by Janet Dailey
There wasn’t a trace of doubt in her voice. Was she over him? Malcom wondered. It was true she no longer reacted hostilely to the mere mention of Stuart, but a vindictive gleam appeared in her eyes each time his name was brought up.
The traffic light turned green and the limousine rolled forward with little sensation of motion to its passengers. “How long will you be in Tulsa?”
“Just over the weekend. I’ll be back the first of the week.” She glanced at him curiously. “Why?”
“I was wondering what your plans are now that you’ve become a woman of property and independent means.” He smiled to conceal the fact that he didn’t like the idea of Flame going to Tulsa, even for a brief time—any more than he liked the idea that she might be meeting Stuart while she was there. “Is this preliminary to a permanent move?”
The possibility she might move out of easy reach…beyond his influence…had concerned him ever since she’d told him about her inheritance of a large ranching estate in Oklahoma.
“Modestly independent means,” she corrected lightly. “Certainly not enough to induce me to resign from the agency.”
“Good.” Malcom smiled in disguised relief. “That means I won’t have to work with a new account executive.”
She gave him a look of mock reproval. “Next, you’ll be trying to convince me you’re only interested in my mind.”
“I admit your company is mentally stimulating,” he replied, matching her bantering tone, then paused, letting his gaze travel slowly down her curved figure. “Unfortunately I haven’t had the opportunity to discover how stimulating you can be in…other ways.”
She released an earthy laugh. “You never give up, do you, Malcom? If persistence was a virtue, you’d be the most virtuous man I know.”
His smile widened. “It’s called wearing down the opposition.”
“You’re definitely an expert at the game,” Flame declared, a hint of amusement remaining in her voice.
His look grew serious and wanting. “Does that mean I’m finally making progress?”
She started to deny that, then paused to look at him, suddenly recalling how comfortable and at ease she had been with him these last two hours. Wasn’t that rare—as rare as the heady excitement she’d known with Chance?
Giving him the most honest answer she could, she said, “I don’t know, Malcom.”
He said nothing to that, simply took her hand and lifted it up to press a kiss in its palm as the limousine came to a stop in front of the agency’s building. Arthur stepped out and opened the passenger door for her, extending a hand to help her out. She withdrew her fingers from Malcom’s grasp and climbed out of the car, then turned back.
“Thank you for lunch…and for your company, Malcom.”
“We’ll talk again next week after you get back from Tulsa,” he promised, the possessive light in his gray eyes even bolder than before.
Slowly and thoughtfully, Flame turned and walked to the building’s entrance.
33
Sunday morning, Flame walked the freckle-faced Karl Bronsky to the front door of Morgan’s Walk, his preliminary inspections of the land completed. Charlie Rainwater waited outside to drive him to the airport.
“Thanks again for the hospitality,” he said. “I didn’t mean to impose.”
“You didn’t,” she assured him. “We’ll talk when I get back to San Francisco.”
“Right.” Then he was out the door.
Flushed with a feeling of victory, Flame closed the door behind him and turned, barely able to contain her excitement. Then she saw Maxine standing in the foyer watching her.
“Is Mr. Bronsky leaving already?” The housekeeper frowned.
“Yes.” She was instantly alert, recalling the foreman’s warning that Hattie had long doubted Maxine’s loyalty. According to him, she’d never made it a secret that her sympathies were with Chance. If there was any leak at Morgan’s Walk, the housekeeper was the likely source. “Charlie’s taking him to the airport to catch his flight.”
“It seems to me it was hardly worth his time to fly out here,” the woman declared. “The two of you arrive in time for supper last night, then he takes off with Charlie first thing this morning and stays gone most of the day. He couldn’t have spent more than an hour with you. That’s a funny way to treat your host, if you ask me.”
“Karl’s a city boy. He’s never been on a working ranch before and he was fascinated by it. Maybe he always dreamed of being a cowboy when he grew up.” Flame shrugged to indicate her lack of concern.
“What does he do for a living?” Maxine asked curiously.
“What does anybody do who lives in a city? He works in an office surrounded by four walls.”
If Maxine noticed her avoidance of a direct answer, she gave no sign of it. “Ben’s waiting in the library to see you.”
“Will you bring—”
“I already took him a pot of coffee, and I included an extra cup for you.”
“Thank you, Maxine. That will be all.” With long, swinging strides, Flame crossed the foyer and walked down the hall to the library, her spirits lifting again with that inner sense of triumph.
She entered the library, then turned, with hardly a break in motion, and drew the pocket doors closed. A fire blazed in the hearth, the cheery crackle of its flames matching her ebullient mood as she crossed to the desk. Ben Canon sat behind it, his diminutive frame dwarfed even more by its massive size. She stopped short when she saw the coffee tray and the spread of legal papers before him.
“The plans. Where are they?”
“I rolled them up and set them in the corner.” With a swing of his balding head to the right, he directed her attention to the plans propped against the bookshelves behind him, half-hidden by the walnut stand supporting a world globe.
“Maxine didn’t see them, did she?”
“No. I already had them put away when she brought the coffee.”
“Good.” Flame relaxed a little then.
“Did your engineer friend get off all right?”
She nodded absently as she retrieved the site plan and spread it out on the desk. “Charlie’s taken him to the airport. I’m afraid Karl walked poor Charlie’s legs off today.” A hint of a smile touched her mouth. “To hear him tell it, Karl tramped every foot of the hills at both locations, and even climbed down to inspect the riverbanks. Just before he left, Karl told me his visual inspection hasn’t given him any reason to believe that the dam couldn’t be built on the north site. I’ve authorized him to do whatever test borings are necessary—and I also told him to bring in a crew from the coast, not to use anyone locally. I don’t want Chance to find out what we’re up to.”
“What are you up to?” Ben Canon rocked back in the desk chair and folded his pudgy hands across his chest to study her with a puzzled, penetrating look. “As your attorney, don’t you think I should know?”
“I want to prove this second dam site is viable. You’ve already warned me about the political power and influence Chance wields. If we have to fight a condemnation attempt, this might be a weapon for us—an alternative to his proposal that will, at least, save the house and part of the valley.”
She had another idea, too—one she’d been toying with ever since Karl Bronsky had brought up the possibility of another dam site—but she didn’t mention it to Ben Canon. She knew how crazy, how impossible, it would sound to him. It probably was, but she hadn’t been able to totally convince herself of that yet.
“It might work.” He nodded slowly in thoughtful approval. “Is that it?”
“I was curious about something else,” she admitted, and moved the site plan over in front of him. “This valley on the northwest side, it doesn’t appear that Chance owns it—or has optioned it. I’d like to find out who owns it.”
“It’s probably the Starret place, but I’ll stop into the county courthouse and check the tax rolls to make sure.”
“I think it would be better if you didn’t do it
yourself, Ben. If Chance finds out, he might wonder why you’re interested, and we don’t want to tip our hand to him.”
“You sound remarkably like Hattie,” the lawyer observed, then humphed a short laugh. “She’s probably turning circles in her grave knowing you’ve invited him here to dinner tonight.”
“Maybe,” Flame admitted as she began rolling up the site plan. “And maybe she’d approve.” This would mark the third time since their separation that she’d met with Chance, and the first time it wouldn’t be at a public place. That part didn’t concern her. She was confident of her ability to handle him, even if sometimes she momentarily let herself be attracted to him again. No, not to him, she quickly corrected that thought. She was attracted by the memory of how it had been between them before she’d discovered he was only using her. That sense of loving and being loved had been powerful then.
Ben Canon rocked forward in his chair, a rare grimness pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I wish you could persuade Stuart to tip his hand.”
Aware that the crafty old lawyer never made idle comments, Flame glanced at him sharply, noting the look of heavy concentration that creased his brow as he studied the papers before him, the ones he’d been going over when she came in. “You had a reason for saying that, Ben. What is it?”
“As you know, the inventory and appraisal of all of Hattie’s assets has been completed—along with compilation of all the outstanding debts, mortgages, and bank notes. While I was going over them to establish the worth of her estate, I came across something that bothers me.”
“What?”
“The bank sold the mortgage on Morgan’s Walk last spring.”
She immediately tensed. “To whom? Chance?”
“I don’t know, and that’s what bothers me. I have the name of a corporation that’s the new mortgage holder, but I can’t trace the true owner. Which makes me suspect that I’d find Chance at the end of the maze of holding companies and private trusts. Unfortunately I can’t prove it.”
Flame turned away, bitterly realizing just how hollow and fleeting that sense of victory could be. “He knows how to stack the deck, doesn’t he?”
“You could say that.”
“I suppose he can call the entire mortgage due.”
“He can and—more than likely—he will.”
“What about the money from Hattie’s life insurance policy?”
“There’s enough to pay the estate tax and give you about six months’ operating capital. I’m afraid the only way you’re going to be able to pay off the mortgage to Chance is to find yourself another lender. And, I have to be honest, Flame, that isn’t going to be easy.”
“Why? The ranch is worth it.”
“The value’s there, yes. But good management and the ability to repay—that’s what a lender will look at very hard, especially these days with so many family farms and ranches going under. And you know next to nothing about the ranching business.”
“I don’t, but Charlie Rainwater—”
“—is old. Old enough to draw Social Security. It’s time reality was faced, Flame.” He handed her a sheaf of papers. “Morgan’s Walk is something of a white elephant—especially this old house. As you can see from those cost/income statements, the ranching operation itself has shown marginal profits the last few years. And nearly every bit has been gone into the maintenance and upkeep on this building.” He paused, regret entering his expression. “I know how much Hattie loved this place, and, in my own way, I fought as hard as she did to keep it from falling into Stuart’s hands. But realistically speaking, if this house wasn’t out here in the country, I’d recommend that you donate it to some local historical society for a museum—anything to get out from under its costs. I don’t mean to sound like the prophet of doom, Flame, but if the cattle market should go down or the calving losses in the spring are high or Charlie’s health goes bad and your new manager isn’t as sharp as he is, you could be in trouble. I’m telling you all this to make sure that you see you’re going to have a tough time of it all the way around…especially with this mortgage business.”
“I see,” she murmured, then added wryly, “At least I’m beginning to.” She stared at the papers in her hand. “May I keep these and look them over?”
“By all means,” Ben nodded. “Those are your copies.” He set his briefcase on top of the desk and flipped it open. “I have some documents that require your signature.” He laid them out for her and gave her a pen. “With luck, and no interference from Stuart, by the end of the next week Morgan’s Walk and everything on it will officially be yours.”
“Good,” she said, although at the moment she was beginning to wonder about that.
“Oh, and something else.” He reached inside his briefcase again and took out a newspaper clipping. “This was in a Reno paper recently. I thought you might like to see it—just in case Stuart decides to give you any problems about the annulment.”
The newspaper photograph showed a smiling Chance and beaming Lucianna, and the caption beneath it read: “Real estate magnate Chance Stuart and diva Lucianna Colton back together again. Seen at a recent fund-raiser for the performing arts.” Flame didn’t read any more, going cold, then hot with rage. All that talk about how much he loved her and needed her, how much he wanted her back—for herself—it was all more lies. And he was coming here tonight to tell her more.
After dinner, Chance stood in front of the parlor’s fireplace, a brandy glass in his hand, and stared at the new flames dancing and darting over the seasoned logs in defiance of any pattern. It should have been a cozy setting—brandy and coffee for two, the flickering glow of the fire, the easy quiet of the house, the low lights of the room.
A single floor lamp burned, its dome-shaped, fringed shade diffusing the light from its bulb and casting a soft amber glow on the wing chair where Flame sat, her body angled sideways, knees drawn up. Turning his head slightly, Chance surveyed her with a sidelong look.
Like a contented cat, she looked, all curled up in the chair, the sleeves of her intarsia sweater pushed up, the loose fit of her white slacks clinging softly to her long legs. Her mane of red-gold hair ran faintly lawless back from her lovely and proud face. The mere sight of her stirred him profoundly.
Yet, as he looked at her, it wasn’t Flame he thought about. His mind kept playing back to the discussion he’d had with Sam today in his office.
“Chance, a whole month has gone by. Don’t you think it’s time we did something?” Sam argued, exasperation and frustration showing on his features. “We haven’t contested the will. If we don’t do something in the next couple days, the court’s going to hand Morgan’s Walk over to her. You realize that, don’t you?”
“Tying up the title to that land isn’t going to accomplish anything, Sam. I’m not going to fight her on it, and that’s final.”
“You’re not going to fight her on that, and you’re not fighting her on the annulment either. Dammit, Chance, I know you love her and you want her back. I understand that, but—what about Morgan’s Walk?”
“What about it?”
Sam lifted his shoulders in a helpless gesture. “It just seems to me that you’re counting an awful lot on getting Flame back. I mean, you’re not making any other move to get the land.”
“If I take any action against her now, I can forget persuading her to come back to me. She’d be convinced all I want is the land.”
“Maybe so.” Sam sighed, a heavy, disgruntled sound. “But I worry about the amount of time going by. I’m not saying you should call the mortgage due, but you could hassle her a little by demanding financial statements and a review of the loan. Put some pressure on her and maybe shake her up a bit.”
“You don’t shake Flame up; you just make her mad.”
“I think it’s a mistake to do nothing, Chance. How long can we afford to sit on our hands?”
“As long as it takes.”
Sam looked at him. “Are you making any headway with her? Or is s
he just stringing you along?”
He hadn’t had an answer for that—and he didn’t now as he swirled the brandy in his glass, then tossed down most of it.
“More brandy?” The softness of her voice reached out to him, stirring his senses, but it was the politeness of her inquiry that registered.
“No.” He turned the rest of the way around to face her chair, letting his gaze move over her. She seemed vaguely restless by it, her guard lifting, shuttering the green of her eyes and masking her expression with a blandness. “During the last—almost four—weeks, we’ve had dinner together, talked, and occasionally even laughed together. So why do I have the feeling that I’m not getting through to you—that you’re just going through the motions?”
With an unhurried grace, she uncurled her legs and rose from the chair, her hands sliding into the slanted side pockets of her slacks as she wandered over to the fireplace. “I think you’ve forgotten these meetings were your idea, not mine.”
“I suppose they’ve meant nothing to you—that you’ve regretted every unguarded smile you gave me,” he taunted, lifting the glass halfway to his mouth and speaking over the top of it. “And you have given them to me. Granted, they happened at weak moments—when you forgot to hate me.”
“Then they must have been rare indeed,” she returned coolly.
He smiled at that and finished the rest of his brandy, then walked over to the coffee table and set his empty glass on top of it. He didn’t turn back.
“What do you want from me, Flame?” Every sense was sharpened as he waited for an answer that didn’t come. He spoke again with a rising energy, his anger close. “Am I supposed to crawl? Beg? What?”
“I want nothing from you, Chance. Absolutely nothing.”
When he turned, she had her back to him, facing the fire. He stared at the tall, willowy shape she made against the firelight.
“I don’t believe you’ve stopped caring, Flame.” As he walked up behind her, he saw her stiffen in sudden alertness, defending herself against the steady beat of his presence.