by Lynda Trent
Oh, well, he thought, what difference does it make? It’s almost time for the next shift. It’s probably one of them come early. He watched the newest section of pipe slide down into the earth. When it was flush with the platform, the giant clamp slammed around the pipe so that it and all the pipe below would not fall to the bottom of the hole. High above them, on the derrick’s monkey board, a man pulled another pipe away from the steel forest leaning on the rig, fastened the hoist collar and let it swing over in a controlled arc to the roughnecks below. Skillfiully, Talmidge joined this length to the others, and on went the process of “making a trip.”
Ryan climbed the steps and stood beside him. “The last logging we did looked good. The mud we pulled through to four thousand feet proves part of my theory. The Woodbine sand stops east of here about two miles, that’s why this land never produced any oil in the ‘s,” he yelled over the roar of the machinery and the clang of the pipes.
“That’s good news,” Joe yelled back. “Do you think we’ll have to go much deeper than twenty thousand?”
Ryan shrugged. “I can’t tell yet. The other two wells south of here haven’t hit anything, but they haven’t gone that far down yet, of if they have, they’re not telling. Come on over to the trailer when you’re relieved and I’ll show you the charts.”
But before Ryan could reach the wooden steps, there was an asthmatic cough of the machinery, and then the drive belt quit turning, leaving a length of pipe swinging like a hanged man in the air. The rig was suddenly quiet except for a screaming hiss.
“What happened?” Joe asked.
“I don’t know, but from the looks of all that steam, I’ll bet we blew the boiler.” Ryan went down the steps and under the platform. “Yeah. That’s what it was,” he said as he squatted down on his heels away from the hot cloud of vapor.
“How did that happen? It was doing fine when I came on this morning.”
Ryan shook his head. “I guess it was older than I figured. That’s what I get for trying to cut corners. Think you can fix it?”
Joe studied the boiler as well as he could through the steam. “I doubt it. That’s a good-sized hole. I reckon we’d better get another one. This’ll set us back at least a week, that is, if you can find a replacement.”
Ryan hesitated. “Don’t say anything to Clare, all right? I’ll take care of it. I’ll get a new one this time.”
Joe looked at his friend questioningly. ” You’re buying the boiler? It’ll run you ten to twelve grand. What’s up?”
“What’s up’ is that we need a new boiler and the time delay alone is going to cut heavily into our budget. Besides, I think I can get one in Shreveport instead of having to go all the way to Houston.”
On the platform above them, Sebe Youngblood loosened a bolt that worked one of the levers. His nerves were frayed, but he smiled. His task had been accomplished and he felt good about it.
Chapter Sixteen
Clare got in the elevator of Dallas’ Hyatt-Regency hotel and pressed the button for the fourth floor. She still felt chilled from the cold February wind outside, but of necessity she’d left her coat locked in her car. Had she been staying at the Hyatt-Regency, which she was not, she would have had no reason to wear her coat to the hotel’s dining room. The elevator glided to a stop and she got off. Good. The halls were lined with rooms and would serve her needs.
As she had in New Orleans, Clare had taken a room in an unpretentious motel at the edge of town. From there she’d gone to her show at the Anderson Gallery. The exhibit had gone much better than she had dared to hope, even to the extent that one of the clients, a handsome Venezuelan, had insisted she and Cliff Anderson join him for dinner afterward. For her convenience, they’d suggested they dine at her hotel. This time, Clare had been prepared. She had predetermined that if anyone asked, she would tell them that she was staying at the posh Hyatt-Regency. Having no reason to doubt her word, they had agreed to meet her for dinner and cocktails at eight.
Clare had found the hotel, but not without some difficulty and several wrong turns. She had left her car in the garage, and was now doing what she and Marla referred to as “casing the joint.” Because Anderson was a friend of the Gentrys, Clare had been afraid Marla might mention the came of the hotel where she’d actually reserved a room. So she had taken Marla into her confidence. Marla had agreed the plan was a good one and even offered to call and have her d if Clare thought this would help carry off the deception. Clare had declined, feeling anonymity was best in this instance.
Slowly, the chill was leaving her body, and she pressed the elevator button to return to the lobby. Nervously, she checked her hair and makeup, both of which were flawless. She wore a tangerine chiffon dress with a flowing scarf-pointed skirt and with cutaway sleeves that revealed her nicely shaped arms. The neck plunged to a deep V, exposing the curve of her breasts. Her small waist was encircled with a tie belt of the same fabric. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a seemingly innocent tumble of glistening brown waves that accented her large eyes and delicately pointed chin. She felt very daring and free.
After only a short wait in the lobby, Clare saw Cliff and the Venezuelan gentleman, Raoul Gutierrez, coming in the main entrance. With a charming smile, Clare went to meet them. Their spontaneous looks of appreciation told Clare her choice of dress was the right one. Together they went up Reunion Tower to the Top of the Dome for cocktails.
The lights of Dallas stretched out in all directions below them as the dome slowly revolved in the night sky. She ordered a gin and tonic and relaxed into the pampering atmosphere.
Raoul Gutierrez was a small man, more intriguing than handsome, with thinning brown hair and dark eyes which had the intenseness of a predatory bird. When he moved, it was with quick, jerky movements; and his voice was more resonant than Clare would have expected from the looks of him. He quickly made it obvious he was an art collector, though on a small scale, and that it would be a plume in Clare’s bonnet if her work interested him.
Clare couldn’t see how placing her pictures in his secluded summer house on an obscure mountain top in Venezuela would benefit her much in the long run, but she saw a great short term benefit in the thousand dollars he was willing to pay. Although she didn’t like him personally, she was more than Willing to flatter him along into a sale. So she pretended not to notice that his jokes were rather blue and that he persisted in referring to her as a “girl,” though he seemed to recognize Cliff’s status as an adult.
“Ready for dinner?” Gutierrez asked as he got to his feet.
“Certainly,” Clare said, though her glass was only half empty. Put up with it, she told herself. This can’t last forever.
They went down to the Antares Room, where Anderson had made reservations. As in the lounge above, a panorama of Dallas shimmered below them. Gutierrez asked for a table away from the window and she sighed with resigned disappointment.
The menu was varied and tempting, and Clare felt instantly hungry as she tried to decide between shrimp and the flounder dishes.
“Garlic steak for us all,” Gutierrez told the waiter. “And a bottle of your finest Moet et Chandon Dom Perignon champagne.”
“What?” Clare said, startled out of the Garbo-like facade that she and Marla had decided would make her seem more artistically eccentric and less likely to disclose her amateur status. “What did you say?”
“Garlic steak. You will love it. It is the most expensive item on the menu.”
“But I prefer something less spicy,” she protested as the waiter reached for her menu.
Gutierrez flicked the waiter away with his fingers. “Nonsense. I know what ladies prefer. Trust to me. You will love it.”
Clare decided that enough was enough. Fixing the waiter firmly with her eyes, she said, “I’ll have the broiled flounder. And sour cream on my baked potato.”
Gutierrez rolled his eyes at Cliff and looked slightly irritated at the heads” folly of American women.
“Tell m
e about your now yacht,” Cliff said smoothly, as if he sensed no conflict. “Is she entered in the races this year?”
Clare again put an aloofness between herself and her and wondered if Cliff, too, were wearing a mask. Gutierrez accepted the offered wine from the waiter, sipped it and reluctantly pronounced it good. He was watching Clare for more signs of rebelliousness, but she merely looked enigmatic and smiled.
The meal was well-prepared and delicious. Clare enjoyed her fish but noticed Cliff ate with far less gusto than his client. Evidently the garlic steak was not his choice, either. She felt a sudden pride in her newborn streak of assertiveness; certainly Elliot’s wife wouldn’t have done that! She pulled her attention back to the conversation.
“It was disgraceful!” Raoul Gutierrez was declaring. “I had invited him to my home to a dinner party believing him to be one of us! True, I had only seen his paintings, but I believed him to be an aristocrat! You can perhaps imagine my plight when I overheard him tell a guest that his fathers works in a car garage! I was filled with mortification.”
Cliff tried to look understanding.
“Was his art good?” Clare couldn’t resist asking.
Gutierrez looked at her as if she were changing the subject. “That truly isn’t the point. In my country, the commoners know their place.”
Clare clamped her mouth shut to hold back the words that threatened to bubble forth. This sale was far too important both to her career and to her pocketbook to let a personality conflict ruin it. She struggled to regain her detachment as a chill coursed through her that had nothing to do with anger. That could so easily be her own story!
She took a sip of champagne as her eyes roamed over the room. Such a thing wouldn’t happen to her! There was no way Gutierrez would know of her background unless she told him, and she had no intention of making such a mistake. Her eyes fell on a waitress with frizzy red hair, passed by her, then snapped back. The woman was balancing a tray of dirty glasses on one hand and wriggling her fingertips at Clare in recognition. Instantly, Clare gasped and choked on her champagne. She needed no second look to know it was Reba Fae Mattison. They had gone from first grade through their high school graduation together, though they had never been close friends. Already Reba Fae had deposited her tray and was threading across the dining room to speak to Clare. But the Clare she knew was the daughter of a dirt farmer and not at all the woman Clare was trying so hard to portray.
“Are you all right?” Cliff asked with genuine concern. “Take a sip of water.”
Clare tried, but it only made matters worse. People at the next table were staring and she was totally embarrassed. Reba Fae was halfway across the room.
“Excuse me,” Clare croaked, pushing away from the table. Hurriedly, she walked toward the ladies room, still trying to catch her breath.
“Are you okay?” Reba Fae asked, coming into the powder room area behind her. “I thought that was you, but I wasn’t sure until you looked at me.”
Clare was regaining her composure now and managed to smile.
Reba Fae patted her on the back. “I guess something went down the wrong way. That happens.”
Clare nodded. “Thanks, I’m better now. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you.”
“Yeah, I left Gladewater right after we graduated. Came to the city. You’re looking good. What’re you doing in Dallas?”
“Trying to sell some pictures,” Clare said truthfully. “My husband died last summer and I’m working as an artist.”
“That’s real tough. Mine just up and left me. I’ve got two kids now. You have any?”
“No.”
“They’re a handful. Have you seen anybody lately we used to know?”
“No, I don’t get over that way too often.”
“I wrote letters to some of ‘em for a while, but I finally quit. Well, I better get back to work before the boss catches me.”
“Me, too,” Clare said, realizing their positions were not so different, after all. “Take care of yourself.”
“Sure enough,” Reba Fae grinned as she left.
Clare smoothed her hair and put on fresh lip gloss. She wasn’t eager to rejoin the men. When she came back to the table, however, Gutierrez showed great concern as to her welfare, while Cliff seemed to assume she was all right.
“You must let us see you to your room,” Gutierrez said. “I could never forgive myself if you were ailing and I gave you no help.”
“Really,” Clare protested, “I’m fine now. It’s nothing.”
“No, no. Women are to be cared for. I insist.”
How can he make even thoughtfulness seem insulting? Clare wondered. “Please, don’t concern yourself. I only choked on the wine.”
Gutierrez gestured to the waiter and paid for the meal. “Please. I insist.”
“She seems to be okay now,” Cliff said doubtfully.
“You Americans. You don’t understand women. They desire to be pampered and protected.”
Clare was opening her mouth to speak and Cliff correctly read her expression. “Perhaps we should can it a night,” he said quickly. “It’s getting late and you have an early flight tomorrow.”
They took the restaurant elevator down to the lobby. Clare was wishing she had the financial independence to refuse to do business with the little man, but her reason overrode her emotions.
At the other bank of elevators which gave access to the rooms, Gutierrez asked Clare for her floor number.
“Four,” she said coldly as he followed her inside.
He pressed the button and the elevator glided up. When the doors opened, she stepped out, Gutierrez on her heels.
Clare halted abruptly. “I can find my way. Thank you for dinner. I hope you’ll be pleased with the paintings you selected.”
“I’m certain I will be,” he assured her. “But I could not possibly abandon you in the hallway of a hotel. I will see you to your room.”
Placing her hand firmly on her Latin rescuer’s chest, Clare maneuvered him back into the elevator. “It’s so good of you, but I must insist. We artists do have our eccentricities, you know. I never allow anyone to see the door of my hotel room.” With a dazzling smile, Clare watched the elevator doors close between them. Instantly, her smile disappeared. That had been too close for comfort. How could she possibly have explained having no room? On the outside chance that they might still come back, Clare hurried to the nearby stairway.
Going down one flight, she went back to the elevator and pressed the button for the lobby. She had a long drive back to her motel and she hoped she could find her way in the dark.
Dallas’ freeway system was not familiar to her, nor was she fond of going alone into covered parking garages at night.
As the elevator doors opened, she was searching in her purse for her car keys and almost ran into Cliff and Raoul. They stood only a few feet away but luckily, they were deeply engaged in conversation. Clare wheeled around and stepped back into the elevator, stifling a gasp. With her head averted, she punched the button for the second floor. After what seemed to be an eternity, the doors closed and she felt herself rising.
A short search revealed another stairway at the end of the hall, which led her to the end of the lobby opposite the elevators. Cliff and Gutierrez were still talking intently and showed no sips of preparing to leave. Steeling herself not to run, Clare crossed to the street exit. Getting to the garage would have meant having to walk right by the two men. As she waited for the valet to bring her car around, wondering if she had enough money for a tip, she shivered. The wind had subsided, but the air was icy cold after the warmth of the lobby.
At any moment, she expected her companions to walk out. There was no way at all to explain leaving the hotel without even a wrap. Nervously, she wrapped her arms about herself and tried not to let her teeth chatter.
The Mercedes came to a smooth stop and the attendant held the door for her. The heater was already warming the interior. Clare tipped him as generously
as she felt she could and got inside just as the front door of the hotel opened.
There was no need to turn her head to identify the men’s voices, and she drove away without looking back. Slowly, she let out her pent-up breath. This had been too narrow an escape.
Sebe. Youngblood labored feverishly in the shadow of the derrick. From time to time, he glanced up and around but didn’t dare pause in his work. Beneath his busy fingers, bright silver filings began to litter the ground and a shiny line appeared in the upper grove of the pipe’s threads beneath his small hacksaw.
Sweat beaded his grimy forehead despite the coldness of the early morning. There would not be much time before someone noticed his absence from his post. Slowly, the metallic shavings peeled back and fell to the ground. The pipe was harder to cut than he had expected. But Neal Thorndyke had been very insistent.
”Sebe?” a man called out. “Come give me a hand here.”
“Coming!” he answered quickly, grinding the bright shavings into the ground with the heel of his scuffed work boot. “I’ll be right there!”
He hurriedly smeared axle grease onto the line that scored the end of the pipe, obscuring the telltale brightness. Nervously, he flicked the shiny flecks off the cuffs of his khaki work trousers and kicked dirt over them. Sebe tossed the saw into the murky slime of the nearby slush pit, where it sank without a ripple. Keeping to his normal rolling gait, he ambled back to his position on the rig. His shift was about to begin.