Strange. Not that it made any difference. It was all so long ago, and straightening out the legal complications would cost more than it was worth, even if anybody cared. She certainly didn't.
“What it means,” Janet Baylor said, “is that it doesn't matter whether there was ever a deed to the mill land or not. What it means is that Lavinia Greenley, when she deeded the land, if she deeded it, had no legal right to make the transfer. She had no widow's usufruct of her former husband's property. The most she could have done, legally, was to hold it for her minor son, your great-grandfather, Jonathan Wiley Greenley.”
Janet Baylor was now watching Cammie expectantly. Cammie stared at her, trying to understand the significance of what the other woman was saying. She saw the faint outlines of it, but her mind would not quite encompass it.
The pale, brown-haired woman leaned toward her. “Don't you see? Horace and Lavinia's son and only legal heir, Jonathan Wiley Greenley, had two sons and a daughter. The daughter died young of polio. The oldest son married at twenty-three, during World War Two, but was killed at Guadalcanal; he never had children. The only surviving child was your father. You are his only child, the only legal descendant. The mill land belongs to you. And the ninety-nine-year lease expires in less than two years.”
Hers. The mill land, and by extension the mill itself, were rightfully hers. The words recurred in Cammie's mind, slowly gathering force.
She said, “The Swedish company isn't interested in renewing the lease. They want to buy outright.”
Janet Baylor gave a quick, hard nod. “If you want to prevent the mill buy-out, all you have to do is refuse to sell.”
The exultation that swept through Cammie was fierce. She could save the trees, save the land, save the red-cockades. The battle was over before it had begun. As the owner of the mill, she could structure the ecology of the parish as she saw fit. Nothing and nobody could stand in her way. The relief, the sheer, glorious gladness of it, bubbled in her veins like champagne. The smile that curved her mouth shone brilliant in her eyes.
Then slowly, surely, the effervescent joy began to go flat.
If the town died, she would be solely, completely responsible in a way she would not have been before, when there had been other people acting with her in opposition to the buy-out. It was a sobering thought.
“There's another angle,” Janet Baylor said. “It just came to me last night — and is a big part of the reason I decided to see you this morning. If you own the land, and are the only heir, then you should have been getting the money for the lease all these years. On an annual basis, the lease amount Justin Sayers agreed to doesn't amount to much, a dollar per acre per year. But if you add it up over a hundred years and compound it at an average interest rate — as a court might order after litigation — the total comes to a considerable amount. That's money the mill owners would owe you, whether you decide to sell or not.”
Cammie stared at the other woman while what she had just heard revolved in her head along with a burgeoning suspicion. She hesitated, then said with care, “I think you mentioned that you discovered all this several weeks ago. Does that mean that the results have been passed on to whoever requested it at the mill?”
“Yes, it has.”
“And do you mind telling me — or do you know? — who it was who contacted Lane, Endicott and Lane?”
Janet Baylor nodded once. “The way I understand it, the request came from Gordon Hutton.”
Cammie had not known she was holding her breath until it left her in a soft rush. Reid had hardly been home long enough to have authorized the work of the paralegal, but it still might have been done by his father. In that case, it was unlikely that he would not know the results. With Gordon behind it, the same thing did not necessarily follow.
There was one person, however, who almost certainly had known. That person was her ex-husband.
Contempt gathered inside Cammie, spreading as it grew. The reason for Keith's sudden interest in nullifying the divorce petition and taking his old place as her husband was glaringly apparent. Under Louisiana's community property laws, half of everything she gained during the course of their marriage was legally his. If the mill was sold, and she was awarded ownership by the courts, he would collect half. Even if the sale fell through, he stood to rake in a share of the huge sum that might come from the old lease.
But if the divorce petition was granted before everything was settled, then he would miss his honey-fall. He would get nothing. Nothing at all.
She would see to it, Cammie thought, that he got exactly what he deserved.
Bringing her mind back to the woman beside her with difficulty, she said, “I can't tell you how grateful I am to you for coming to me. But you won't get in trouble for it, will you?”
Janet Baylor pressed her lips together before she answered. “I don't exactly know. You'll want to use what I've told you, I expect, otherwise there's no point. But when you do, do you think you could — forget how you found out about it?”
“I'm sure I could do that, yes,” Cammie agreed, reaching out to touch the other woman's hand.
They both smiled with understanding at the same time.
Late the next day Cammie decided to talk to Reid. She had mulled the things she had learned over in her mind for more than twenty-four hours. Yet the more she thought about it, the more angles she found to consider, the more possibilities and unanswered questions. She was tired of what she had come to feel was a useless mental exercise. Most of all, she was tired of the doubts.
Regardless, the new aspect that had been placed on the contention between Reid and herself was not the only thing on her mind. There was another suspicion that had gradually crowded out most considerations.
It had to do with Reid's confession that he had watched her the night of her meeting, and also as she was growing up. No matter how many times she went over what had been said that evening, she could not remember him saying those were the only times that he had watched. Nor could she recall any hint of a promise that he would never do it again.
Those lapses, she had come to believe, were significant. She intended to test the idea.
She made her arrangements early. It was not that there was that much to do, rather that she didn't trust leaving anything until the last minute.
She laid out a costume consisting of a dark gray windbreaker, black stirrup pants, long-sleeved knit shirt, socks and shoes. Stripping off what she wore, she dressed quickly in the dark clothes. A few minutes later, while there was still a faint glow of daylight in the sky, she let herself out of the house.
She paused for a moment in the side garden to lift her head and sniff the fragrance of sweet olive and azaleas on the night air. She thought she caught a whiff of honeysuckle, too, plus the faint, acrid odor of privet. There was none of the pesky privet shrubs around the house itself now, but there had once been a hedge planted by her grandfather in the thirties. It had been pulled up and destroyed, but its remnants grew wild in the surrounding woods, established by seed scattered by birds. Her steps light, she moved on, heading toward the smell.
She chose a huge, old privet for her refuge. It was thick enough for cover, but had no thorns or prickly foliage. The interior limbs were low enough to make a good perch, and stout enough to hold her weight. The greatest advantage, though, was that the scent of the blooms would cover any lingering hint of her own perfume.
She was taking no chances. She remembered Reid's demonstration of his reflexes and his abilities too well.
Waiting was not easy. There were a thousand tiny rustlings and creaks, chirpings and calls as darkness slowly thickened in the woods. The fine, soft leaves of the privet shifted with the breeze and her slightest movement, brushing against her with the same delicate touch as tiny spiders and other crawling things. Gnats found her, blowing around her eyes, and there came, now and then, the insistent whine of a mosquito in search of bare flesh.
She had left several lights burning inside the house. As t
he night darkened, the long beams shining from the windows made squares of brightness on the grass, and sent their gleams into the edges of the woods. She watched the open spaces between the trees, adjusting her eyes to the natural shadows that shifted in them as an aid to spotting what was unnatural.
The tree branch she was sitting on began to cut into her legs. She shifted a little, and reminded herself to be patient.
She saw the moving shadow perhaps a half hour later. Her breath caught in her throat, and she strained her eyes to follow it through the trees. It was low to the ground, small and gliding, totally silent. Keeping to the undergrowth just out of range of the light from the house, it moved swiftly and with purpose.
It was a cat.
Cammie relaxed, leaning her head back against the privet's trunk. A spider web attached itself to her cheek and became tangled in her lashes. She wiped it away and sighed.
One moment the opening she had been watching between a sweet gum and a cedar was empty. The next it was filled by the width of a man's shoulders.
Cammie blinked to be certain she wasn't seeing things. The image, broad, bulky, and powerful, blended with the shadows, disappearing then appearing again.
Reid.
She hardly dared to breathe as she watched him reconnoiter the house, moving soundlessly in a wide circle around it. He might have been a ghost, or a larger version of the cat she had seen earlier, or even the panther to which she had once compared him. Satisfied, apparently, that all was as it should be, he returned to a place some thirty yards away, in a direct line with her bedroom window. Hunkering down on his heels, he took up a post. An instant after he ceased moving, she had to rub her eyes and focus with care to tell he was there.
She had been right. That knowledge did strange things to her. She wasn't certain what she felt most, threatened or protected, afraid or gratified.
The one thing she didn't feel was indifferent. She was aware of a giving sensation, as if her primitive female self was responding to the night and the quiet strength of the man who watched. It wasn't what she wanted, but she could not seem to help it.
So what now?
She had a few choice things to say to him. If she could get near enough to do it without him massacring her. She opened her mouth to call out to him in warning. Abruptly, she closed it again.
There was something about his shape there in the gray-blackness of the night that bothered her. Was it too large, too compact? Had there been just a suspicion of awkwardness in the way he settled to his heels?
It had to be Reid; who else could it be?
Unless it was Keith.
It seemed so unlikely. Keith had never been much for hunting. Besides, he was too thin in the body to cast that much shadow.
Yet it had to be one or the other. Didn't it?
The soft night breeze was in her face. That meant she was downwind from whoever was sitting there. It was possible that any slight sound she made would be carried away. She could try to get closer before she made her presence known.
She eased from her perch with exquisite care. Holding the branches aside to keep them from brushing against her, she ducked under them, then stepped carefully from the privet. She had been forced to take her eyes from the place where Reid had been resting. When she looked back, she could no longer see him.
Had he moved, or had she changed her angle of vision, losing him in the shadows? She couldn't tell. She clenched her teeth as a nervous shiver ran over her. Halting with one foot barely on the ground, she hovered in indecision.
It was impossible to stand where she was all night. In any case, there was no guarantee that it was safe, not if the man she had seen was on the prowl — whoever he might be.
She took a slow step, placing her foot just so, putting her weight on it a little at a time to avoid the crackle of fallen leaves. Bit by bit she shifted deeper into the woods, circling away from the house and the man who watched there.
It might have been an hour later, it might have been two hours, when Cammie saw the faint glimmer of the lights of Evergreen through the trees once more. She stepped among the lower limbs of a young pine while she stood straining her eyes at the shadows, turning her head this way and that to listen.
This was crazy, even stupid. She couldn't imagine what had made her think that discovering if Reid was out here was worth risking her neck. She was tired of playing this high-stakes version of hide-and-seek, tired of straining every muscle to keep from making a sound. If she could just get anywhere near her own back door without being maimed, she was going to hightail it inside faster than a cat could blink.
There was nothing to be seen except trees and dew-silvered grass and shadows that were cast by the rising moon, moving gently in the breeze. She was going to go for it. She stepped gingerly from her cover.
A strong arm snaked around her waist, snatching her back against a body as hard and firmly planted as a hickory tree. Her gasp of shock and terror was smothered by a warm hand clamped across her mouth.
“If Keith or anybody else starts wearing gardenia perfume,” Reid growled at her ear in weary exasperation, “I'm in big trouble.”
10
“HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN OUT HERE, right here?” Cammie said the minute she could peel his fingers from her mouth.
She felt the stillness that came over him. “You saw someone else?”
“That's what I'm trying to find out.”
His decision was immediate. “Stay here,” he said, the words so low she was barely certain she heard them. “Put your back to the big pine right behind us. Then don't move a finger, not even so much as a millimeter. Don't cough, don't sneeze, don't make a sound, not even a whisper. I'll be back.”
He was gone before she could answer. She stood exactly as he left her for long seconds, trying to control the tremors that suddenly affected her knees. Dear God, but this man could get to her. And the irritating thing was that she wasn't sure whether it was fear or unbridled female yearning. Whichever it was, she didn't like it.
She moved after a moment to do as he said, however. It wasn't a question of obedience, but rather of self-preservation. She didn't intend to give him any excuse for making a mistake about just who it was he was scouting.
The only reason she was aware of his return, she thought, was because he intended it. One moment there was only darkness, the next he was silhouetted against the light from the house. He made no sound, but stood an instant until he knew she saw him. Then he took her hand, drawing her with him away from Evergreen. It was after they had stopped, deep in a section of tall pines a good half mile or more away from the house, that she recognized how trustingly she had followed him.
It was infuriating, when she had so little reason.
The pace he had set had been more sure than swift, but she was still breathless as she stood so close beside him. Her hand in his felt extra warm, as if she touched pure energy. His stance was alert, intent, his attention focused on the way they had come. She waited until he turned to her with an easing in his bearing before she spoke in soft tones.
“You didn't find anything back there?”
“Some sign,” he said with a slight movement of his shoulders. “It might have been yours; it was hard to tell in this light.”
“There was someone there, unless you were playing games.” She did not trouble to hide her suspicion.
“I wasn't,” he said evenly, “but I'm willing.”
“I'm not! I've had more than enough sneaking around.”
“Fine. You can find your own way back any time.”
A chill feathered down her spine. Her voice taut, she said, “I could, believe it or not. But since I came out here because I wanted to talk to you, it would be self-defeating.”
“I thought you were going to yell for the police the next time I came near your place.”
“It seems like a better idea all the time,” she said in exasperation.
“But not so long as you have a use for me,” he suggested, his voice unco
mpromising. “Why feel around in the dark? Why not just pick up the phone?”
“I didn't think you'd be home, since you had very kindly told me where I might find you.” She waited, not quite breathing, for his answer.
“Maybe,” he said softly, “I told you too much.”
“Or not enough,” she shot back at him as she heard the evasion in his voice. Recognizing also its troubling intensity, she hurried on. “You could have mentioned, for instance, that there is no record of Justin Sayers ever owning the mill land.”
He was silent for so long that Cammie was certain he was weighing excuses. When he spoke, however, his tone was quietly searching. “You want to run that by me one more time?”
Without revealing the source of her information, Cammie told him what Janet Baylor had said in as much detail as she could remember. When she was finished, she paused, then added, “I'm not sure of all the legal complications, but the gist of it seems to be that I own your mill.”
“Congratulations,” he said.
Cammie, hearing the irony in his tone, and his lack of anger, felt her joy slipping further away. Frowning to herself in the dark, she said, “Aren't you going to contest it?”
“Why? I've always been a little uncomfortable with the idea of a family fortune based on a woman's generosity.”
There was something here she didn't quite grasp. In an effort to understand, she said, “What if my information is wrong?”
“In that case, the hard decisions will be mine again.”
“I don't understand you,” she said, the words stark.
“It's no great problem,” he answered. “I'll fight to the death to protect what's mine, but I refuse to raise a single drop of sweat over something that isn't.”
A tight smile curled one corner of her mouth. “I doubt your partners will feel the same.”
He was fast, she had to give him that. There were scant seconds between the time she finished speaking and his short laugh.
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