“She’s as nervous as a cat,” Clay commented as he sipped his wine. “Did anything happen to upset her?”
“Not that I know of.” Connor was seated to Clay’s left. A gleaming expanse of table stretched to her right. It was set for two, with long tapers burning brightly. A small bowl of fresh flowers had been cut, too. It was a simple but lovely arrangement. “I can see you have your household staff well trained,” she said, as she picked up her wineglass.
As Willene brought in a platter of fried chicken, potato salad, corn pudding, and fresh biscuits, Clay asked Connor her impressions of California. They chatted easily until Willene withdrew from the dining room.
“Richard mentioned that you were alone in California,” Clay said, as he urged her to take another piece of the crispy chicken. “Is your family back East?”
“There’s only my father, and he’s a victim of the wanderlust. At the moment, he’s in Australia, I’m afraid.” She shook her head and smiled. “Australia’s the place where the next Secretariat will be bred, or so my father believes.”
“Sounds like he’s a bit of a dreamer.”
Clay’s voice was nonjudgmental. Throughout dinner, he’d been open and easygoing. Connor sighed. “If the horse is there, my father will find him. The next question is what will he do with him. Dad’s found a number of exceptional horses. Only problem is, he’s never had the funds to make them his own.”
“I suspect, just from the little you’ve said, that finding the horse is your father’s dream. I don’t think owning it is that important.”
The astuteness of Clay’s comment made Connor look directly into his eyes. His face was relaxed, his expression showing a mild interest. Connor smiled, relieved to find none of the raw emotion she’d seen earlier. “You sound as if you knew Dad well.”
“Sometimes, Connor, the quest is more important than the treasure.” Clay held up his wineglass. “To your quest—a farm and all the trimmings.”
“And to yours, Senator Sumner.” She clinked his glass lightly and they both drank.
“So I gather your father won’t be back in the States for some time.”
“Maybe never,” Connor said. “We’re close in an odd sort of way. He travels so much. Always has. I guess I never developed a dependency that most children do for their parents. At any rate, I wrote him at the last address I had for him and told him about my job here.”
“Will he be surprised?”
Connor shook her head, her auburn hair shifting on her shoulders. “I suppose we’re enough alike that he won’t be shocked to find I’ve gone off to search for my own future.”
Willene entered with pecan pie and coffee. She cleared the table in a matter of minutes, served the pie, and left again.
“Richard mentioned, only briefly, that you’d established your own goals and then worked for them.”
“Richard is apparently my biggest fan,” Connor said. “Next thing I know, he’ll send my name to the Pope for sainthood.”
Clay’s laugh was deep and easy. “He did imply that you worked miracles, moved mountains, and turned water into wine.”
“Great. Nothing like that kind of advance billing.” She enjoyed Clay’s wit, his quick response. “Maybe we should establish a trial period, in case I don’t live up to Richard’s PR job.”
“Not necessary,” Clay said. “The children will be here in the morning, and I’m sure they’re eager to meet you.” He looked at the kitchen door. “Willene is far too tolerant, especially of Renata. But the children have been through a hard time. Perhaps a little leniency isn’t such a bad thing. They miss their mother a lot.”
“How long have you been divorced?” Connor took the last bite of her pie. She hadn’t intended to finish the rich concoction, but it was impossible to stop eating it.
“Divorced?” Clay looked at her sharply. The easy, bantering tone of dinner was gone.
Connor felt the fork slip from her fingers. It clattered on the gleaming wood of the table for a moment before she stilled it with a gentle pressure.
“I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “I thought that you and Mrs. Sumner were divorced.”
“Richard didn’t tell you?”
Connor noticed Clay’s eyes were strange. They almost seemed to burn. “Tell me what?”
“Jesus Christ!” He half rose. “I’m not divorced. Talla is dead.”
“I’m terribly sorry.” Connor felt the heat rise to her face. “I just assumed she was … that you were …” She let the sentence drift into silence. Pain marked the contours of Clay’s face. Abruptly he turned away from her. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “It was stupid of me.”
“Not at all.” Clay resumed his seat. With a quick gesture he moved his napkin to his mouth and returned it to his lap. In that moment, he straightened his posture. “I should have told you in the letter I wrote. I assumed Richard would have said something.”
“I get the feeling Richard has suffered the sting of gossip himself. He talks a lot, but he doesn’t say much about his friends’ personal business, especially not something he’d consider so painful.”
“Of course he wouldn’t.” Clay pushed his pie plate several inches away. “I have a case in court in the morning, and I really should review the file. I hate to leave you alone your first evening at Oaklawn, but I really must get back to town.”
“I’ll be fine.” Connor rose when he did. “I can’t wait to find my bed and fall into it.”
“Welcome to Oaklawn, Ms. Tremaine. Until tomorrow.” He left the dining room without a backward glance.
As the stillness of the room settled over Connor, she felt in her pocket for the key to her suite. Well, she had the answer to at least one of her questions. Now she knew why no one wanted to talk about Talla Sumner.
CHAPTER THREE
The beauty of the gently rolling land was much different from the rocky grandeur of the Pacific. This land was softer, lusher, like the drawl of the people who lived on it. Sitting astride a sweating Cleo, Connor shifted forward in the saddle and patted the mare’s neck.
“The humidity will take a little getting used to,” she said to the horse, “but all in all, I think we made a good decision.”
The Sumner estate was a hundred and sixty acres, wooded and in pasture. Bridle paths were cut throughout the acreage, and if that wasn’t enough space, there were dirt roads and woodland trails that led in every direction through unsettled and unfenced land.
“This may be heaven,” she whispered to the mare. She had nothing to do until eleven, when the two Sumner children were due to show up at Oaklawn. It had been years since Connor had experienced such freedom.
Willene had stuffed her with eggs, bacon, biscuits, and the grits that were so common in the South. Connor had eaten them in abundance in Kentucky, but she didn’t tell Willene. The fiesty cook was having too much fun “civilizing” her.
The morning was still cool, but there was the promise of real heat in the day. She checked her watch and decided to ride back to the barn. She’d have time to bathe her horse and herself before the children arrived.
The children. Renata was the eleven-year-old straight-A student, and Danny the ten-year-old science-fiction buff. How much had the death of their mother affected them? Clay had implied that there were some difficulties, but he’d given no specifics. There were bound to be repercussions to such a tragedy. How could one adequately explain the death of a mother? It was difficult for an adult to accept, much less a child.
Connor felt her skin heat once again at her inaccurate assumption that Clay was divorced. She’d always been told not to assume anything. But divorce was, after all, far more common than death. Now that she knew the facts, she’d approach the children from a slightly different angle. They would need some special attention. More patience, perhaps more firmness. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that Willene spoiled them to the soles of their shoes every chance she got. The cook had been up the night before baking a chocolate cake, and this mor
ning Connor had come downstairs to the aroma of baking cookies, peanut butter.
She was looking forward to learning about the children. Once she had an idea of their temperaments and attitudes, she could begin the process of selecting ponies for them. Renata was small, like her mother. How was it that Willene had put it, hardly weighed more than a sack of feed? And Danny was big, like his father. Chances were that he would need the bigger pony, even though he was younger.
She caught herself and chuckled out loud as she put Cleo into a walk toward home. She was already buying the ponies and she hadn’t even met the children. It was that tendency that had driven her father to admonish her about the need for caution. She’d been so busy plotting her new job that she’d failed to consider the possibility that the children might be little monsters. And then what?
That was exactly the trouble with planning out the negative—there wasn’t an easy solution. It was better to count on things progressing happily.
At a bend in the path, Connor nudged the mare into a slow canter. When she rode into the yard, her face was flushed with color and Cleo was shaking her head with the pleasure of the ride. Tinker’s Damn called out a greeting from the paddock, and Cleo picked up her pace. If everything went well with the children, Connor hoped to have a couple of hours to ride Tinker in the afternoon. “Mornin’.”
She turned. A tall, slender man greeted her, left hand hooked in the pocket of his jeans.
“Good morning.” She swung out of the saddle, and when her feet were on the ground she stepped forward to extend her hand. “I’m Connor Tremaine.”
“I took that in,” he said, taking her hand in his and holding it. “I’m the foreman here at Oaklawn, Jeff Harveston, from over toward Basin. That’s just a cut through the woods and down by White’s Creek.”
Connor smiled at his description. Had she known any of the local landmarks, she’d have known immediately where he was from. As it was, he could have spoken a foreign language.
“You’re from California, aren’t you?”
“Most recently, but not originally.” She smiled. She judged him to be her age, maybe a bit older. His skin showed the signs of outdoor work, his eyes a mild interest in her.
“Then where are you from? Folks around here like to know that about people, where they’re from and all.” He waited.
“I’ve lived on both coasts, and now I’m here, almost at the Gulf.” She was amused by his persistence, but she wasn’t surprised. Richard Brian had warned her that the rural South was long on tradition and heritage. He’d wickedly called it “a positive flair for snooping into family secrets.”
“So you’re from one of the coasts?” Connor felt a touch of impatience. “I’m from Kentucky, originally. I’ve lived in many different places.”
“Your folks in Kentucky?”
“They were at one time.” Connor ran her stirrup up. She walked around Cleo and ran up the other stirrup, then went back to the mare’s side to loosen the girth. “I’ve heard the people around here have a fetish for background. Maybe I should ask you where your folks are from.” She regretted the intemperate words as soon as she spoke them. She’d learned that to get along in life, a temper was seldom an advantage.
Jeff gave her an appraising glance, but he remained unruffled. “My folks have lived in Basin since they settled there in 1868. That was after the war. We have a farm, soybeans and hay.”
“Did Mr. Sumner tell you about the shavings?” She changed the subject abruptly. Nowhere she’d ever lived had people been so open about their past, their personal lives. Or so curious about hers. It made her uncomfortable.
“Old Henry went to see about the shavings. I think Mr. Willis from the sawmill will deliver them to the barn. They should be here and in the stalls by afternoon. Old Henry is a fool for your horses.” Jeff chuckled. “Hadn’t said a word about you, but he sure thinks those horses are fine.”
“What about the waterers?” She walked the mare into the barn to untack her. Jeff followed, his eyes taking in every move she made.
“They’re clean. Hay’s coming in today, too. From my father’s. Alecia grass.”
“That’s fine,” Connor said. “Thanks, Jeff.” He made her slightly uneasy, and she was eager for him to be about his business.
“Let me know if you need anything. Mr. Sumner told me to make sure you were happy here.” He laughed, his face not completely distinct in the shadows of the barn. “You’re going to have your hands full with those younguns. ‘Specially Miss Renata. She’s no normal little girl.”
Connor had her hands on the saddle to lift it. She paused. “What do you mean, she isn’t normal?” She looked over Cleo’s back to see Jeff standing, one thumb tucked in his waistband as he watched her.
He shrugged one shoulder. “She’s different.”
“In what way?” she pressed. She saw his gaze slide away from hers before he answered.
“Oh, Willene says she’s a pistol. She likes her own way, and she’s used to getting it. Seems to be a Sumner trait, from what I can tell. She’s a snoop, too, so watch yourself. She’s always poking around, watching everyone. Watching and waiting.” He picked a straw hat up from the back of a wagon and slapped it against his leg before he dropped it on his head. “Anyway, I’d better get those boards moved before Old Henry gets back. Nice to meet you.” He nodded once, then walked away, leaving her alone in the barn.
Connor unsaddled Cleo and automatically began to rub her down. The can-do mood of the morning ride had evaporated. Jeff’s caution about the Sumner children hung in the air. She had the distinct impression that Jeff had not told her the whole truth. The trouble was, she couldn’t tell whether he was simply playing with her, or whether he really knew something about Clay Sumner’s daughter.
She sighed as she finished with her horse. She also felt a sense of disappointment in herself. She’d reacted poorly to Jeff’s questions, and she might just as easily have told him that some of her people did come from nearby. She might have told him that one reason, a very small one, that she’d taken the job was because she remembered the stories of the great-great-grandmother who’d settled in America after a voyage across the sea. According to family stories, Hilla Lassfolk had been an impetuous girl who’d charmed a notorious outlaw.
She went through the process of checking Cleo’s hooves and legs, but her thoughts were on the distant past. She’d loved the sound of her mother’s voice as she’d told the stories about Hilla. Connor smiled to herself as she remembered her childish desire to grow up to be just like the girl in the stories—strong-willed and wildly romantic. Hilla had won the heart of a highwayman. Their love had been so enduring that the Lassfolk family had pulled up roots and moved away to break up the romance. The story was a tragedy, indeed, but it was fraught with the power of love. Connor was curious to see if any of the locals knew the stories about Hilla and James Dickerson, and Jeff would have been the perfect opportunity to try it out. But something had restrained her.
She might have told him many things, but where the local people of Mobile were open and free with their pasts, Connor had learned a different lesson: it wasn’t always wise to confide in strangers.
She turned Cleo out in the paddock with Tinker and threw them both some hay from the three bales she’d brought with her from California. Lucky the supplies were coming in today. She’d had only enough feed for the night and the morning. When she was certain the horses were okay, she walked to the house.
She found a plate of cookies on the porch railing, and she helped herself to one as she walked across the flat gray boards of the porch. The hammock looked inviting, but she wanted to explore the house, get her bearings, and then clean up. She knew with children that she had to make them believe, the first time they met, that she was in control. If they were as bright as Clay said, and as difficult as Jeff had implied, she had to get off on the right foot.
Munching the cookie, she walked back to the kitchen. If Willene wasn’t too busy, she might show C
onnor around the house. A kettle of chicken-and-dumplings was simmering on the stove, but there was no sign of the cook. Connor checked the patio that fed off the north side of the kitchen, but it was empty, and the door to Willene’s room was firmly shut. There wasn’t a sound in the old house to indicate anyone was inside.
A second plate of cookies had cooled on the counter, and Connor took another. How many years had it been since she’d tasted homemade peanut butter cookies? It didn’t bear to count them. She went back into the hall. It seemed a strange floor plan until Connor realized that at one time the kitchen had been completely separated from the house, connected only by the hallway. She followed the hall to the west side of the house, checking the knob of a closed door. When it opened readily, she stepped inside what appeared to be an indoor garden. The room was all block glass, mirrors, and plants, accessed through an entrance hall which was a series of full-length mirrors. Her own reflection stared at her again and again and again.
Connor felt the hair on the back of her neck tingle. She reached a hand up to rub her neck, and the gesture echoed down the hallway of mirrors. “Christ,” she whispered. Her image spoke silently back to her. She forced her feet forward past the mirrors.
The ceiling soared to a peak with glass panels covering one side. Ferns hung from wicker baskets, interspersed with the pink and red blooms of begonias and impatiens. The sound of a fountain caught her ear, and she followed it to find water cascading into a pool. Hand-painted tiles were just above the watermark, and in combination with the white walls, the red-brick floor and flowers gave the room a tropical, Mexican air.
It was a strange room, not in keeping with the rooms she’d seen. She walked out and closed the door behind her with a sense of relief.
Determined to see the rest of the house, she went down the hallway and made her way back to the dining room. With fine oriental carpets, candelabra, polished tables, chairs, and sideboard, this room was restrained elegance. There was nothing of the foreign lushness she’d found in the garden room. The dining room fed into the living room, and she once again found traditional furniture, much of it dating back to when the house had originally been furnished. Antiques, and all so carefully maintained.
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