by Janet Dailey
He answered with a slow nod, then soberly met her glance. “Especially now that I have a daughter who thinks that old mine is a great place to play.”
Kit stiffened at the mention of his daughter. It was that old wound getting bumped again. She managed to smile, quite convincingly. “And do you fill her head with all those scary stories to keep her away from the mine?”
“I leave those to Dad.” He grinned easily. “But Laura’s not like you. You have such a vivid imagination you were always easy to scare.” A devilish twinkle appeared in his eyes, one that Kit recognized too well. “Like the time during that snowstorm when we spent the night here with Mrs. Hatch, and I convinced you the howling and banging outside wasn’t caused by the wind but by a wolf. Then I snuck up and grabbed you from behind, snarling and growling-you were so scared you wet your pants.”
“Rat.” She punched him hard in the shoulder. “Why do you always have to bring that up? I was a mere eight years old.”
“That hurt.” He rubbed his arm muscle, but a smile lingered around the edges of his mouth.
“It was supposed to. In case you don’t know it, it’s embarrassing to be reminded of that.”
“Embarrassing, eh?” One eyebrow arched slightly. “Try explaining to the guys how a mere slip of a girl gave me a black eye. Or have you forgotten that you hauled off and hit me that night, too?”
“I did, didn’t I?” Kit remembered, her smile turning gleeful.
“You did. Even?” Bannon lifted his mug toward her, offering to toast a truce.
“Even,” Kit agreed and clunked mugs. She drank down a swallow of lukewarm coffee, then drifted over to the chair with her purse. “We spent many stormy winter nights here with Mrs. Hatch when we were growing up.”
“Our parents thought it was safer than risking the roads.”
“It probably was,” she remarked absently, then lifted her glance to the ceiling. “The bedrooms upstairs, do you use them for storage now?”
“No. I converted the upstairs into a small apartment. One of the teachers at school rents it.”
She glanced back at her mug and smiled, suddenly recalling. “Remember the hot chocolate Mrs. Hatch used to make for us? And always from scratch. I can still taste it.” She turned to Bannon. “And she always had a bag of marshmallows in the cupboard-”
“-and a fire in the fireplace so we could roast marshmallows over the flames,” Bannon recalled. “You liked yours charred black on the outside.”
“Of course. That way they were both crunchy and gooey. She grinned. “You had to have yours lightly golden.”
“Mine weren’t so messy either.”
“Maybe, but they didn’t taste nearly as good as mine.” She paused and sighed. “I haven’t roasted marshmallows in years. I wish I’d asked Paula to pick up a bag at the store. She volunteered to do the grocery shopping and John volunteered to take her while I met with you.” She glanced at her watch conscious of the time she’d spent reminiscing about the past.
“I guess we’d better get down to business then, hadn’t we?” His remark hung between them. Bannon regretted saying it; he regretted the vague tension now in the air. He pushed off the corner of the desk and walked behind it.
“Yes, you said you wanted to go over some papers with me.” Kit picked up her purse and sat down in the chair facing the desk.
“Mainly the estate tax return we have to file with the IRS and the state of Colorado next week.” The springs in the ancient office chair squeaked in a noisy protest when Bannon sat down. He opened a folder and handed Kit a copy from it.
She glanced at the multi-paged form and murmured, “I hope you don’t expect me to understand this. I have trouble filling out a W-4.”
He smiled briefly. “This won’t be that bad.” He ignored her look of skepticism and focused on his copy of the return. “As I mentioned when we talked on the phone, you are entitled to receive six hundred thousand dollars, tax-free, so to speak. All amounts above that figure are assessed at the applicable estate tax rates. Naturally the first problem was coming up with the value of your father’s estate.”
“Which is?” Kit stared at the columns of figures, trying to figure out which line meant what.
“Let’s start with the ranch itself,” Bannon suggested. “The appraiser I hired valued the improvements on it-the house, barn, sheds, corrals, et cetera-at seventy thousand. In the past five years, ranch land has sold for as high as twelve hundred dollars an acre. Winch brings the value of the land and the buildings to five hundred and fifty thousand. To that, we have to add the life insurance your father had, the livestock, the furnishings, and other personal belongings. Then we subtract the mortgage and any debts he had outstanding at the time of his death.”
Kit had stopped listening when Bannon placed the value of the ranch at five hundred and fifty thousand dollars. Was that all it was worth? She fought back the waves of disappointment. True, a half million dollars was a lot of money, but she’d hoped it would be more. Her mother’s hospital and doctor bills already totaled close to one hundred thousand. Barring complications, her mother could live another thirty years. Until now, she’d thought selling the ranch would provide the funds for those future medical costs, but at this rate, the money wouldn’t last long. It would probably be wiser to keep the ranch and use the income from it to offset some of her mother’s expenses. In a way, she was relieved. She hadn’t wanted to sell her home.
Unfortunately she still faced the problem of finding the money to pay for her mother’s care. Kit unconsciously squared her shoulders.
“…request an early audit. That way if the IRS questions the valuation of the estate, we’ll know about it immediately and be able to handle it,” Bannon concluded. “Any questions?”
Conscious of his eyes on her, Kit hurriedly skimmed the tax form, reluctant to admit she hadn’t paid attention. “How much tax is owed?”
“Roughly ten thousand. Ten thousand one hundred and fifty dollars to be exact. The figure’s on the last line.”
“And that has to be paid next week?” With eyebrows raised, she stared at the number. “I’ll need to get a loan from the bank.”
“No, you won’t.” Bannon met her questioning glance with a smile. “I sold your steers two weeks ago and managed to catch the market when the prices were up. After taxes and all bills are paid, you’ll have about seven thousand dollars in cash. Enough to carry the ranch into spring.”
“Good.” Letting out a sigh, Kit tossed the copy of the tax form on his desk.
“The rest of this”-rising, Bannon picked up another folder and came around the desk to her chair-“is fairly self-explanatory. Copies of correspondence, the sales receipt on the cattle, that kind of thing.” Bending down, he opened the folder and went through the papers one by one. This time Kit paid attention and glanced through each one, conscious all the while of his head close to hers and the subtle, spicy scent of his after-shave mingling with the smell of soap. “You can keep these for your records.” He gave her the folder with the copies inside.
“Thanks…I think.” Her glance followed him as he again retreated behind his desk.
“That’s it”-from the center desk drawer, he took a ring of keys-“except for the keys.” They jangled as he tossed them to her.
She caught them in the air, then closed her fingers around them. “Dad’s Jeep-” she began.
“I had it serviced last week. It’s in the shed. And Sadie cleaned the house, so you shouldn’t have to do anything but unpack once you get there.”
She tipped her head to one side, a little amazed at his thoroughness and thoughtfulness. “Is there anything you haven’t taken care of?”
He dismissed her question with a shrugging lift of one shoulder. “Just being a good neighbor.”
“I’d almost forgotten what that’s like,” she admitted ruefully. “In L.A., I barely knew my neighbors.” She held the keys an instant longer, then slipped them into her purse, aware the blame was as much hers as it
was her neighbors’ and the impersonal life of a big city.
Bannon nodded with a kind of grim understanding. “There are times when it seems that bad in Aspen. Mostly because your neighbor spends only a few weeks here a year. The house sits empty the rest of the time.”
“Like Silverwood has,” she added and stood up.
“I’ll walk you out.”
She crossed to the door and waited for him to open it, then took a step into the outer office before turning back and holding out a hand to him. “Thanks, Bannon. For everything.”
He glanced at her outstretched hand. Suddenly the moment felt incredibly awkward to Kit, somehow formal and distant. He lifted his gaze and looked directly into her eyes with an element of regret-or was that longing?
His fingers closed around her hand and she felt the strength of his grip, and the warmth of it. “Now that you’re back in Aspen for a while, Kit, don’t be a stranger.”
“I won’t.” The assurance came easily as she reminded herself it was time she thought of Bannon as a friend. A dear friend, and nothing more. Yet, when she looked at his tanned and rawboned face-more intriguing than handsome-she felt the pull of old emotions. Emotions that didn’t get their power just from memories. Somehow she’d have to find a way to deal with them.
Discovering she’d left her hand in his much longer than was necessary, she drew it free and flashed him a quick smile.
When she turned to leave, she encountered the cool stare of Sondra Hudson. She stood by the secretary’s desk, straight and tall, the epitome of a professional and fashion-conscious businesswoman in a beige, tunic-length jacket of cashmere over the restrained black of a silk blouse and wool gabardine skirt. Her hair was smoothly coiffed, not a single platinum strand out of place, and the simple gold clips at her ears were her-only concession to jewelry.
Kit knew all about images and she knew this was one that had been cultivated and crafted as carefully and completely as any in Hollywood. So completely, in fact, that Kit had no sense of the woman beneath it all her emotions were tightly controlled and hidden behind that beautiful façade.
“Hello, Sondra.” Kit nodded to her.
“Kit.” Her lips curved in a warm line, but even that struck Kit as practiced. Then Sondra switched her attention to Bannon, her expression subtly changing, taking on an added warmth although her eyes kept their measuring look. “I dropped by on the off chance you might be free for a few minutes.”
She spoke with the familiarity of one accustomed to dropping in unannounced and being welcomed. Rather like a wife, Kit thought, then doubted that the two of them were at all suited. But what did she know?
“I’m expecting Pete Ranovitch,” Bannon said with a glance at his watch. “But I’m free till he gets here.”
“Wonderful.”
“I won’t keep you,” Kit said quickly. “It was good to see you again, Sondra. Nice meeting you, Agnes,” she added and headed for the door.
Sondra watched her walk out, tasting the jealousy that edged toward fury. She was overreacting and she knew it, but it didn’t seem to matter. She resented any part of Bannon’s past that didn’t include her-and Kit Masters was part of that. A close part of it.
“What did you need to see me about, Sondra?”
She turned smoothly and smiled. “Laura.”
Amused, he shook his head and stepped aside, letting her precede him into his office. “What is it this time? Not her hair again?”
“Clothes. She needs some new winter things, Bannon. She’s outgrown practically everything from last year.” Sondra detected traces of Kit’s perfume in the air. A loathsome scent. “The jacket Laura was wearing this morning-the sleeves don’t reach her wrists.”
“Clothes, eh?” he said with a faint grimace. “I guess I need to take her shopping.”
“Let me.” She saw his hesitation and pressed her advantage. “You know you don’t enjoy going from store to store and waiting while Laura tries on clothes. But I do. It would be fun for me. And for Laura, too. Two girls loose on a shopping spree-we’ll have a great time.”
“I suppose,” he said, still hesitant.
“Good. Then I’ll pick her up as soon as school lets out today and we’ll hit the stores.” A coffee mug sat on the edge of Bannon’s desk opposite the padded leather chair. Sondra noticed the smudge of lipstick on the mug’s rim, the same shade Kit Masters had been wearing. Had they had a cozy chat over coffee, reminiscing about the past before getting down to business? The possibility didn’t please her at all. “Who knows how long it will take to find the various things Laura will need? It would be best if she spent the night with me. That way we won’t have to rush. We can take our time, grab a bite to eat somewhere, have a real girls’ night out.”
Warily he raised an eyebrow. “How much is this spree going to set me back?”
She tipped her head back and laughed in her throat. “I promise we’ll be kind to your budget.”
“I hope so,” he murmured dryly.
She laid a hand on his arm. “This will be good for her, Bannon. Laura needs to do girl-things--like shopping for clothes, experimenting with hairstyles, or painting her toenails.”
“I guess fathers aren’t always good at that, are they?” His mouth slanted in a rueful line.
“Sometimes she needs a woman,” Sondra kept her voice deliberately casual, content to merely plant the seed. “When bad weather comes this winter, I wish you’d let her stay with me. She has her own bedroom at my place, with all her things in it, and she’d be able to play with her other girlfriends.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Laura likes me, and you know I care a great deal about her. I think I’d be good for her.” She paused a beat, then added, careful to keep her reproof mild, “You’re raising her like a boy, Bannon. She’s picking up your habits, your quietness. You don’t want her to become too old and serious for her age. You want her to become a woman.”
Bannon looked down at the hand that rested lightly on his arm, the slender fingers, the soft skin. He felt a growing loneliness, aware that a son would have grown along with him, but a daughter…Sooner or later the day would come when Laura would follow a different path, when she would be closer to Sondra than to him. That was life-part of the natural order of things. He couldn’t prevent it even if he wanted to.
“You are good for Laura.” He put his hand over hers. “I owe you a lot, Sondra. I’m grateful.”
She pulled her hand back and looked at him, dark, cool, and quick. “I don’t want gratitude from you, Bannon,” she said with more heat than she’d intended, and instantly wiped it from her voice and eyes. “I’m only thinking of Laura. What’s best for her.”
He frowned, puzzled by that gust of intensity that had come from her. “You were angry just then, Why?”
“Because I don’t want you to think I’m nice to Laura because she’s your daughter. She’s my niece, too. I care about her. It has nothing to do with you and me-our relationship.”
“I know that.”
“I hope so.”
In the outer office, the front door shut with slamming force, the sound followed by quick-striding footsteps on the hardwood floor. Bannon lifted his head and glanced toward the connecting door. Sondra knew his attention was no longer on her, but on, the client outside.
“I don’t know why you waste your time with Ranovitch,” she said critically. “The man’s a loser.”
His glance flicked to her. “I’ve known Pete a long time.” That was all he said, then took her arm. “I’ll walk you out.”
Loyalty, Sondra thought, recognizing that unbendable streak in him. Bannon stood by his friends, good or bad, with a tenacity and faithfulness that never wavered. And no matter how she tried to twist that to her advantage, she never seemed to fully succeed. Not even today.
Gratitude. She despised that word.
The instant Bannon set foot in the outer office, Pete Ranovitch was on him. Haggard and hollow-eyed, a scruffy windbreaker ov
er stained kitchen whites, he easily looked sixty although he was only nudging fifty. He waved a fistful of papers in Bannon’s face, not giving him a chance to respond to Sondra’s good-bye.
“Do you see this?” Ranovitch punched the paper in his hand, his voice rising to a shrill edge. “I got this in the mail this morning. The bastard Miller says I’ve got ten days to move out of my apartment. Can he do that, Bannon? I’ve still got another ten months on my lease. I suppose that doesn’t mean shit.”
“Take it easy, Pete.” Bannon rescued the papers from the man’s ever-tightening fingers and placed a hand on a narrow shoulder, guiding the man toward his office, feeling the tension and the tremors that had Ranovitch holding himself rigid. “Come on in and sit down. Give me a chance to see what you’ve got.” Over his shoulder, he said, “Aggie, bring us some coffee. My pot’s empty and I think Pete could use some.”
“What I could use is a drink.” Pete Ranovitch sank into the chair in front of Bannon’s desk and rubbed a hand over his mouth, then caught Bannon’s eye and waved off the look. “Don’t Worry. I’ll settle for coffee. But it’s shit like this that makes a man drink.”
Withholding comment, Bannon smoothed the crumpled sheets and kicked back in his chair to read through them. Aggie came in with two cups of coffee and took the dirty mugs with her when she left, closing the connecting door on her way out. Pete dug in his pocket for a cigarette, then snapped his lighter repeatedly trying to get a flame.
“Jeezus, now my damned lighter won’t work.” He jerked the cigarette from his mouth in disgust, his fingers curling around it and the plastic lighter. “Got a light, Bannon?”
Bannon tossed him a book of matches from the center drawer. Two strikes and the match flared. Pete held the flame to the top of his cigarette with a trembling hand, then blew out a quick puff.
“Can he do it, Bannon? Can he throw me out?” He sat forward in his chair, turning the matchbook over and over in his fingers. “In that letter, he says I broke the lease. He says I was four days late with my rent money-”