by Janet Dailey
The latter was just about the only thing anyone wanted to talk about—from Dobie and the owners of the Arabian horses she and Ben had under training, to Josie Phillips and the various service companies they were dealing with in connection with the party. The only time she escaped it was in the mornings when she worked with Ben, training and exercising the horses.
She didn't try to pretend she didn't know about the changes going on at the farm, but neither did she initiate the subject in conversation. Sometimes she suspected people brought it up in front of her just to watch her reaction. And sometimes it was difficult not to let the bitterness and resentment show. Especially when she learned the gazebo was being torn down to make room for a swimming pool, and carpet was being laid on those beautiful parquet floors. But what could she expect from someone who cut down centuries-old trees just to widen a road?
According to the latest word she'd heard in Houston that afternoon while running some errands for her mother, the Canfields had returned unexpectedly, cutting their honeymoon short due to some pressing business matter. Their early arrival had apparently thrown everything into an uproar at River Bend. The renovations that were supposed to have been finished by the time they returned were nowhere close to being complete.
As she drove back, surrounded by the night's blackness, the windows rolled down to let the fresh air rush in, she tried not to think about any of it. Yet there was an awful sinking sensation in her stomach. She'd been dreading the time when Rachel would actually take up residence in her former home. She was back now, and that moment was only days away from becoming a reality.
As the newly erected entrance pillars to River Bend came into view, a lump rose in Abbie's throat. She glanced through the break in the trees, a break that hadn't existed until they had chopped down some of the old giants. She could just barely make out the white rail of the balustrade and part of a two-story turret. Her home—once.
Then she noticed the unusual storm cloud that blackened the sky beyond the house. Summer storms rarely came out of the north. She slowed the car and peered through the windshield. A yellow-orange light flickered in one of the turret windows. At first, Abbie wondered if some of the workmen were putting in overtime to get the job done, then she caught the acrid smell of smoke.
"My God, no." Instinctively she slammed on the brakes to make the turn into the newly widened driveway.
As she sped up the freshly black-topped road, the smell of smoke became stronger. She could see it rolling out from under the porch roof. Stopping the car short of the picket fence, she stared at the yellow tongues of flame licking around the front windows.
She climbed numbly out of the car and hurried to the porch, but the heat from the flames and the choking black smoke forced her back. She stepped back, staring in horror at the fire consuming her home, completely helpless to stop it. She had to get help. She raced back to the car and drove as fast as she could to the Hix farm. Once inside, she ran straight to the phone and dialed the number for the rural fire department.
"Abbie, what's wrong?" Babs hurried to her side. "You look white as a ghost. Were you in an accident?"
"No—" Abbie started to explain when she heard a voice on the other end of the line. "Hello? This is Abbie Lawson. I want to report a fire. . . at River Bend." She clutched the receiver a little tighter, conscious of her mother's horrified look.
"I just drove by there. The whole first floor of the house was on fire."
"No!" Babs gasped.
"We're on our way," the man said and hung up.
Slowly Abbie replaced the receiver, then looked at Ben, who had come to stand next to her mother. "They'll never make it in time to save it." She made the pronouncement with an odd feeling that she couldn't explain. It was a strange mixture of guilt, sorrow, and apathy. "It's funny, isn't it? I would have done anything to prevent her from moving into that house, but not this. I never wanted it to burn down, Ben. I really didn't."
"I know." He nodded.
"Do you think we should go over and see if there's anything we can do to help?" Babs asked uncertainly.
"No. Momma. There's nothing we can do." Abbie walked over to the window that looked out in the direction of their former home. She could see the smoke billowing up like a dark cloud to block out the stars. Beneath it, there was a faint red glow. She didn't know how long she stood there before she heard the distant wail of a siren, but it seemed like an eternity. By then, the glow was brighter and the cloud was thicker.
When morning came, the pall of the fire hung over the countryside, tainting the air with the smell of charred wood and smoke. The greenbroke bay filly snorted and sidestepped nervously as Abbie swung into the saddle, but the young horse quieted quickly when Ben rode up alongside on the plump chestnut mare. She shortened the length of rein. "Ben, I want to ride over to River Bend.
"I thought you would," he said. "We can ride across the fields."
Both horses were fresh and broke eagerly into a canter without any urging from Ben and Abbie. With only two gates to negotiate, the mile that separated the Hix farmyard from her former home was quickly covered. But the burned-out devastation was visible when they were less than a quarter of a mile away.
The stallion barn was the only building still standing, but it hadn't escaped damage. Its roof was blackened, and its sides, once painted a pristine white, were now scorched brown and smudged with dark smoke. All that remained of the stables, office annex, and the equipment shed were blackened timbers and charred rubble.
The brick chimney stood like a tombstone over the mound of ash that had once been her home. But the trees, the beautiful old ancient oaks that had graced the yard—Abbie wanted to cry when she saw their seared and withered leaves and charred trunks.
The fence between the two properties was down. Abbie waited until Ben had walked his mare across the downed wires, then let the filly pick her way over them. The water-soaked ground was a mire of trampled grass and ashen mud. The young filly shied nervously from the burned remains of the house and edged closer to her older companion, not liking anything about this place.
Abbie reined the filly in, halting the young Arabian well away from the rubble. Several vehicles were parked on the other side of the smoke-blackened picket fence. Some men were over by the barns, poking through the timbers, a few of which were still smoldering. Three more men were going through the ashes of the house, with its blackened porcelain sinks, bathtubs, and toilets. She stared at the large, gaping hole gouged out of the lawn in the backyard: the site of the new swimming pool. It reminded Abbie of an open grave waiting to receive the remains of the house.
"It's worse than I thought it would be," she remarked to Ben.
"Yes."
"Hey, Ben! I thought I recognized you." Sam Raines, one of the volunteer firemen, came trotting over to them. His glance skipped away from Abbie to look back at the chimney. "It didn't leave much. By the time we got here last night, the whole place was in flames."
"We could see it. It looked bad."
"Sparks were flying all over. When that hay caught fire, I thought we were going to lose everything. We probably could have saved the stable, but we ran low on water. We had to concentrate what we had left on the one you see. You know, it's ironic. If they'd gotten the pool in, we probably would have had enough for both."
"Do you know what started it?"
"That's what they're trying to figure out now." He gestured to the men picking through the charred rubble of the house.
"As near as we can tell, it started in one of the back rooms where the painters kept their thinner and paint rags. Who knows?" He shrugged. "The wiring in that house was old. There could have been a short, or somebody could have dropped a cigarette near those thinner rags. These old houses are fire hazards. I say it's a darned good thing no one was living in it. I'll bet it went up fast."
There was almost nothing left of the place she'd known from childhood: the house was burned to the ground, the stables and sheds completely destroyed.
She could deny many things, but not the ache she felt inside.
The hinges on the picket fence gate creaked noisily in the stillness. At first Abbie was struck by the ludicrous sight of the silver-haired man holding aside the gate for the stylish brunette in a white silk blouse and pleated tan trousers. They started up the walk together, looking like a couple coming to call, but the sidewalk led to ash and rubble. When the woman turned her head, Abbie saw her face, white with shock and dismay. It was Rachel, a strikingly different Rachel. The coiffed hair, the clothes that had "designer" written all over them, the scarf around the neck, the bracelets on her wrists—she looked like some willowy fashion model.
Rachel saw her and stopped abruptly, then started across the muddy lawn toward her. Lane attempted to stop her, but she pulled away from him and continued forward. Abbie could tell Rachel was angry to see her there. Yet she was surprised at how calm she felt.
As Rachel approached head-on, the nervous young filly started to swing away, but Rachel grabbed the reins close to the chin strap and checked its sideways movement. "You did this," Rachel accused, her voice vibrating. "You started the fire."
"No!" Startled, Abbie tried to explain that she had been the one who turned in the alarm, but Rachel wasn't interested in hearing anything she had to say.
"You threatened to do this. There were witnesses, so don't bother to deny it. You couldn't stand the thought of me living in this house, so you set fire to it." She was trembling, her hand clenched in a fist. "God, I hate you for this. I hate you. Do you hear?" Her voice rose, attracting the attention of the men going through the burned rubble. Rachel roughly pushed the filly's head to the side, starting the horse into a turn as she released the reins. "Get out! Get off my land and don't you ever come here again!"
Angry and indignant, Abbie opened her mouth to defend herself, but Ben touched her arm, checking her denial. "She will not listen," he said. "We go now."
But Abbie wasn't content to leave it at that as she collected the reins. "Believe what you like, but I didn't do it!"
She reined the Arabian filly in a half-circle. It moved out smartly, eager to leave this place, with its heavy smell of smoke and currents of angry tension. Abbie held the young horse to a prancing walk and kept her own shoulders stiffly squared and her head up as she followed Ben across the downed fence. Not until they were well out of sight did she give the filly her head and let her break into a gallop.
As they raced across the stubble of the mowed hay field, the wind whipped away the tears that smarted in her eyes. She knew the accusation would stick. No matter what the official cause of the fire was determined to be, people would still look at her as somehow being responsible. It wasn't fair.
Chapter 26
MacCrea stepped down from his truck to the sound of pounding hammers and whining saws. In front of him, like the phoenix bird rising from the ashes, stood the partially framed skeleton of a Victorian-style house similar to the one that had once occupied this same site. The house now under construction was like it in every detail, from the wraparound porch and balustrade to the twin turrets and cupola—except it was half again as big.
Simultaneous with the construction of the house was the erection of a huge barn in the same architectural style a hundred yards away. The one building not destroyed by the fire had been razed to make room for this new, massive structure. Nothing remained that had been there before except for the few old trees that had managed to survive the ravages of the fire.
The place crawled with carpenters, other laborers, and tradesmen. MacCrea stopped an aproned carpenter who walked by, balancing a long wooden plank on his shoulder. "Where can I find Lane Canfield?"
The man jerked his bandaged thumb toward the house and walked on. MacCrea took a step, then paused as a slender woman with dark hair emerged from the structure. Just for an instant, he was thrown by her resemblance to Abbie, and felt the stirring of old feelings. Grimly, he clamped his mouth shut and forced his gaze to the man behind her, Lane Canfield. Silently he cursed the fact that this happened every damned time he saw Rachel, certain he would have forgotten Abbie months ago if it weren't for her.
Lane lifted a hand in greeting, then Rachel claimed his attention. She seemed upset about something, but MacCrea couldn't hear what she was saying until the couple came closer.
". . . shouldn't wait to hire a night watchman. I want one now,” she was insisting forcefully. "You know as well as I do that she's just waiting until the construction is further along before she does something."
"Rachel, there is no proof that she started the fire." There was a tiredness in Lane's voice that indicated this discussion was an old one.
"I don't need proof. I know her. She hates me." She seemed frustrated by her failure to convince her husband and turned to MacCrea in desperation. "Ask MacCrea. He'll tell you."
"Don't drag me into this," he said, shaking his head. "I don't get involved in personal disputes. I'm out of it and I want to stay out of it." But for him, the expressions of loathing and distrust, of resentment and anger, were echoes of the past. The difference now was that they came from Rachel instead of Abbie.
"I don't care if either of you agrees with me or not. I want somebody on guard here at night to make sure nothing happens." But she was no longer demanding; she was pleading with Lane. "Surely that isn't asking too much. After all, this is going to be our home."
"All right." Lane gave in, seemingly incapable of refusing Rachel anything she wanted. "I'll have the superintendent hire one right away."
"I'll go tell him for you. Thank you, dear." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then hurried away, heading back to the house to find the superintendent.
More than once MacCrea had observed the lack of passion in their relationship. Admittedly there were displays of affection between them—touching and hand-holding—and they seemed happy enough together. But as far as MacCrea could tell, there was something missing. Maybe he just remembered the way it had been with Abbie: whenever he was with her, he didn't want her to leave, and whenever he wasn't with her, he wanted to be.
Obviously Lane and Rachel were satisfied with something less. He wondered whether their age difference had anything to do with that or if it was simply a reflection of their personalities. Lane was very businesslike in his approach to things, and Rachel was somewhat reserved and quiet, although more and more she seemed to be coming out of her shell.
Either way, it wasn't any concern of his, MacCrea decided, and glanced at Lane. The man looked vaguely troubled as he watched his wife disappear inside the partially framed structure.
Sighing, Lane turned back to MacCrea and said, almost reluctantly, "She's been like that ever since the fire. She's obsessed with the idea that Abbie's to blame for it. Of course, it isn't as if she hasn't had cause to think that way. Abbie has. . ." Lane paused and smiled ruefully. "But I didn't ask you to come by to talk about her."
"No." He reached inside his windbreaker and took the papers from his pocket. "Here's the proposal. I think you'll find it pretty much the way I outlined it to you over the phone yesterday."
He handed him the papers and watched Lane's face as he skimmed the first page. Not that he expected to see a reaction: Lane was too canny for that.
But he did raise an eyebrow at MacCrea. "Are you certain your testing system doesn't work? This offer could be just a way of squeezing you out."
"I thought of that. But when negative reports started coming in from the field tests, I went out on test sites and checked it myself. It doesn't work. But they still like the concept. Rather than risk a possible infringement suit sometime in the future, they want to buy the patent rights on it now." MacCrea didn't mention that the drilling fluids company had initially suggested that he stay and work with the project. But he wasn't a scientist. Besides, he knew the longer he stayed around here, the longer it would take him to get Abbie out of his system once and for all. "In my opinion, I think we should accept the offer."
"You're probab
ly right," Lane conceded.
"I know I am."
"So what will you do now?"
"I've acquired the mineral rights to some property in Ascension Parish. I plan to put a deal together and drill a development well there."
"From what I've been able to gather, the land men with a lot of big oil companies have been trying to get their hands on the oil and gas rights to that property for years now. How did you manage to get it?" Lane asked curiously.
"The old lady that owns it took a liking to me." MacCrea didn't think it was necessary to inform Lane that the old woman had once taken care of him when he was a child, sick with a bad case of bronchial pneumonia.
"I wouldn't mind getting in on it," Lane said. "I'd consider backing you on this, assuming, of course, that we can agree on a split."
Covering his surprise over the unexpected offer, MacCrea shot back quickly, "It all depends on how greedy you are."
"Or how greedy you are." Lane smiled. "Think it over and give me a call. We'll sit down and talk numbers and percents."
"I don't have to think about it. You have the money and I have the lease, the drilling rig, and the crew. I'm ready to talk a deal now. Maybe you need to think it over."
"Tomorrow, be at my office at ten. We can talk privately—without all this confusion." Gesturing, Lane indicated the construction going on around them.
"I'll be there," MacCrea promised.
Chapter 27
As Abbie turned River Breeze loose in the small pen, the half-dozen horses in the adjacent corral crowded against the fence and nickered for the gray filly to come over and talk to them. The filly hesitated and swung her head around to look at Abbie as if reluctant to leave her.
"Go ahead." Abbie petted the silvery neck. "I have to leave anyway."
She stepped away from the filly and ducked between the board rails to join Ben on the other side of the pen. The filly moved haltingly over to the fence, her gait stiff and awkward. The casts had been off for a month now. Each day, her legs had gotten stronger, her coordination was better, most of the sores had healed, the swelling was reduced. Abbie knew the filly would have a permanent limp and there would always be some disfiguring enlargement of the forelegs but that didn't matter. Watching her move about on all four legs was the most beautiful sight Abbie had ever seen.