“I’m an old man—”
Trace laughed. “Fifty-four isn’t old. Although …” Trace hesitated, then decided he might as well get everything out in the open. “You are a grandfather.”
“What?”
“Eli Monroe is my son. Your grandson.”
His father choked on cigar smoke.
Trace crossed and pounded him on the back. “Are you all right?”
Blackjack straightened and shifted away from Trace. “I think so. This is a surprise. A shock, I should say.”
“For me, too,” Trace admitted as he crossed back to the fireplace and laid an arm on the mantel.
“You didn’t know about the boy, then, when you took off?”
“No, I didn’t,” Trace said.
“Well, well. This puts a new face on things. Did that prenuptial agreement you signed say anything about whether your son gets a piece of Three Oaks?”
Trace shook his head in disgust at his father’s one-track mind. “Eli’s going with me to Australia, Dad.”
“Callie, too?”
Trace realized he was skating on thin ice. “That hasn’t been decided.”
“Who hasn’t made up their mind? You? Or her?”
“I’ve asked her to come with me. After what’s happened, I don’t have a clue what she’s going to decide.”
“You mean, after Russell Handy admitted that he hired someone to kill Jesse,” Blackjack said.
“Yeah.” Trace glanced at the door, wishing Owen would arrive, wondering what was keeping him. It was Summer he found standing on the threshold.
“Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?” Summer asked as she crossed and sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. Or rather, sat across one of the two chairs. Her booted feet hung over one arm.
“What’s up?” she asked Trace.
At that moment, Owen arrived and said, “I just got a call from Clay. He’s got a meeting with the governor, and he can’t fly down. We’ll have to manage without him.”
“What is it you wanted to discuss?” Blackjack asked.
“Where’s Mom?” Owen said. “I’d rather wait for her.”
“She’ll be along soon,” Blackjack said. “Why don’t we get started?”
“All right,” Owen said. “I suppose there’s some business we can take care of before she arrives.”
Trace felt the adrenaline shoot through his veins. It was starting. Soon, he’d know which of his parents was a murderer.
Owen closed the library door, then turned to face Blackjack and asked, “Was Russell Handy acting on your orders when he arranged to have Jesse Creed shot?”
Summer jumped to her feet and put herself nose to nose with Owen. “How can you accuse Daddy of something like that? You should be ashamed of yourself!”
“Sit down, Summer,” Trace said.
“But, Trace—”
“You’re here because Owen said you were old enough to handle the truth. Don’t prove him wrong.”
Summer’s eyes were wide and frightened as her gaze shifted from Trace to Owen and back again, before they finally rested on Blackjack.
Blackjack’s narrowed gaze remained fixed on Owen. A muscle jerked in his cheek.
“Daddy?” Summer said in a halting voice. “Tell him you had nothing to do with Jesse Creed’s death.”
“I’m waiting for an answer,” Owen said.
“I’d never have ordered someone else to shoot Jesse Creed,” Blackjack said angrily. “I’d have reserved that pleasure for myself.”
Trace let out the breath he’d been holding. He did it more quietly than Summer, who blew out a puff of air and then plopped back into one of the chairs in front of the desk.
“Well,” she said. “Thank goodness that’s settled. For a minute there I was a little anxious.”
“We’re not done yet,” Owen said.
“What now?” Summer demanded.
“Now we wait for Mom.”
“What does your mother have to do with this?” Blackjack asked.
Trace exchanged a look with Owen. Surely his brother wasn’t going to tell Blackjack about their mother’s affair with Russell Handy. Not after keeping it a secret all these years.
Before Owen could reply, Trace said, “Were you aware that Mom is jealous of Lauren Creed?”
“That’s ridiculous. Your mother has nothing to be jealous of.”
Trace barely managed to avoid laughing in his father’s face. “Excuse me, Dad, but you’ve made it pretty plain—to all of us—how you feel about Mrs. Creed.”
“What do feelings have to do with anything? I’ve never been unfaithful to your mother with the woman.”
Maybe not physically, Trace thought. But in every other way that counted, his father had betrayed his marriage vows to his mother.
“There’s never been a night in thirty-three years that I haven’t slept beside your mother,” Blackjack said.
Trace was surprised by the admission. He couldn’t help wondering whether they still had marital relations. Well, of course they must still have intercourse. As he’d pointed out himself, at fifty-four, his father was still a young and virile man. Especially if his father had been, as he’d said, faithful to his mother.
But what if his father was merely sleeping with his mother? What if that was the extent of what they did together in bed? Maybe his mother blamed the lack of conjugal relations on Lauren Creed, and had finally decided to do something to solve the problem.
His thoughts were cut off as the library door opened, and his mother walked in.
She was dressed in a plum-colored suit from her favorite designer—Trace couldn’t remember the name. It was elegant without being ostentatious. She smiled at Trace and Summer—and ignored Owen—as she crossed to stand beside Blackjack, where he sat at the desk, and slid her arm around his shoulder.
“To what do we owe this gathering of our children?” she said.
“It seems Owen had the bright idea that I arranged to have Jesse Creed killed,” Blackjack said.
“But, Jackson, of course you didn’t do any such tiling!” his mother said.
“That’s what Daddy told him,” Summer confirmed.
“How about you, Mother?” Owen said. “Are you responsible for Jesse Creed’s murder?”
Trace was watching his mother, and for the flicker of an eyelash, he thought he saw fury in her eyes. Then she looked into the distance, her eyes almost dreamy, and said, “What an unnatural son you are, Owen, to accuse your mother of such a thing.”
“I call them as I see them,” Owen said bluntly.
“What possible reason could I have for wanting Jesse Creed dead?” she asked.
“It wasn’t Jesse you wanted dead. It was Ren.”
Trace saw his father visibly stiffen.
“Explain yourself, boy,” Blackjack said to Owen.
Owen’s eyes never left their mother as he spoke. “Do you want to tell him about you and Handy? Or do you want me to do it?”
She stared back at Owen as though he weren’t there.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Blackjack demanded.
“I’m talking about Mom’s love affair with Russell Handy,” Owen said.
Summer gasped.
Blackjack rose and started toward Owen. “Why you—”
“Stop right there, Dad,” Trace said, stepping in front of his father. “And listen to what Owen has to say.”
“I don’t believe that bullshit you’re spouting for an instant,” Blackjack said to Owen.
“Just listen, Dad,” Trace said. “Hear him out.”
Blackjack took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”
“We know Russell Handy hired the man who shot Jesse Creed,” Owen began. “Handy works for you, so the logical conclusion would be that you ordered Handy to have Jesse shot.”
“But I did no such thing,” Blackjack said.
“Right. So if you didn’t order Jesse Creed shot, who
did?”
“Maybe Handy did it on his own,” Summer said.
“For what reason?” Owen challenged. He turned to Blackjack and said, “Do you know of any personal grievance Handy had against Jesse Creed? Any reason he would want Jesse dead?”
“None,” Blackjack conceded.
“Then who else could Handy have been working for?” Owen asked.
Trace saw his father was perplexed. He saw the moment his gaze shifted to his mother, then watched it move back to Owen.
“How do you know your mother had an affair with Handy?”
“I saw them together in the barn,” Owen said.
Trace watched his father’s mouth thin, saw his eyes narrow as he turned back to his wife.
“What do you have to say for yourself, Eve?”
“At least he loves me, Jackson. Which is more than you can say.”
Trace watched as his father worked to conceal the shock and humiliation of such an admission. His hands balled into fists, and his jaw was clamped so tight, a muscle jerked in his cheek. Trace waited for him to speak, but his lips thinned, and he remained silent. His tenuous control of the burning rage that lit his eyes was more frightening to behold than an eruption of fury.
Trace and Owen both stepped in front of their mother, fearing that their father might strike her.
“I’m not going to hit her,” Blackjack said at last. “She’s nothing to me now.”
“I was never anything to you,” Trace heard his mother say from behind him. “You were always obsessed with that woman. I wish she were dead!”
Blackjack turned on Owen and demanded, “If you believe your mother arranged to have Jesse shot—and that she’s a danger to Ren—why haven’t you arrested her?”
“So long as Handy doesn’t talk, there’s no proof she’s guilty. But you heard what she just said. She belongs somewhere she can get help, Dad.”
Blackjack nodded curtly. His face looked drawn. His eyes were cold and merciless. “I’ll make certain Handy doesn’t talk,” he said at last. “I’d just as soon the world doesn’t know your mother is a murderer. As for you …” His eyes focused on his wife. “You won’t have to worry about competing with Lauren Creed anymore, Eve. I’m divorcing you.”
Summer let out a wail.
His mother’s face paled. “You’ll be sorry if you try.”
Blackjack turned to Owen and said, “I’ll see a judge in the morning to arrange to have your mother put away where she won’t be able to hurt anyone else.”
“I’ve made arrangements for someone to pick Mother up tonight,” Owen said. “That is, if you’re willing to sign the papers.”
“I’ll sign them,” Blackjack said.
“I’ll make you pay if you do this, Jackson,” his mother said. “You’ll pay more than you can bear.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Trace said, his stomach churning. “Owen, call your people and get them in here. Summer, go cry in your room.”
Summer hurried from the room, sobbing.
“Dad, sign the commitment papers and leave. Owen and I will take care of Mom.”
Two burly men appeared at the library door. Trace thought they looked like wrestlers from the WWF. One had a shaved head and a Van Dyck beard. The other had tiny eyes and a bulbous nose. They were wearing clean white uniforms, with white web belts and white nurses’ shoes.
“Mom, I’ll come and visit you,” Trace said, as they led his mother away.
“I’d rather see Clay,” she replied. “He’s the only one of you I can trust.”
His mother walked between the two men to the library door, where she calmly announced to Blackjack, “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.”
Trace waited for his father to leave, then closed the door behind him. He sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk. Owen sank into the other.
Trace sighed. “What a mess.”
“Mom is guilty, Trace. Don’t feel sorry for her.”
“I don’t. I feel sorry for the rest of us.” He forked his fingers through his hair in agitation. “I have no idea how I’m going to explain this to Callie. It was bad enough when she thought Dad was guilty. How can I tell her about Mom? Especially when there’s been no justice for her father’s murder.”
“You’re wrong about that,” Owen said.
“Oh, really?”
“You can tell Callie that Mom has suffered the perfect punishment for her crime.”
“What punishment?” Trace asked.
“She lost Dad.”
Chapter 19
CALLIE STARED AT EVE BLACKTHORNE’S painting with something akin to awe. It stood on an easel in the elegant ballroom of the Worthington Hotel in downtown Fort Worth being ogled by an upscale Western crowd that had just paid $250 a plate for a lukewarm steak dinner at the Charles Goodnight Gala.
The ceremonies were over, and Blackjack had been a humble and gracious recipient of the Charles Goodnight Award. Callie had been surprised at the pride she’d seen glowing on the faces of all his children—all except Clay, who’d pleaded a last-minute emergency and hadn’t shown up.
Unfortunately, Eve Blackthorne had suffered a mental breakdown—Callie wondered if it was related to the accusations relating to her father’s murder that had been made against Blackjack—and was recuperating in a sanitarium.
It had been hard to sit at the same table with the Blackthornes, knowing that their father was alive and celebrating life, and that he was the reason that hers was not. Callie finally understood what her father had felt whenever he met Blackjack. Finally understood what it meant to hate someone so much that the mere sight of him tied your gut in knots and made bile rise in your throat.
But Trace had insisted she attend the gala. “You’re my wife,” he’d said. “You’re family, and you belong there.”
Impossible to think of herself as one of them—a detestable Blackthorne—but heaven help her, she was.
Callie was occasionally jostled by the crowd of attendees who ambled the borders of the ballroom, signing up to buy items in the silent auction being held to benefit the Charles Goodnight Scholarship Fund. In a few moments, the live portion of the auction was scheduled to begin.
The “live” part didn’t merely refer to the fact an auctioneer would be singing his patter. Among the items up for bid was a “live” fifteen-hundred-pound Longhorn steer with a majestic eight-foot span of horns. It had been brought up in the freight elevator and, Callie noted with amusement, had allowed itself to be led around the carpeted ballroom on a halter.
And then there was Eve Blackthorne’s painting, which she had titled “Supernatural Love.” Callie hadn’t been able to take her eyes off of it. The featureless bodies she’d seen in the stands at the Rafter S when she’d previously studied the painting had become recognizable people. Herself. Trace. Blackjack. Her father. But, oddly, not her mother.
Where her mother had stood between the two fighting men, another figure had been substituted. Eve Blackthorne had painted herself into the picture, gazing up at Blackjack with a look of adoration. Callie wondered why Mrs. Blackthorne had made the change, until she remembered something the woman had said in her studio. “I like to make things perfect, the way God intended them to be.”
So she’d painted out the woman who was the source of conflict between the two men and painted herself in. Husband and wife adoring one another. The way things should be. The poor woman seemed to be as much Blackjack’s victim as everyone else who came into his realm.
Callie flinched when she felt Trace’s arm slide around her waist.
“Where did you go?” Trace said. “I missed you.”
“I’ve been studying your mother’s painting.”
“It should earn a lot of money for the scholarship fund,” Trace said.
“Have you taken a good look at it?” Callie asked.
Trace looked at the painting. “What is it I’m supposed to see?”
“The woman standing between Blackjack and my father that day was my m
other, not yours.”
Trace stared at his knotted fist. “Yeah? So what?”
“She painted herself in, because she should have been the one singled out for attention by your father, not my mother. I can’t help feeling sorry for her.”
“Don’t,” Trace said. “She doesn’t deserve your pity.”
“I don’t know why not. She—”
“She’s the one who had your father shot.”
Callie’s eyes went wide with shock. “What?” she gasped.
“I’ve been meaning to tell you. I just … didn’t know how. This is not the time or the place to discuss this.”
“You can’t say something like that and not explain.”
“We’ve both got horses competing in the semifinal round of the Open Futurity tomorrow,” he said, taking her hand and heading for the escalator. “You need your rest.”
“I’ll rest after you explain.”
“I’ll explain in the room,” Trace said.
Callie bit her tongue on the escalator going back down to the main floor. She remained silent as they got on the elevator to go up to their room in the hotel. She was having too much trouble absorbing Trace’s revelation.
Eve Blackthorne had arranged to have her father killed. Was that why she’d had a nervous breakdown? Why hadn’t someone—Owen, in particular—said something before now, if Eve Blackthorne was the culprit? But then, the Blackthornes took care of their own. Maybe they were concealing whatever evidence existed against Mrs. Blackthorne, so she wouldn’t have to go to jail.
Callie intended to find out the truth.
The luxuriousness of the Worthington, with its fresh floral arrangements and lush carpets, reminded her that she was living in a different world now that she was one of them. This was a far cry from the Holiday Inn down the street from the Will Rogers Center, with its rubber-backed curtains and rattling windows overlooking the train tracks, where she had stayed in the past.
The instant the hotel room door closed behind them, she turned on Trace and demanded, “Why did she do it?”
“She was jealous of your mother.”
Callie frowned in confusion. “So she had my father killed? That makes no sense.”
“Think about it. If your father was dead, you’d very likely lose Three Oaks and your mother would leave the neighborhood,” Trace explained.
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