The Rivals

by Joan Johnston

  Both men were descendants of English noblemen—the Duke of Blackthorne and the Earl of Grayhawk.

  Despite the objections of her nearly grown son, a widow named Cricket Creed had married the first American Blackthorne, which had begun the feud between Blackthornes and Creeds that had lasted to modern times.

  The Earl of Grayhawk, the family black sheep, had been banished from England by his father and made his living in the American fur trade. He’d used his profits to buy land in eastern Wyoming that happened to have a fortune in oil underneath it.

  Several descendants of that original Grayhawk black sheep, King and North among them, seemed to have inherited a bit of his dark soul. Clay knew how ruthless such a man could be. How totally untouched he could be by the feelings of those whose lives he manipulated and controlled.

  When he was a younger man, Clay had been caught between the desires of King Grayhawk and Jackson Blackthorne—and barely managed to escape without being crushed.

  He could see Libby was still fighting a battle he’d opted out of years before. He didn’t want to play knight in shining armor to her fair maiden and ride to the rescue. But he couldn’t stand by any longer without doing something.

  “We don’t need your help,” he said.

  “We?”King shot back sarcastically. “I must have missed more than I thought. When did you and my daughter become a we?”

  Clay was surprised when Libby took the steps necessary to stand beside him.

  “We’re Kate’s parents,” she said. “She’s our responsibility. You don’t belong here.”

  “I’m her grandfather,” King said. “Which makes this my business.”

  “No,” Libby said, shaking her head. “You never wanted Kate to be born. You wanted that foul Blackthorne seed torn from my womb,” she said, her voice vibrating with feeling. “It’s only because I defied you that she exists. It’s too late now to say you care about her.”

  “The girl’s last name is Grayhawk,” King said implacably. “Not Blackthorne.”

  “Because you—”

  King cut Libby off with a wave of his hand. “I take care of what’s mine.” His cane made a thumping sound on the hardwood floor as he limped his way to the door.

  Clay hadn’t realized he’d slid his arm around Libby, but she’d backed up against him so they presented a solid front to her father as he turned to look at them one last time.

  “I should have shot you,” King said to him. “No one around here would have convicted me if I had. Don’t use what’s happened as an excuse to go sniffing around my daughter. I won’t make the same mistake twice.”

  The deadly threat might have seemed melodramatic if it weren’t King Grayhawk speaking. King controlled the judges and politicians in Wyoming the way Clay’s father Blackjack controlled the judges and politicians in Texas. But Clay was no longer a young man in love, vulnerable and confused. He was a man who wielded a great deal of power himself.

  “There’s nothing you can do to me, King—short of shooting me dead—that will keep me from pursuing whomever I damn please.”

  “You’ve been warned,” King said. “That’s the most I feel obliged to do.”

  It was strange to hear King suggest that he adhered to the Code of the West, rules of behavior established by cowboys over time, not unlike the code of chivalry observed by the knights of old England, which held that you could never shoot an unarmed man—or an unwarned man.

  It dawned on Clay that from now on, he’d better watch his back.

  When the door closed behind King, Libby pulled free of Clay’s embrace and headed once more for the fireplace, crossing her arms and rubbing them with her hands as though she were freezing.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “You shouldn’t provoke him,” she said. “It’s exactly what he wants.”

  “I meant every word I said.”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “He’ll ruin you. He can do it. All it would take—”

  “Let me handle King,” he said. “What else can I do to help you?”

  She turned to face him, her arms clutched tight around her middle, as though she would fly apart if she let go. “Hold me, Clay. Please.”

  He couldn’t have refused her. Didn’t want to refuse her. In all these years, he’d never gotten over her. Libby Grayhawk was unfinished business. Maybe it was the way they’d been dragged apart by their respective fathers. The woman he’d loved in his youth, and been forced to leave, was a dangling string he couldn’t help pulling, even though he knew that pulling that string might very well unravel the political life he’d been building.

  When his arms closed around her, it felt like he’d come home. He pressed his nose into her hair and inhaled, wondering if he would recognize whatever scent it was she used now. But there was no hint of perfume, only the clean, fresh smell of soap and woman.

  Her breasts were soft against his chest. He felt himself becoming aroused and kept their lower bodies separated so she wouldn’t realize the effect she was having on him. He was supposed to be offering comfort.

  He tried to imagine how any relationship between them could possibly thrive. He needed a wife who could be a political hostess, someone who could face liars and thieves with a smile on her face and never bat an eye.

  Libby was too honest to put up with that sort of bullshit. And she wouldn’t have recognized a pair of pantyhose if they bit her in the ass. It was no coincidence that their daughter thought jeans and boots were appropriate attire for all occasions.

  Libby had made a life for herself here in the West, acting as a guide to hunters and fishermen and naturalists who wanted to see the land up close. Could he ask her to walk away from a life spent out-of-doors to join him in the political arena?

  He had a brief, traitorous thought about his dead wife. If not for Giselle, he might have returned to ranch life in Texas long ago. His wife had found the endless South Texas prairies, with their abundance of dangerous wildlife, intimidating. She was much more comfortable dealing with the sharks in Washington’s political waters.

  That would never have been true of Libby. She was even more comfortable in the wilderness—mountain, plain or prairie—than he was.

  The problem was their checkered past. It was easy to see how it could rear its ugly head to spoil whatever relationship they tried to carve out in the future. Not to mention the interference of two powerful, angry older men—their fathers—certain to be bitter rivals to the bitter end.

  Clay would have dismissed the idea of pursuing Libby out of hand, except it was hard to ignore the way his body hummed—that was the exact word for what happened to him—whenever it came in contact with hers. He could feel it now, a sort of thrumming rush in his blood, a lightness in his head from the mere thought of pressing his mouth against hers.

  Action followed impulse. He lowered his head as she raised hers, and their lips met in a kiss of utter tenderness. It was comfort of a sort he hadn’t imagined he could feel with this woman, who’d always been the source of so much passion. He felt the moistness of her lips, the pliant softness as she pushed back against his own.

  He wanted to tell her how he was feeling but feared he’d break whatever spell had fallen between them. He’d expected passion in her arms. He hadn’t expected peace. And need. And, yes, there it was, simmering beneath the surface now and always…the ache of desire. The insatiable hunger. The desperate need to put himself inside her.

  He slid his tongue into her mouth to taste. Slid his hand up to caress her breast. And heard her breath quicken.

  He couldn’t believe how good she tasted, how perfect she felt in his arms, how soft her breasts felt in his hands, how naturally her hips sought out his own. He was lost in sensation, his body hard, his need urgent, when the phone hanging on the clip attached to his belt rang. He swore bitterly at the interruption, then realized it might be news of Kate and grabbed for the phone.

  “Blackthorne,” he snapped.

  “Is it Kate
?” Libby asked anxiously.

  It took Clay a moment to recognize the female voice on the line. He took a step back from Libby and said, “It’s nothing to do with Kate.” Clay realized he couldn’t talk to the woman he’d considered making his next wife with Libby looking up at him, her eyes still dilated by passion.

  He turned his back and walked a few steps away to speak quietly into the phone. “I’m sorry I haven’t called to update you. No, I don’t think I’ll be back on Monday for dinner. Please give them my apologies. I can’t talk right now. I’ll call you later tonight.”

  He closed the flip phone and turned to face Libby.

  Her face had paled, but as he met her gaze, a blush rose on her cheeks. “Who was that?” she asked.

  “Jocelyn Montrose.”

  Libby frowned. “Giselle’s sister? Why would she be calling you?”

  “We’ve been…She’s been acting as my hostess since Giselle died. Lately we’ve been…dating.”

  “You’re dating your late wife’s sister?”

  Libby’s look was incredulous, and Clay could hardly blame her. He hadn’t expected Jocelyn to end up helping him out with the political entertaining that was a necessary part of his job. But she’d been living with her father in Washington when Giselle died. He’d leaned hard on his sister-in-law in those first few weeks after Giselle’s death, when he’d fallen apart. She’d been a great comfort. After that, it had seemed natural to call Jocelyn when he needed a companion for political dinners.

  There was no denying she would make the perfect political wife. When her father had been ambassador to France, she’d often presided at his dinner table. Not only was she beautiful, but Jocelyn knew how to dress so she always looked her best. No matter how harried people around her got, she remained the picture of calm composure.

  Beauty, tact, kindness—it was hard to believe one woman could possess so many good qualities. Clay knew she must have flaws, but so far he hadn’t discovered any. Except that she was his late wife’s sister, and no more likely to be comfortable in the wilds of South Texas than Giselle had been.

  That was the only reason—the main reason—he hadn’t moved in the direction Jocelyn seemed to be leading him. That is, toward the altar. But he hadn’t discounted the possibility of marriage to her, either. He was still riding the fence, waiting for something to push him one way or the other.

  If Kate hadn’t disappeared, he wouldn’t be here now, his insides twisted by feelings for the woman standing before him that he’d stuffed away nearly twenty years ago and kept a tight lid on ever since. And then he realized he might not be the only one who was dating someone else.

  “Been seeing anyone lately?” he asked.

  “Not recently.”

  “I’m surprised,” he said.

  “Why is that?”

  He shrugged rather than say what he was thinking. The truth was, he couldn’t imagine why any man wouldn’t snap her up. She wasn’t classically beautiful. Her eyes were too far apart and her mouth was too large. But her eyes, a bright sky blue, were always filled with emotion, her curly blond hair wrapped like silk around his fingers and her mouth could curve into the most enticing smile he’d ever seen.

  “I think you’d better go,” she said. “I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

  “I’ll keep my cell phone handy,” he said. But he didn’t move. He just stood there staring at her.

  Clay wanted to cross the chasm that separated them, to pick up where they’d left off a lifetime ago. But he was afraid. Not of her father, but of what would happen if he gave her his heart and then lost her again.

  It had been bad enough watching Giselle’s body being eaten away until her skin was thin parchment over bones. But Giselle hadn’t been his soul mate. Although a part of him had died with her, he’d been able to keep on living. He’d been able to think about the future. He’d been able to imagine his life in the years ahead.

  Losing Libby the first time had nearly killed him. He didn’t think he could survive it again.

  Sometimes discretion was the better part of valor.

  “Good night, Libby,” he said.

  “Good night, Clay.”

  He didn’t go near her as he made his way to the door. She didn’t see him out. He was in the car before he admitted that he’d rather have spent the evening talking with her than be anywhere else.

  Then he remembered there was somewhere else he could go—needed to go.

  He had an invitation from Niles Taylor to a party at a house on Bear Island. He had to stop at Forgotten Valley to change his clothes and he might as well see if Drew wanted to join him.

  “Hey, Drew, you here?” he called as he stepped inside the back door of the ranch house.

  “Yo,” Drew called back. He trotted down the hall dressed in sweatpants, a long john shirt and socks. “Any news?”

  Clay shook his head. “Niles Taylor invited me to a party on Bear Island. Want to come?”

  “Anyone I know going to be there?”

  “Know any politicians? Oh, yeah, and Niles will have some pretty girls there.”

  “You’re the only politician I care to know,” Drew said. “And I’m not in the mood for games of seduction. Think I’ll spend the evening here. Besides, someone might call about Kate.”

  Clay felt a spurt of guilt. Shouldn’t he be sitting here on his hands waiting for the phone to ring? He knew he’d go crazy if he didn’t have something to distract him. He was terrified. And terrified to admit how scared he was of what might have happened to his daughter. “I know it’s a long shot,” he said. “But I’m hoping someone will approach me tonight and ask for a political favor in exchange for releasing Kate.”

  “You’re right,” Drew said. “It’s a helluva long shot. But who knows? It could happen.”

  Clay took the time to change into a suit, knotted a rep-striped tie and grabbed his black cashmere topcoat. Even in a place as casual as Jackson, the politicians wore suits. Western suits, sometimes. But suits.

  On his way out, he passed Drew in the kitchen nuking a cup of coffee in the microwave. “I won’t be late,” he said.

  “I’m not your mom. Stay out as late as you like.”

  “What the hell is your problem?”

  “I don’t understand why you’d leave Libby sitting home alone to go to some political cocktail party,” Drew said angrily.

  “I don’t understand why you’d leave a perfectly good job in Houston to hide out here,” Clay shot back.

  “It’s none of your business,” Drew retorted.

  “Back at you,” Clay said.

  Drew snorted. Then laughed. “God, we’re in bad shape. Have a good time. Kiss a pretty girl for me.”

  “Come along and kiss your own pretty girl.”

  Drew shook his head. “The only girl I want to kiss is—”

  “Back in Houston,” Clay finished for him.

  “That isn’t what I was going to say.”

  Clay lifted an interested brow. “Really? Must be the detective then.”

  Drew made a gun with his thumb and forefinger and shot it. “Bingo.”

  “So, why are you sitting here?”

  “Believe it or not, she’s on duty. I called her house and her daughter said she was working another shift for some poor schmoe whose wife is having a baby.”

  Clay didn’t think any man whose wife was giving him a child would think of himself as a “poor schmoe.” When he’d married Giselle he’d hoped desperately for a child, until they’d discovered that she couldn’t have babies. They’d considered adoption, but before they’d gotten around to it, Giselle had gotten sick. Then it had been out of the question.

  He only had one child. And she was missing.

  He needed a drink. Several drinks. And the company of men who wouldn’t know to ask him whether he’d heard any news about his missing daughter. “I’m out of here,” he said.

  “Stay in touch,” Drew said.

  Clay patted the cell phone on his hip
. “Yeah.”

  Clay had once considered buying a house on Bear Island. The lots were large—forty acres—and there were enough ponds around that a pair of trumpeter swans had taken up permanent residence. Buck-and-rail fences lined the properties. The cypress trees grew tall and the aspen made it a magnificent, golden place to be in the fall.

  In the days before the town had decided to take an environmental stand, the homes had grown as large as twelve thousand square feet. Small by Hollywood standards, maybe, but most of the people who could afford enormous homes in Jackson only lived in them a week or two a year.

  The town had put an eight-thousand-square-foot limit on new construction, but Clay was pretty sure, as he gazed at the lighted mansion at the end of a long drive, that this one fell under the old rule. He passed a guesthouse that was four times as large as Libby’s cabin.

  A beautiful young woman wearing a low-cut aqua cocktail dress and a dazzling smile answered the elaborate chime that served as a doorbell and led him into a room thick with cigar smoke, hearty laughter and glazed eyes.

  He found himself facing Niles Taylor. The Texas oilman slapped him on the back and asked, “What’ll you have?”

  “Scotch. Neat,” Clay replied.

  Niles called the order to a bartender dressed in a tux without the jacket, who poured Clay’s drink. “There are a few folks here I think you know,” Niles said.

  Clay took the drink Niles handed him and turned to greet the senior senator and three congressmen from Texas.

  “Gentlemen, look who’s joined us,” Niles said. He smiled broadly at Clay and announced, “I give you the next governor of Texas.”

  “That announcement is premature,” Clay said automatically.

  “No need for modesty, Clay,” Niles said. “You’re among friends. We all want to see you make that move to Austin.”

  Clay spent the next two hours meeting an array of party movers and shakers, Niles always at his side greasing the wheels, making certain Clay never had to speak his ambition aloud. He’d learned over the years not to take more than a sip of any drink and to surreptitiously set the glass down. But at least three an hour were being slipped into his hand, and he was feeling light-headed.