by Janet Dailey
"She's going to make it, isn't she, Ben?"
"Yes. She will improve every day." He nodded.
"Do you think by this spring she'll be strong enough that we can get her bred?"
"I think so."
"We'll need to start deciding on a stallion. I want her bred to the best. I don't care how much the stud fee is." Then she sighed. "There's always the possibility she won't be fertile. We've had to give her a lot of drugs."
"We will have to wait and see."
"Yes." But she wished, just once, that he would offer an opinion. "Nobody expected Breeze to get this far. I want to start making a list of stallions that will nick well with her, Ben. We're going to breed her in the spring." She said it with confidence and determination, yet she had the uneasy feeling she was daring fate to intervene.
But when she saw the smile of approval that broke across Ben's lined and craggy face, she knew he shared her optimism. "The list I have already begun. It is God's miracle that she walks. We must believe that in His time, she will also become in foal."
Abbie smiled faintly. "Sometimes I wish I had your faith, Ben." It was mostly grit that carried her. She couldn't trust blindly. She hadn't been able to do that for along time, she realized with a sigh, and pushed away from the fence. "I'd better get ready. I promised Momma I'd give her a hand at the party tonight."
Every tree and shrub along the driveway leading to the private estate in River Oaks was etched with tiny fairy lights. The sprawling house with its Spanish architectural details was decked in its holiday finery, too. Garlands of greenery strung with lights draped the porte cochere that welcomed the arriving party guests. With Thanksgiving barely over, this was the first party of the holiday season.
A Christmas tree, nearly twenty-five feet tall, dominated the glass-ceilinged gran sala. There, Rachel gave her mink jacket to a waiting maid and lightly grasped Lane's arm as they joined the rest of the guests milling throughout the expensive and lavishly decorated house.
Briefly she touched the Van Cleef and Arpel's diamond-and-emerald brooch that anchored the plunging sweetheart neckline of her gown, assuring herself it was still firmly in place, at the same time conscious of the weight of the matching earrings pulling on her lobes. Ever since their marriage, Lane had showered her with presents: clothes, jewelry, furs, expensive perfumes, and other trinkets. At first she had felt uncomfortable with all the gifts, remembering too well the way Dean had tried to buy her love and ease his conscience with them. But Lane took such joy in bringing her big or little gifts that Rachel thought it unfair to question his motives. Yet the doubt remained.
A waiter offered them a glass of champagne from his silver tray. Rachel took one, needing something to occupy her hands, but Lane declined. "I think I'll get a drink from the bar. Will you excuse me?"
"Of course." Invariably he left her alone at these social gatherings, though not always intentionally. Usually he ran into a business associate or someone he knew, and she was forgotten while he stopped to talk. To her regret, Rachel had quickly learned it was always business with him. That was his idea of a good time.
Meanwhile, she had to suffer through these evenings as best she could. She looked around, remembering that MacCrea was supposed to be here. At least he was someone to talk to. But she saw few familiar faces as she glanced around the room. She was still a stranger among them, not totally accepted yet.
When women had discussed her in various private powder rooms, they had accused her of being aloof and unapproachable. Little did they know that she didn't say much, unless the subject was art or Arabian horses, because she didn't know the people or the events they were talking about. Rather than show her ignorance, she said nothing. And there were some, she knew, who were covertly hostile to her—mainly those still loyal to Abbie and her mother. But they couldn't cut her, not Lane Canfield's wife. Rachel tilted her head a little higher. Whether they liked it or not, she belonged here as much as, if not more than, they did. She'd show them. In time, they'd have to accept her as one of them.
The soft strumming of a guitar came from one of the rooms that opened off the grand entry. Rachel gravitated toward the sound, taking advantage of the diversion it offered so that it wouldn't appear as obvious that she had no one to talk to.
In one corner of the spacious family game room, a small country band played for the couples dancing on a cleared area of the terrazzo floor. As Rachel wandered into the room, the singer stepped up to the microphone. She felt a little shock go through her when she recognized the slim man in the black tuxedo. Even at this distance, the black cowboy hat with its concho-studded band that had become Ross Tibbs's trademark was unmistakable. She should have guessed he'd be the entertainment tonight. Ever since the song he'd written had climbed to the top of the country charts, he'd become a mini-celebrity in Houston, despite the fact that the song had been recorded by another artist.
She knew she should leave, walk right out of the room, but his clear baritone voice, rich with feeling and warmth, reached out to caress her and draw her closer. She moved along the wall until she found a place she could stand and watch him safely, inconspicuously.
But when the song ended, he turned to acknowledge the applause and looked directly at her. For an instant he was completely motionless, staring at her as if he was seeing her in a dream. Rachel wanted to look away, break the eye contact, but she couldn't. . . any more than she could control the sudden fluttering of her pulse.
Again he stepped up to the microphone. "I'd like to do another song for you that I wrote. As a matter of fact, I'll be recording it myself next week when I go to Nashville. It's called 'My Texas Blue Eyes' and goes something like this." He nodded to the band to begin, then glanced directly at Rachel and said softly into the microphone, "This is for you, my own Texas blue eyes."
Her skin felt as if it had suddenly caught fire. She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed that he'd dedicated the song to her, but all eyes were on him. Then he started singing:
Tell me, boys, have you ever seen her,
The lady with those eyes of Texas blue?
She'll steal your heart if you ever meet her,
And leave you all alone and lonely, too,
My blue eyes, my Texas blue eyes.
I want to listen to your sighs
And feel your body next to mine,
But you're too far away to touch.
Why do I love you, oh, so much,
My blue eyes, my Texas blue eyes?
The sweet longing in his voice, full of passion and pain of loving, pulled at Rachel. She didn't want to feel the sensations he was evoking. They were too strong—and too wrong. Abruptly she turned and blindly picked her way through the crowd that had gathered to listen. At last she emerged from the room and paused to draw a calming breath and stop the pounding of her heart.
But his voice followed her.
I know that she will always haunt my dreams,
That lady with those eyes of Texas blue.
Moving as swiftly as she dared, Rachel crossed the atrium-like gran sala and went in search of Lane. When she didn't find him near the bar, she checked the formal dining room, with its stunning cut-crystal chandelier presiding over a long buffet table. She stiffened in surprise when she saw Abbie on the far side of the room, speaking in a hushed voice to one of the waiters.
Dressed in a peplumed jacket of quilted gold silk, belted at the waist and heavily padded at the shoulders, and a black velvet skirt, Abbie looked like one of the guests. For a split second, Rachel questioned how Abbie had received an invitation to the party. Then she remembered that Abbie and her mother hired themselves out to oversee all the arrangements for parties such as this one. Rachel couldn't help smiling a little as she watched the waiter acknowledge an order given by Abbie with a discreet nod of his head before she moved away.
On her way to the bar to double-check the liquor supply, Abbie stopped one of the maids and directed her to some dirty plates on a coffee table. As her mothe
r explained their role to prospective clients, their duties were to assume all the responsibilities of the hostess, leaving her completely free to mingle with her guests. They would see to it that there was an ample supply of food and drink at all times, and make certain that ashtrays were regularly emptied and soiled plates and empty glasses quickly cleared away. Every facet—from valet parking so the driveway wouldn't be clogged with cars to the checking of wraps at the door, from the policing of the men's and ladies' rooms to keep them tidy and clean to the handling of belligerent guests who had had too much to drink, and from the initial planning of the party to the cleaning up afterward—became their obligation.
But assuming the role of hostess didn't mean that they physically did anything themselves. Still, when Abbie noticed an empty champagne glass set on the pearl-inlaid top of an antique Moroccan chest, she picked it up and carried it to the bar with her. Babs was elsewhere in the house making her own inspection tour of the rooms. Abbie usually worked behind the scenes, handling the food and drink, and rarely ventured out of the kitchen. But she'd just learned from the liquor caterer that he'd inadvertently brought only two cases of bourbon. Knowing her fellow Texans' capacity for the whiskey made with fermented corn mash, she was concerned that they might run short and wanted to check on how the supply was holding up.
She set the empty champagne glass on the counter and waited for the head bartender to finish talking to the guest at the opposite end of the long bar. When he finally turned away from him, Abbie suddenly had a clear view of the man.
MacCrea. She felt as if she'd been stabbed, the pain—the longing—was so intense. She stared at his face in profile, so compellingly masculine with its blunt angles and powerful lines. Every detail, every feature was achingly familiar to her, from the dark brush of his mustache to that curled lift of his crooked little finger.
She tried to blame her reaction on the shock of seeing him after all this time. What had it been, around three and a half months? She didn't understand how she could still love him after what he'd done. "Out of sight, out of mind". . . she thought she had succeeded so well at that. Now she realized he'd never been out of her heart. But was it really any different from the way she had been with her father—loving him even when she hated him?
The head bartender walked over to her. "Did you need something, Miss Lawson?"
"Yes." But she momentarily forgot what it was as she saw MacCrea watching her, his gaze half-lidded, but not concealing the intentness of his stare. Unwilling to let him know how much seeing him again had affected her, Abbie assumed a businesslike attitude and focused her attention on the bartender, but out of the corner of her eye, she saw MacCrea push away from the bar and walk toward her.
"Hello." His low voice caressed her. She didn't even have to close her eyes to remember the feel of his rough hands stroking her skin.
She made a determined effort to ignore him. "How is the bourbon holding out?"
"Just fine," the bartender replied.
"Good." She refused to look at MacCrea. It didn't matter. All the rest of her senses were focused on him. She was aware of every sound, every movement he made. Finally gathering her composure around her like protective armor, she turned to face him. "Was there something you wanted?"
"You," MacCrea said calmly, matter-of-factly.
A thousand times she had turned aside similar remarks from men without batting an eye, but this time she couldn't—not from MacCrea. And she wasn't going to let herself be hurt again. He'd already proved she couldn't trust him. She turned sharply and walked swiftly away from the bar, not slowing down for anything until she reached the dining room.
"Going somewhere?" MacCrea said. Abbie swung around in surprise. With all the noise and confusion of the party, she hadn't heard him following her. But there he was, towering in front of her, studying her with a glint of satisfaction.
"I'm busy," she insisted stiffly, angered that he was making an issue out of this when he knew she didn't want any more to do with him. She turned her back on him and began fussing with the garnish around the bowl of pâté.
"You're not as tough as I thought, Abbie," he drawled.
"I don't particularly care what you think—about me or anything else."
"You're afraid of me, aren't you?"
"Don't be ridiculous," she snapped.
"Then why did you run away just now?"
"It certainly wasn't because I was afraid of you."
"Prove it."
"I don't have to." She was trembling inside with anger as well as his nearness. "Go away and leave me alone."
"I can't. I'm a hungry man." He spread his hand over her back, then let it glide familiarly down to her waist.
She couldn't remain indifferent to his touch, so she picked up the bowl and turned around with it, breaking the contact to face him. "Have some pâté then."
Smiling faintly, he took the bowl from her and set it back in its garnish nest, then braced a hand on the table behind her and leaned toward her. "Is that any way to talk to a fellow guest?" His breath smelled strongly of whiskey.
"You've been drinking."
"Of course. This is supposed to be a party, isn't it?" His glance swept the other guests milling about the area before coming back to her. "People usually drink at parties, don't they?"
"Yes." She looked away, angry and hurt that he was here saying all these things and stirring up her emotions because he'd had too much to drink—not because he still cared or because he wanted to make amends, but just for the hell of it.
"It's too bad you don't feel like joining me. You'd have a lot to celebrate. You see, my downhole testing system failed to pass its field tests."
She experienced a mixed reaction to his news. Although she was glad Rachel had lost the money she'd invested in it, she felt sorry for MacCrea, She knew how much the system had meant to him, and how hard he'd worked on it.
"What, no cheers?" he mocked. "I thought you'd be happy to hear it."
"I am," she said because it was what he expected her to say.
"Happy enough to have a drink with me?" MacCrea challenged, arching an eyebrow.
She hadn't realized how hard it would be to resist him, knowing she couldn't trust him, but somehow she managed it. "I'm not paid to fraternize with the guests. If you'll excuse me. . ." But when she tried to brush past him, he caught her arm.
"What do you mean by 'paid'?" A deep crease pulled his brows together as his gaze narrowed on her in sharp question.
"I happen to be a working woman with the responsibility of this party on my hands." She could feel the heat of his hand through the quilted silk of her jacket. She felt burned by the contact, and the memory of his pleasantly rough caresses. "I believe I told you once before to leave me alone. I hope I don't have to repeat myself." She hated the betraying tremor in her voice.
"I remember," he said smoothly, slowly taking his hand away, his level gaze never leaving her face. "I remember a lot of things, Abbie. More than that, I think you do, too."
Not trusting herself to respond to that, Abbie turned and retreated to the seeming chaos of the kitchen. The meeting with MacCrea had left her shaken—more shaken than she cared to admit. She tried to busy herself with something, anything that would get her mind off him. . . the way he had looked, what he was doing there, and why he had spoken to her at all. She wondered if he was regretting having done so. It hurt to think he might.
She picked up a silver coffee pot from the counter and carried it over to the tall stainless-steel urn to fill it, ignoring the constant comings and goings of the uniformed maids and waiters. As she turned away from the urn, she saw Rachel standing in the doorway, watching her.
Abbie stared at the elegant woman before her, taking in her dark hair skimmed back to emphasize the perfect oval of her face, the sparkling earrings of teardrop emeralds surrounded by glittering diamonds, and the figure-hugging gown of forest-green panne velvet that bore the unmistakable mark of Givenchy.
Suddenly Abbie wa
s painfully conscious of her surroundings—and the coffee pot in her hand. She had known all along that sooner or later Rachel would be a guest at one of the parties. But why did it have to be tonight? And why did she have to come face to face with her in the kitchen, of all places?
Or had Rachel sought her out here deliberately? Abbie was almost certain she had. What better way for Rachel to remind her that they were no longer on equal footing? What better way to humiliate her? If that was her intent, she had succeeded, but Abbie was determined not to let her see that.
"Did you want something, Mrs. Canfield?" she inquired, icily polite.
"I was looking for the powder room, but I must have taken a wrong turn somewhere. Perhaps you could direct me."
Abbie longed to challenge that lie, but she smiled instead. "I would like to, but, as you can see, I'm busy," she said, indicating the coffee pot she was holding. "However, I'm sure one of the maids would be happy to show you where it's located." She called one of them over and instructed her to guide Mrs. Canfield to the powder room.
"How thoughtful of you," Rachel said coolly. "But then, you do seem to be very thorough in your work. The next time Lane and I decide to have a party, perhaps I'll give you a call."
Abbie felt the digging gibe and reacted instinctively. "Something tells me we'll be booked."
Rachel laughed softly, a low taunting sound, then turned with a graceful pivot and walked down the hall, a bewildered maid trailing behind her. Abbie's face felt hot, and she knew the flush wasn't caused by the heat of the warming ovens.