Did she really want to know which one was Jamie? It would only sadden her to look at his tiny face and know that Hank would never see his son again. As she always did, she took refuge in her work. Time to update the client. She picked up her cell phone and phoned Leila.
When she answered, Amy asked, “Are you still in Seattle?”
“Yes. I’ll be here a few more days. How’s the ranch?”
“It’s lovely here.”
“What did you find out?”
Amy heard the concern in Leila’s voice. “I have nothing to tell you yet. Just wanted to let you know what I’m up against here.” She eyed the stacks of papers on the desk. “You should see the mess I started to wade through this afternoon. This is the most disorganized set of finances I’ve ever seen. All I’ve had time to do is houseclean.”
She didn’t mention that she’d been slowed by the sweetest little girl and had enjoyed every minute of it.
More papers lay scattered on the floor, where they’d fallen when she’d tried to sort them.
“I don’t understand it.” Leila’s strong voice sounded like it came from the room next door rather than miles away. “Dad only died a year ago. He would have kept everything up. He was an organized man.”
“Was he suffering from Alzheimer’s?”
“The man was smart as a whip until the day he died. I’m sure he would have taught Hank his filing system. Hank isn’t a lazy man.”
“Hmm. Well, when I have news for you, I’ll call.”
“Maybe you should visit the bank. According to their letter, they want to foreclose unless that mortgage is paid. Why on earth isn’t Hank paying it?”
“I can’t help you yet, Leila, until I sort through all of the paperwork. I don’t know where the money is going if not against that mortgage.”
Amy lowered her voice. “You do know that if things are as bad as the bank says, you will need to sell the ranch. Immediately. Before the bank has the chance to foreclose and you lose everything.”
“I’ll take your expert advice on that,” Leila answered. “We’ll do whatever you think best.”
How uncharacteristic of Leila to give me control, Amy thought as she hung up, but had no time to mull it over. Hank stood in the doorway, his lips pinched in a thin line. Oh, dear. He’d heard what she’d said. Why hadn’t she closed the door?
“Who are you?” he asked, his voice tight.
She frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Why does Leila trust you so much? She isn’t like that with anyone.”
“Leila and I met five years ago, when she took aerobics classes I was teaching. We hit it off.” She raised one shoulder, then dropped it. “I’m not sure why. She’s a couple of decades older than me and we have such different personalities, but our affection for each other is real.”
The hard edges of Hank’s face eased a bit.
“Leila helped me through some difficult years,” Amy said. “I owe her my help.”
Hank looked resigned and turned to leave. Amy stopped him. Might as well get everything out into the open.
“You’ll have to face the truth at some point, Hank,” she said. “Selling might be your only alternative.”
He turned back. “There is nothing wrong with the money and the ranch,” he insisted.
“The letter from the bank says something completely different. They’re talking about foreclosure.”
Hank’s eyes widened and his jaw dropped. He took a step into the office. “Foreclosure? That’s impossible. The bank told me everything is fine.”
Amy frowned. What on earth was going on?
Hank’s hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.
“Leila would go along with selling the ranch?”
“Yes,” Amy said. “I believe she would.”
“Why did Dad give the ranch to her? Why didn’t he will it to both of us?”
Amy shook her head, regretful that she couldn’t help him out. She had no idea what the family dynamics were.
“Why can’t you do something to fix this?” he asked.
“I’ll do everything I can, but if you’ve mismanaged your funds, then you will have to pay the consequences.”
Hank stared at her as if she was something disgusting. It hurt, coming from a man she knew to be kind. She was not the villain here. Why couldn’t he see that?
She opened her mouth to say as much, but Hank stalked away, slamming the door behind him as he left the house.
CHAPTER SEVEN
AT BEDTIME, Amy went searching for Mother to tell her good-night.
She found her bedroom empty. She peeked into the bathroom across the hall. Empty.
Where on earth was she?
Then she heard the faint sound of voices in the living room. Checking across the hall, she found that room empty, but the TV in the rec room cast a blue glow on that end of the room. Amy walked around the double-sided fireplace.
Hank and Mother sat on the small chintz love seat in front of the TV. Alex Trebek was introducing the contestants of that night’s game of Jeopardy! Hank must have taped it earlier. The fact that he already knew that Gladys loved the show and provided her access to it said so much about his character.
Something melted in her, that this big guy would do that for Mother, a woman he barely knew.
“Let’s get started, shall we? Keith, you first.” Alex Trebek’s cultured voice directed the game.
Amy stayed out of sight, peeking around the huge fireplace to watch.
A young man with a clear baby-faced complexion chose the first category. “Famous women for two hundred.”
In the show’s trademark tradition, Alex read the answer, “In 1900, she persuaded the University of Rochester to admit women.”
Keith asked the question, “Who was Susan B. Anthony?” At the exact same moment, Gladys and Hank asked the same thing, startling Amy.
“Right for two hundred dollars,” Alex said. “Keith, your turn again.”
“Musical instruments. Two hundred.”
“This is closely related to the virginal, but is strung diagonally, and is generally wing-shaped rather than square.”
“What is a spinet?” Hank asked in a split second. Amy felt her jaw drop. How did Hank know that?
She listened for another ten minutes. Hank got every answer right, with Mother coming a close second.
A commercial came on, louder than the show. Hank hit the mute button.
“Smart kid,” he said about the contestant in the lead.
“So are you,” Mother said.
“You think so?” Hank answered, the wonderful smile beneath his dark mustache warm enough to melt butter. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
Amy stared at the back of Gladys’s graying head, imagining that Mother’s answering smile was just as warm. The sigh Amy smothered felt wistful. She wanted that intimacy between herself and Hank and, yet, the idea of getting close to him—to any man—was inconceivable. The thought of exposing her scarred body terrified her.
She left the room without a sound.
“Well, what did you expect?” she whispered as she trudged up the stairs. She’d known since her fourteenth birthday that the world was an unfair and cruel place.
“Hey, it’s better than being dead.” She pressed a hand against the ache in her chest, remembering the time when she’d thought that maybe death was a good choice.
“Oh, stop it. Stop feeling sorry for yourself.” In her bedroom, she threw her blouse from the bed onto the floor, then slid between the sheets.
She had enough on her plate these days without being jealous of her own mother.
ON THURSDAY MORNING, Amy found an old computer in the corner behind the filing cabinet.
She couldn’t bring herself to ask Hank for his password. People were surprisingly predictable, though, in what they chose. By the time she decided on Sheltering Arms, she was surprised to find that it was wrong. She tried to recall whether Leila had ever mentioned her parents’ names.
Then Amy remembered that the ranch used to be called the Lucky S. She typed it in. Eureka. Rubbing her hands together, she opened the business software.
An hour later, she felt like tearing her hair out. Nothing. Nada. Zip. All of the information stored on it was at least a year old. It must have been Hank’s father’s computer, not his.
She’d studied his records and, granted, they’d been extremely low on funds at the time, but they’d been scraping by, nowhere near foreclosure.
So whatever the problem was, it was Hank’s. What was he doing wrong?
Maybe there was something in the stack of bank statements she’d so laboriously separated from the other papers. They began where the computer files ended—a little over a year ago.
Odd. Not one of the bank statements held a record of checks being written or bills being paid.
She studied the statements and a pattern emerged. A terrible realization formed. She’d seen this once before. Huge sums withdrawn to nowhere. Enormous sums. Disappearing. Regularly. Once a week. Sometimes more often. Last time she’d seen this problem, the company owner had been a gambler.
She remembered how hard Hank had tried to keep her out of the office.
She’d heard Hank tell Willie they’d have to sell one of the ranch’s pickup trucks for much-needed cash.
She stared at piles of utility bills that hadn’t been opened, let alone paid. How he still had electricity and telephone service was beyond her. She needed to get at those bills.
She’d found one huge credit card bill for hats—dozens of white Stetsons. Where were the hats, and why hadn’t Hank paid the bill? Why wasn’t there another letter hounding Hank for payment?
Though she had too many unanswered questions, she couldn’t ignore the behavior. And it confirmed her earlier concern about Hank being a gambler.
Now she understood the whispering between Hank and Willie. “Ya gotta tell her!” she’d heard Willie whisper a couple of times.
She jumped up from the desk chair.
It couldn’t be.
Not Hank.
Amy couldn’t believe that Hank would treat his money so cavalierly, would take such huge chances with the livelihood that supported the kids for whom he had such a passion.
She also knew, though, that there were some impulses—addictions—people couldn’t control.
Could Hank Shelter, that big, caring man, really be a gambler? She couldn’t believe it, but the evidence was there in black and white.
She raced across the yard to the stable, stopping when she stood a foot away from Hank. The children were at the far end of the stable. Out of earshot.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” she asked, her voice low.
His mouth went slack and his skin paled as his gaze slid from hers to the ground.
Oh, Hank. The weight of disappointment landed in Amy’s stomach.
“Did you think you could hide your problem from me forever?” she asked.
He hung his head and shook it once.
She stepped close. “Gambling is a serious problem.”
His head came up and he stared at her like a fish dying for air.
“Surprised I found out so quickly? You didn’t do much to hide it.”
“Can—” He cleared his throat. “Can you fix it?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’ll try. But you lost a lot of money.”
He surprised her. Where were his excuses? His denials? Where were the empty promises of turning his luck around? People with addictions always had plenty to say in their own defense.
He stared past her to the light shining through the stable doors. In the dark interior, she watched Hank’s jaw harden, saw his teeth clench.
“Save it,” he ordered.
“What?”
“I said save it.” The man was furious. Because she’d found out? Or because he hated his own weakness? “Save the ranch. Don’t sell.”
Sudden, irrational anger spurted through her. He wanted her to fix a huge problem of his own making? “I’ll try, Hank,” she said, her voice hard and loud, “but I’m not a miracle worker.”
As she left the stables, she had enough awareness of her surroundings to remember those children at the far end of the building. Oh please, don’t have heard anything. What was wrong with her? She never reacted this way in her work life.
Why was she so emotional with Hank? She’d behaved like a professional the last time she’d found this problem with a client. Why the difference today?
The answer came in a flash. She cared for Hank. Already. It was more than an attraction to his big cowboy body, and his magnetic smile. It was his love of the children, and his still-youthful spirit and enthusiasm, and the indomitable backbone that had him starting this program for children after his son’s death. He could just as easily have faded away into grief, then mediocrity. But not Hank.
Get yourself under control. This is no way for a business-woman to behave. You can limit what you feel for these people.
She had to stop her sentimentality from clouding her judgment and behavior before she proved herself unfit to do the job.
WHEN AMY ENTERED the living room before dinner, both the adults and children turned. They stared at her with an odd curiosity and a touch of resentment.
Amy’s heart sank. They’d seen that she’d been angry with their friend, Hank.
He refused to meet her eye.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Mother said from an armchair by the fireplace. Cheryl sat in her lap, looking at a book.
“Hi,” Amy answered. Not a single smile in the roomful of people.
She wanted to yell, “I’m not the enemy. Hank screwed up, not me.” The urge to point at Hank accusingly was so strong Amy curled her hands into fists.
Mother looked around the room then back to Amy with a frown.
It’s not my fault.
She returned to the cubbyhole of the office, closing the door behind her to shut them all out. The room seemed to shrink around her. Amy turned on the desk lamp but it felt too bright and harsh, so she flicked the switch off.
HANK’S HEART felt like it would beat right out of his chest to lie bleeding on the carpet, in front of everyone.
He had a choice. He could let Amy continue to believe he was a gambler, or he could explain everything.
Willie sat beside him and whispered, “Ya gotta tell her the truth, Hank.”
“Nope. Can’t.” If he thought the pain was bad now, it was nothing compared to what he would feel if Amy found out his real problem. A smart woman like her would think him the stupidest man on the planet.
Stupidest. Was that a real word?
“Hank,” Willie said, “you gotta be the most stubborn person I know.”
“Me?” Hank asked. “I’m a nice guy. Easygoing. Everyone says so.”
“Yeah, easygoing everywhere in your life but one place.”
Who could blame him? It was the one part of his character he truly hated. Most of the time he could forget that it even existed—then, unexpectedly, the truth would rear its ugly head again.
Hank couldn’t read.
How could he possibly describe to Willie the depth of his shame? How could he explain that in this century a man his age couldn’t read, hadn’t been able to learn? Amy was so smart and he was so stupid.
He wouldn’t risk telling her what was really wrong with him, but he was so damn tired of carrying the weight of his secret.
AMY SAT in the twilight of the office, frozen by indecision. What was her next step? She didn’t want to face the ranch’s finances again today. Yet she had a job to do. She needed all of her take-charge energy back. She needed it badly.
A quiet knock sounded and Mother stepped into the room, shutting the door behind her.
“What have you done?” she asked, an uncharacteristic sharpness in her tone.
“Why do you think I’ve done something?”
“Why is everyone giving you funny looks?”
“I haven’t done
anything.” Pushing the chair out from the other side of the desk, Amy gestured for Mother to sit. “I’m trying to straighten out the finances here. The ranch has been losing money hand over fist.”
She hesitated to tell Mother about Hank’s gambling. She didn’t want to skew Mother’s opinion of him, even if he did deserve it.
“Money has been pouring out of the ranch’s bank accounts regularly for a year and I can’t find where it’s going.”
“Yes, but why is everyone mad at you?”
The laugh Amy couldn’t hold back sounded bitter. “It’s part of the territory, Mother. Part of walking into companies to tell them how to run their businesses. Nobody wants to look at their mistakes, and heaven forbid you should ask them to change the way they do things.”
“But the children…what do they have to do with the finances?”
“I think they know I was angry with Hank for a few minutes today.” She sighed. “They worship him like a hero.”
“He is their hero, Amy.”
“I know, and he should be. The work he does here is amazing.” She pushed her hair back from her face. “The children were at the far end of the stable and I didn’t realize they’d heard me raise my voice with Hank.”
“What about?”
“Mother—” Could she bring up Dad’s problem with money after all these years? Did she really want to raise the specter of issues that should have died long ago? She stood behind the desk, leaning her damp palms on the cool, polished wood. “Mother, what was it like living with a man who didn’t have any common sense where money was concerned? Who—who gambled it all away?”
“Hard.” Mother didn’t look surprised by the question. Perhaps she’d been waiting for Amy to finally ask about it.
Mother sat back, dwarfed by the leather armchair. With her hands resting peacefully in her lap, she resembled a small, white-haired, female Buddha. “But I loved him. I never stopped loving him.”
“Even after he died and left us with nothing but debts?”
No Ordinary Cowboy Page 8