by Annie Jones
She held her hand up. “Let’s leave my grandfather out of this, please.”
“Then that leads us right to another concern, your...personal domain? That might prove very distracting if someone really needed to focus all her energy on business.”
She knew exactly what he was getting at, but she wanted to hear him say it. “Go on.”
Greenhow raised his chin, or at least one of them. “We have, many of us who worked so closely with your father, found ourselves...more than a little concerned...over the ways in which your father, for want of a better word, indulged his family members...”
“Indulged.” She drew the word out in a rich, hushed tone, like someone savoring the first taste of fine chocolate. “Ahhh. Now we’re getting to it, aren’t we?”
A look of studied deliberation clouded Greenhow’s face. He rocked back and forth, sizing her up, clearly calculating just how much of his thinly concealed contempt she would stand for.
A pity he didn’t know he’d passed that mile marker a long time ago. Dixie rose again, slowly this time, from the worn leather chair where her daddy had commanded his empire for the last thirty-odd years. She strained to maintain control over every aching muscle and managed, out of sheer determination, not to let this man see any weakness in her.
Greenhow drew a breath and cocked his head. He opened his mouth as if preparing to say something big, or maybe he planned to try to cut her down to size.
She never gave him the chance. Grit and grace were her God-given gifts, and she utilized them both. Straightening her back and folding her arms over her chest, she pinned him with a look. “You are trying to say, as tactfully as you know how, I’m sure, that this is too taxing a job for a spoiled Southern belle who’s only training comes from a few years in a cushy job marketing the family business. That it is far beyond the grasp of someone so woefully unprepared to tackle the real, day-today trials of running the Fultons’ businesses, much less handle the delicate financial conundrums of managing my great-grandfather’s fortune.”
“It’s a big job for anyone,” he muttered, his pudgy fingers clawing at the small knot in his silk tie. “I was only trying to suggest—”
“Oh, I know what you want to suggest, Mr. Greenhow. I know what you’d tell me to my face, were you not so impressed with yourself and your pitiful game of cat and mouse. You’d tell me that the world of business and money is no place for a woman like me. That I should let you handle everything.”
“We are more familiar with the...situation here, Miss Fulton-Leigh, and able to take the reins immediately.” The deep, garbled tone of his words belied the heart-attack-red color in his face.
“So, I should just let you get on with the real work? Don’t ask questions? Don’t get involved? You’ll take care of every little thing on the business front? And me? I can go home and attend to the kind of thing I am far better suited for?” she lowered her voice to a quiet rumble. “Playing warden over the family nuthouse.”
His eyes widened.
“Is that what you’re trying to say, Mr. Greenhow?”
He pulled himself up to his full five-feet-two-inches and puffed out his chest. “I would never describe you or your family that way, Miss Fulton-Leigh.”
“Well, not to my face, you wouldn’t.” Her sarcasm was borne more of exhaustion than of ill manners.
She was tired. More tired than she had ever thought it humanly possible to be. She plopped back in her chair and put her hand to her forehead, relishing the coolness of her fingertips against her throbbing temple.
“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, Miss Fulton- Leigh, but it’s not a bad thing for you to realize that you may not be able to tend to everything you’ve just been handed all by yourself. You need some help.”
“You mean a man’s help?”
“I mean help. I won’t pretend that I don’t think a man’s help—a husband’s help, perhaps—wouldn’t be in order long about now.”
“A husband.” The whispered word created a gentle buzz on
Dixie’s lips. Greenhow wasn’t the first person to remind her that in this hour of need a husband might have come in pretty handy.
Dixie herself had thought it off and on many times since she got the call that her daddy was being rushed to the hospital. She touched her fingertips to her hairline then stopped herself from trying to run them through the triple layer of styling spritz that kept her hair tightly to her head.
A husband. Someone that she could lean on and trust, someone she could depend on for support and safekeeping. A person who would always be there for her, listen to her. Someone who would give as much to the relationship as Dixie did, who would cherish and appreciate her, even if he did not always agree with her. Someone she could completely trust as a partner—in business and in life. Did such a creature exist?
If he did, Dixie had not happened upon him yet. She’d thought she had a couple of times but, sadly, the men she had believed capable of that depth of commitment had proved her terribly wrong. Relationships of all kinds, according to Dixie’s experience, equaled one-sided responsibility.
Despite the sorrowful pang of loneliness that welled up inside her, she lifted her chin, sniffled, and echoed the sentiment again in her mind. Who needed a husband? Certainly not Dixie Fulton-Leigh.
“Thank you, for your frankness, Mr. Greenhow. I will give your suggestion all the consideration it’s due.” She folded her hands and watched a vile smugness creep over his entire disposition. When the attitude had consumed him from his ruddy face to his practically dancing toes, she swallowed back a bitter taste in her mouth and squared her shoulders. “That’ll just about do it, I think. Good-bye, Mr. Greenhow.”
“You mean you’re taking my advice and leaving all this for another time?” Greed-inspired glee. No other words could describe the lilt in his tone.
“No.” She leaned back. The seat groaned and sighed under her weight. Over the years the supple leather of that old chair had conformed itself to her father’s frame so that though it had sat empty for nearly two weeks now, it still held the outline of his broad shoulders. For only a fleeting instant it felt like Daddy was wrapping her up in one of his big hugs, the kind that drove away her every fear and doubt and made her feel she could be loved and safe forever.
Then the feeling passed and she looked up into Greenhow’s disdainful face. “No, Mr. Greenhow, I mean you’re fired.”
“But you can’t...” The redness flushed from his face and he blinked, his jaw slack. Then he drew in a deep breath and glowered at her. “You don’t fully understand what’s involved here, what’s at stake. Your father—”
“My father is gone and I will not do business with someone who holds my workers, my customers, me, my father, and my surviving family in the kind of shallow, mean-spirited contempt you’ve shown today. Now get out of my office, or I will have you escorted out.”
“This is not finished.” He wagged a finger at her even as he moved to make his exit.
“It is for you and your firm, I assure you.” She feigned an intense interest in the ledger she’d shoved aside earlier.
“Just because you are a member of this town’s founding family, does not mean you can run roughshod over reality, Miss Fulton-Leigh.” He stood with one foot in the office and one in the hall, his lips pale and tight, his eyes bulging. “And the reality is that you will regret this move—sooner rather than later. There are problems here at Fulton’s Fine Furniture that you are not taking into consideration. Problems I sincerely doubt you have any hope of knowing how to handle.”
She supposed she might have taken the threat more seriously had it not come out of someone who looked like a snapping turtle in a chokehold. As it was, she waved her hand, hummed an acknowledgment, and said, “My new lawyer will be equal to that task, Mr. Greenhow. He or she will be in touch, I’m sure.”
“Oh, we’ll be in touch, Miss, you can be sure. You can bet the family fortune on it.” The office door slammed shut.
Dixie rubbed the back of her neck, but it didn’t undo any of the stiffness there.
She didn’t know any other lawyers and she doubted if the other two local attorneys were capable of taking on the company that was the basis of the whole town’s economy. From what she knew, those men dealt mainly in wills, real estate, divorce, and adoption—the kind of legal requirements of the average citizen of Fulton’s Dominion.
Her needs, the needs of Fulton’s Fine Furniture Manufacturing, and those of her family were anything but average. And now she had gone and fired the only hope of help she had in managing them.
She took a long, shuddering breath, shut her eyes, and let the tears begin to flow.
Chapter Four
“Riley Walker, you are in a world of hurt.” Carol Foster called the comment out across the still back lot of Walker and Son Sawmill, waving a handful of white papers in one hand and clutching her black leather briefcase with the other.
Riley squinted in her direction, even though there was no blazing Mississippi sun to get in his eyes this time of day on an early March afternoon. He shifted his steel-toed work boots in the woodchip-covered ground and adjusted his yellow hard hat first forward, then back, then forward again. He knew why Carol had come, why she had waited until all but a few of his workers had called it quits on his last day working at the mill. He knew what she wanted to talk to him about and he was not a happy man.
“Wait up.” She picked her way through small oil slicks, sawdust, and mud just to get from her car to where he stood. Still, her dark blue suit looked like she’d just stepped out of a designer showcase and her high-heeled shoes remained impossibly spotless.
Riley tugged off one leather work glove and slapped it against his jeans, as if that could get rid of the filth of a full day’s work ground into his clothes. He shifted his hat once more, letting some air circulate over his scalp. He should take the fool thing off, as any gentleman would in the presence of a lady, but the thought of how his dark hair would be matted down in one place, drawn up into waves and annoying little curls in another made him think twice. Besides, taking his hat off for Carol might indicate a social pleasantry that Riley just did not feel right now.
“You didn’t need to drive all the way out here, Carol. I was planning to come by your office later in the week so we could discuss—”
Carol cut him off with a flourish of her hand. “Couldn’t wait. We have a court date coming up in eight weeks, Riley, and if we are not ready, you are going to find yourself in a world of hurt.”
“So you said.” He folded his arms over his chest, clenched and unclenched his fists, then heaved out a sigh. “All right, then. Why don’t we take this to the office and talk about it?”
“I can talk while we walk.” She started toward the sturdy shed-on-stilts creation that he had called his office since he took over for his father many years ago.
“Walking and talking, huh? That may be asking far too much for a poor, uneducated ape like me.” Riley fell in step beside her.
“Very funny. Lucky for you I don’t require anything complicated like gum-chewing or shoelace tying. A simple signature will do. I know you can scrawl out your name, honey because I’ve seen you do it on legal documents, credit card receipts, and even the occasional greeting card.” Her eyes flashed then she lowered her lashes and cocked her head. She gave him just a hint of smile as she reached into her briefcase. A second later, she offered Riley the ridiculously expensive fountain pen he’d given her just two weeks ago on Valentine’s Day.
A pen just like the dark-haired woman had given her elderly companion after their ill-fated run-in. Riley stared at the pen. He’d given it to Carol because he’d wanted what it represented for himself. He swallowed hard and started to guiltily put the pen out of sight, but before he could slide it into the pocket of his faded denim work shirt, Carol cleared her throat.
“No stalling. Time’s running out on this.”
“On what?” Did she know he’d been thinking about their doomed relationship?
“On what? On these.” She took the pen again and tapped the papers in her hand. “You’ve got to sign these papers right now authorizing an all-out slash-and-burn investigation of your sister so we can prove her an unfit mother, once and for all.”
He frowned at the pages bearing the familiar name of a private detective in Jackson, Mississippi. “I thought I told you I didn’t want to do things that way—”
“And I told you we have to be prepared for anything.” Her clipped, dispassionate words rushed over the top of his own slow, calculated ones.
He narrowed one eye, his lips tight against his clenched teeth then turned to lead the way up to his office. The sparse wooden stairs swayed and groaned under his weight.
“Be reasonable, Riley.” Carol’s heels barely made a sound on the rough steps as she followed in his wake. “We have to be at the ready with the most compelling case possible as to why you should be allowed to finalize adopting your niece.”
“I’ve raised her these last six-and-a-half years without any support or contact from Marcia.” He gave the office door a shove then stood aside to hold it open for Carol. “Isn’t that enough?”
She spun on her heel, her finger stabbing the air at a spot that would have been his breastbone had he been standing any closer to her. “You are asking the state to legally take the rights of a mother to her child. You can’t expect to accomplish that without some powerful evidence as to why it must be done, why the present situation is no longer adequate for the welfare of the child in question.”
He turned his gaze away from Carol, with her perfectly poofed-up hair the color of a golden honeycomb. He shut his eyes, but he could still picture her waiting for a better response from him, arms folded, standing stiff as oak beside his desk.
He saw her, but he wondered if she saw him. Not just the man standing before her, or even the guy who got cleaned up to take her to the movies Friday nights. Did she see the real Riley Walker? Her insistence in pushing this issue told him she didn’t.
“I don’t know that you’re right about this, Carol.” He whisked off his hard hat and flung it down. It hit the seat of his chair, rolled off, and landed with an emphatic thud on the weathered floorboards.
Carol glanced down but otherwise stood her ground.
“And you don’t know that you’re right about this, either, Carol. You’re just hedging your bets, trying to cover all the bases.” He spread his arms wide, like an umpire calling a man safe. “That’s your job—to point out the options to me, and I understand that.”
“Good.” She held the papers and pen out to him again. “Then maybe we can—”
“Pressing those option against my wishes, though.” He laced his arms over his chest. “That is not your job. Not as I see it. Not as I pay you to do it.”
The mention of payment brought a fleeting, flinching response. No matter what their personal relationship was—or more aptly put, was not—when they got right down to the marrow of it, Carol worked for Riley. Everyone who worked for Riley knew they did things Riley’s way or no way at all.
“When you first brought this idea up, I told you I wouldn’t go along with it.” He dropped into the chair behind his cluttered desk. “That hasn’t changed.”
She gathered her breath up in one sharp intake, as if readying to launch into another argument.
He pushed both hands back through his damp hair, not caring how much of a mess he made of his appearance. With his palms all but covering his ears, he gritted his teeth and forced out a hoarse whisper, “I don’t want to fight with you today, Carol.”
“I don’t want us to fight today or any day” There was a definite air of one-upmanship to her tone.
That was Carol, always taking things a little further than necessary to ensure she came out on top. He laughed without feeling amused, then pointed to the empty seat across the desk. That was as close as he intended to get to asking her to sit down and stay. “Then let’s just drop it, why don�
�t we?”
“Drop the whole case?” She remained standing. “Because if you back away from my plan now, Riley, that’s what you may be doing. You’re reluctance to pursue every avenue, to make sure we have all the advantages in this petition, could jeopardize everything.”
She did not see him...not at all. He lifted his gaze to her and simply shook his head.
Carol exhaled in that way women had of sticking home the guilt without actually having to nag or needle. That hard, purposeful sigh that made even strong men wince like they’d just sucked a lemon through a split lip.
To be fair, he realized he didn’t see Carol, either. Didn’t see her point of view in this and didn’t see how to make her understand his. Riley relaxed, as much as the situation allowed, then swiveled around to stare out the enormous, dust-and- grime-tinted picture window that framed his battered, paper- strewn desk.
Raw lumber, monstrous saws, burly men with chaws of tobacco in their jaws and words not fit for polite company overflowing their mouths—those were the things he understood. Walker and Son Sawmill had risen from a struggling operation to a top producer, from a handful of workers to nearly one hundred employees over the years. Riley had made it happen mostly with his own two hands and his own mule-headed determination. He’d done it so well that when the international companies began buying up the small operations, his could still stand and compete. And he still could if his personal circumstances didn’t dictate he change things. He’d sold his company for the same reason he had worked so hard all those years with that single-minded drive: to provide security for his family
That was all that mattered. Family. It was all that counted beyond faith and honor. Now Carol was asking him to turn his back on two of those things for the only reason he would ever even consider it.
For his child.
A dull ache gripped his chest, like his heart had clenched up into a paralyzed fist. He took a deep breath and stared out the window. As he exhaled, slowly, the pain subsided. “You know I’ve worked at this mill since I was old enough to ride my bike over after school.”