care to bring your new companion and join us?”

  Jackson sucked on the inside of his cheek. New companion? There was a story here and he was the only one who didn't know it. And Lindsay was determined to get him away before Winifred shared it with him.

  She paused just long enough to look over her shoulder and give Winifred another false smile. “I'm afraid that we have other commitments. Perhaps some other time, Winifred.” She turned away again, adding offhandedly, “Please give my regards to Edward.”

  Jackson touched the brim of his hat in a quick parting gesture, knowing that Winifred probably missed seeing it; her gaze was raking him up and down, making him feel like a prize bull up for auction.