There was a tap on her door and Jarrod Skelton entered. Molly felt the pressure building beneath her lungs. It was going to happen, then. Skelton rarely arrived at the office before ten. She pushed painfully to her feet and kept one hand on the desk, steadying herself for what was to come. “Good morning, sir,” she said.
“Molly,” he said, closing the door gently behind him. “I wanted to see how you were doing.” His expression was patronizing and sympathetic. “Friday was no doubt a very difficult day for you.”
“Yes, it was.” She wondered if this was leading into something sinister or if he was truly concerned about her welfare. “But I’m doing quite well, thank you.”
Skelton nodded. “I have every confidence that you’ll weather this little setback and become a respected member of this law firm.”
“Thank you, Mr. Skelton.” She felt the pressure ease enough to draw a breath. Her job was secure, at least for the time being.
“About the public meeting tomorrow evening. Both Brad and Ken agree that it would be best if you didn’t attend, even as an interested spectator. We think a low profile is called for on your behalf, at least for a little while. I have some files you can work on, things to keep you busy….”
Molly nodded. “I understand.” She stood for a few moments after he left her office before lowering herself into her chair. She knew beyond a glimmer of doubt that from this point onward, for as long as she worked in this firm, she would never progress beyond the status of being Brad’s glorified legal assistant. She was still staring into her bleak future when the phone rang. She resented the interruption, but painful moments meant nothing to an office telephone.
“Ferguson,” she snapped.
“Ms. Ferguson, this is Gregory Dehaviland, of Condor International. We spoke briefly last week.”
Surprise and shock rocked her back in her seat. “Yes, Mr. Dehaviland,” she replied, her voice sounding faint to her own ears. “What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you could join me for lunch this afternoon. One o’clock, at the Bistro off Main Street.”
“Here? In Helena?” she blurted, then sagged in her chair. What was the matter with her? The Bistro was in Helena, just off Main Street, not three blocks from the office. Could she have possibly said anything more inane?
“I’m in town for the day and I’d like to meet with you. It will be just the two of us, if that’s all right with you.”
“Yes, of course,” Molly said. “I’ll be there.” Her hand was trembling as she hung up the phone. Her whole body was trembling. Skelton hadn’t fired her, but Gregory Dehaviland would. With a sudden jolt she understood all the stockbrokers who had jumped out their windows when the market crashed back in the twenties. It wasn’t just the loss of their fortunes that destroyed all hope of a future, it was the loss of their identities. Molly groaned. She was being foolish. If Dehaviland wanted her fired, he certainly wouldn’t dirty his own hands with the task. No, this was about something else, so instead of jumping out her second-story office window and perhaps breaking her leg, she’d meet him for lunch and find out just what it was.
THE BISTRO WAS ALWAYS BUSY for lunch because the food was great, the service excellent, and businesspeople appreciated the fact that they could dine within their time allotments and not feel pressured. Molly arrived a little early and was shown to a table overlooking the garden courtyard. The maître d’ seated her and took her drink order, Perrier with lime. She was so nervous she’d have preferred a gin and tonic, but she wasn’t about to cross any lines with the CEO of Condor International. She hadn’t been seated more than five minutes before Dehaviland arrived, and she had no problem whatsoever identifying him the moment he stepped into the establishment.
It wasn’t the way he was dressed, for he was very casually attired in tan chinos and a dark green flannel shirt. It was the way he carried himself, with the extreme self-assurance of a very accomplished and powerful man. He was shown to her table even as she struggled painfully to her feet, and his handshake was firm and brief.
“Thank you for joining me,” he said after introducing himself, and to the hovering maître d’, “I’ll have my usual.”
“You come here often, then,” Molly said, inwardly wincing as soon as the words passed her lips. So far she hadn’t said one single intelligent thing to this man.
“Yes, as a matter of fact. That’s why I’m so interested in New Millennium’s proposal.” He had very keen eyes behind the horn-rimmed glasses. Neatly trimmed salt- and-pepper hair. Clean-shaven, tanned complexion, very outdoorsy looking, almost as if he could have come straight from herding buffalo on the Bow and Arrow. “I saw the Friday edition of the newspaper. Quite a front-page story you gave them.”
Molly felt the heat creep into her cheeks. “I’m sorry. I certainly didn’t mean to cast a disparaging light on New Millennium.”
“No apologies necessary, Ms. Ferguson. I may only have been CEO for a year, but I’ve been with the company for two decades and I’m fully aware of how mining companies and law firms operate, which is another reason why I’m here. How long have you known Ken Manning?”
His directness was unsettling. “Less than two weeks,” she replied.
“I see.” A server delivered his drink, what looked like scotch on the rocks, and he lifted it for a taste. “You must have thought you were going to be fired after all that hoopla. Why didn’t you resign?”
“I need the job,” Molly replied without hesitation, because it was the truth and because her dander was up. “And besides, I—” Molly stopped abruptly. She took a sip of water to give herself time to collect her thoughts. “I’ve always tried to do my best, sir. This road-permitting mistake that I made—”
Dehaviland held up his hand, cutting her off. “I think we both know that you had nothing to do with that,” he stated briskly. “Let’s minimize what happened, fix the mistakes, and move on. Bottom line, I want to change things around here. I want us to begin a positive relationship with the environmental agencies and the public. I want the image of the heartless, powerful oil-and-mining conglomerates to end with the examples that Condor International sets. I want to lead the industry into a new age of cooperation, compromise, and communication.”
Molly took another sip of her water, hoping her outward demeanor remained calm because his unexpected declaration had rendered her speechless.
“And I want it to begin right here, right now, with this New Millennium project,” Dehaviland continued. He leaned forward on his elbows, his expression animated. “There were two sites originally proposed for the New Millennium mine, one on Madison Mountain outside of the town of Moose Horn, and the other about thirty miles to the west, a place called Butte Mountain, which is located on privately owned property just outside the national forest. Butte Mountain’s ore samples actually assayed out richer than Madison Mountain, but the problem was the price of the property. The landowner wouldn’t accept our offer, so we filed the claim on Madison Mountain. All of this happened prior to my being named CEO of Condor International.”
“I see.”
“The test drilling and road construction at the Madison Mountain site has run into a great deal of money.”
“I’m sure it has.” Molly nodded.
“The board members want to keep on with the project, but I’m trying to convince them that it would be a wiser move at this point to purchase Butte Mountain outright.”
The server reappeared to take their order. Molly hadn’t even glanced at the menu. “I’ll have a house salad, dressing on the side,” she said.
“I’ll have my usual,” Dehaviland repeated, and the server bowed away. “The problem is, not only is the Butte Mountain purchase price high, but we’ve already invested heavily in the Madison Mountain site.”
Molly cleared her throat. “But, sir, the claims filed on Madison Mountain are all perfectly legal, and the permitting process is well underway.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that those claims
are smack-dab in the center of a beautiful national forest, and that Madison Mountain’s watershed does indeed flow into the Yellowstone River. Yes, the assay reports were glowing, but is it worth situating an open pit mine in such an environmentally sensitive place, especially in light of the bad publicity we’ve just been swamped with?”
“Well, sir…”
Dehaviland reached into his shirt pocket and withdrew a folded map, which he spread out on the table. “Okay, this is how things stand. Here’s the Yellowstone,” he said, tracing the river toward its headwaters in Yellowstone Lake. “Here’s Yellowstone National Park. Here’s the proposed mine on Madison Mountain. And over here—” he slid his finger to the west and stopped with an emphatic jab “—Butte Mountain. No major watersheds nearby, no natural scenic wonders, no national forest surrounding it, and no Yellowstone National Park. Good, established roads access the mountain from two directions, here and here.” He leaned back, lifted his drink for a swallow, and eyed her appraisingly.
Molly met his gaze. “Mr. Dehaviland, why are you telling me this?”
“As you’re aware, there’s a public meeting tomorrow night in Bozeman regarding the New Millennium project, and after all the publicity it’s gotten, I’m sure the meeting will be well attended.”
“Yes, but I’ve been taken off the project. I’m no longer Brad’s assistant, and I’ve also been informed I can’t attend the public meeting.”
“Ms. Ferguson, believe it or not,” Dehaviland said, “I have the power to change all that.”
Molly shook her head. “Sir, I don’t understand why you’d bother. I’m the least experienced attorney at Taintor, Skelton and Goldstein, and right now my reputation is less than sterling.”
“True, but you can still make miracles happen. You can talk to Steven Young Bear. He’ll listen to you.” He leaned forward again, drink cradled in his hands. Hands which were masculine and strong, not at all the pale, soft hands one would expect of a corporate executive. “I’d like the two of you to work together to broker a deal between Condor International and the people who want to protect Madison Mountain.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“We sell the patented claims on Madison Mountain to one of Young Bear’s environmental land trusts for two million dollars.”
Molly blinked. “Do you honestly think raising that kind of money is doable for a bunch of blue-collar workers?”
Dehaviland nodded. “I also think it’s the only way I can push this idea to the board of directors. By selling the mining claim for that price, we’ll recoup everything invested up to date and be able to meet the Butte Mountain purchase price.”
“How long would they have to raise the money?”
“Six months. That gives them all winter. Young Bear could probably swing it in half that time. He knows his stuff and he’s good at what he does.”
The server came and silently slid Molly’s salad in front of her. Dehaviland’s plate held a thick turkey club. He plucked the two toothpicks from either half and laid them aside. “So, what do you say?” he said, startling her yet again.
She picked up her fork and held it poised over her salad, eyebrows drawing together. “You’re doing all this just for good publicity?”
Dehaviland picked up one half of the sandwich and a faint grin accompanied his keen glance. “Not quite.” With his free hand he shifted the map so she could see it better and traced his finger once again along the river. “Here’s Yellowstone Lake, Yellowstone National Park, and the Yellowstone River flowing south into the Missouri.” He glanced up. “Did you know the Yellowstone is the longest river without a dam obstructing it in the United States? I also happen to think it’s one of the most beautiful as well.” His eyes dropped back to the map. “Here’s where the river passes through the Madison Mountain watershed and here—” his finger glided to a stop along a seemingly empty stretch “—here’s where my cabin’s located. I’ve been going there since I was a boy. When my grandparents died, they left the place to me, and over the years I think I’ve spent more hours fly-fishing on the Yellowstone than I have sitting in corporate boardrooms. Believe it or not, Ms. Ferguson, I love that river, and I’ll help in any way to keep it just the way it is.” He took a bite of sandwich and raised his eyebrows. “Does that explain things to your satisfaction?”
Dazed, Molly nodded. “Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“Could you run this proposal by Young Bear before the public hearing?”
“I’ll speak with him about it tonight,” she promised.
“Good. I hope this is the beginning of better times. I see no reason why we can’t work together to reach an equitable compromise, and I’d like that to be expressed up front and center Tuesday night, if not by Ken Manning, then by you.”
STEVEN SPENT A RESTLESS DAY at his office catching up on work for the Conservancy while fielding calls from journalists interested in the New Millennium mine proposal and how it would impact the Yellowstone River drainage. Some callers were from the East Coast, some from the West, and some from points in between. The interest sparked by the violence on the access road had put the proposed mine squarely in the public’s eye, and Steven did his best to keep it there.
That afternoon he fielded a different kind of call from Conrad Walker. “I thought you’d want to know that the second autopsy on Sam Blackmore didn’t turn up anything suspicious,” Walker said.
“Did his digital camera and briefcase ever surface?”
“Nope. He may have left them at a friend’s house. Maybe he was having an affair, who knows, but apparently the fact that they’re missing isn’t reason enough to open up a murder investigation. His death is being officially listed as resulting from injuries sustained in a car crash. How are your injuries, by the way?”
“Fine,” Steven said. “Yours?”
“Better, little by little. The one good thing that came out of getting the stuffing beat out of me is having Amy Littlefield check in on me from time to time. She’s a nice girl.”
After talking with the sheriff, Steven contemplated phoning Molly but decided against it. She’d been angry with him last night, and he didn’t blame her. Somehow he needed to smooth the waters and make it right between them. He needed her to know how important she was to him, and that he was thinking about her. Not being an experienced romantic, the most obvious inspiration took a while to strike, but when it did he reached for the phone book and turned to the yellow pages.
Say it with flowers.
MOLLY’S HEAD WAS still spinning after she returned to her office that afternoon. The conversation had been so unexpected and Gregory Dehaviland had seemed so sincere and been so nice. Could this really happen, this compromise between New Millennium Mining and the people from Moose Horn? And could Steven really raise two million dollars in six months? The idea began to excite her. Twice she reached for the phone to call him, but somehow the proposal seemed too important to relay over the phone. “I could sell my car….” she murmured aloud, then laughed. The thought had come out of nowhere. Sell her car, buy a junker, give some money to Steven for the land, for the mountain, and she was the girl who, not that long ago, was arguing that a mountain was just a heap of dirt and minerals. “I could sell my car,” she repeated. “Every little bit will help.”
She reached for the phone again and then glanced at the clock. Four-thirty. She could drive to Steven’s place and tell him about Dehaviland’s offer in person. Maybe then he’d realize that she was right, that industry and the environment could coexist in a symbiotic relationship; that people could have steady, good-paying jobs, and the land could be treated with the respect it deserved.
A tap at her door and Brad entered, looking full of something important. “Skelton just called from the courthouse,” he said, standing across the desk from her, hands shoved in the pockets of his tailored slacks. “He wanted me to tell you that he’s reconsidered everything that’s happened and wants you to remain as my assistant on the project. H
e also wants you to attend the public meeting tomorrow night.”
Molly feigned surprise. “Really? What made him change his mind?”
Brad shrugged, his gaze evasive. “I’m not sure. He also said he’d smooth things over with Ken Manning.”
“That’s going to take some fancy smoothing,” Molly said. She pushed to her feet, stifling a moan as her legs reminded her of a horseback ride and a herd of buffalo. “Thank you, Brad. I’m afraid I have to leave the office a little early today, so I won’t be able to file these for you.” She picked up a thick stack of folders and handed them to him with as sweet a smile as she could manage. “But I certainly appreciate you giving me the opportunity to do so, just the same.”
Looking mildly disgruntled, Brad left her office, and not long after that, Molly was in her car. As she was driving out of the parking area she noticed a floral delivery van parking out front. Some lucky person was getting flowers.
STEVEN STOPPED at the grocery store on his way home and invested in some food. His bank account was stretched pretty lean, but it was no great hardship for him to exist on stir-fries and rice, supplemented by the fresh seasonal vegetables with which September was especially generous. He reached home by five-thirty, time enough to cook a quick meal before heading for the special strategy meeting in Moose Horn that he’d promised Amy Littlefield he’d attend. He sipped a beer while he stirred the strips of boneless chicken breast in spicy garlic oil and sliced the vegetables. He wondered if Molly had liked the flowers. He hadn’t quite known what to send her but the florist had been very helpful.
“Is this a special occasion?” she’d asked.
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