by Jill Gregory
“I’m fine. Right as rain.” But he looked like a soul in torment. Annabel’s hand crept up to his cheek, and touched it softly. If only there was a way she could erase the pain that gripped his strong, handsome face. She knew it was tearing through his insides with a searing intensity, an intensity no less profound for the years that had passed since Livinia took her life.
Cade had left home at seventeen because he’d learned of his mother’s suicide, she reflected sorrowfully, and because he’d discovered the lies with which his father had covered it up. He’d blamed his father all those years ago, instinctively and automatically, but back then he had not known the full story.
Now he did. Or did he?
Something was not right here. She thought back over everything Brett had said, and suddenly it hit her.
“How did Frank Boxer know all this?” she demanded, whirling toward Brett. “About what your father said to Livinia, about the cruel lectures and the taunts.”
“I guess Mama must have confided her pain to him,” Brett began, but Annabel interrupted him, shaking her head.
“He was kidnapped, remember? How could he possibly know what was happening to Livinia in St. Louis right before she died, if he was in the West Indies?”
Silence greeted her question. Beneath a cottonwood tree, a pair of squirrels skittered wildly about, then chased each other through the grass and past a spattering of wildflowers.
Cade spoke roughly. “What does it matter? My mother took her own life because my father made her so miserable that—”
“You don’t know that for certain. You only know what Frank Boxer told Brett.”
“I know what kind of man my father was—and is.”
Brett was pacing now, round and round the little clearing, his boots crunching in the dry grass. “Ross said he loved her—he swore to me he was trying to protect her—that’s about all I gave him a chance to explain, though,” he admitted. “I didn’t even tell him I’d spoken with Boxer. We were both too angry and too upset for much rational conversation.”
“And you ran away without ever telling him that Boxer was back? Brett, how could you? That man hates your father. He’s an enemy, no doubt a dangerous one! Why, you know yourself that he planned to bring your father to financial ruin—he wanted you to help him!”
“Yes, but I made it clear to him when my fist landed in his face that I wouldn’t be a part of anything like that. And Annabel, I didn’t exactly run out without explaining anything. I left a letter detailing my meeting with Frank Boxer and warning my father—that is, Ross—of Boxer’s scheme. I made sure that Ross McCallum was fully alerted to his plans. But I just couldn’t stay to thrash it out with him anymore. I wasn’t in the mood to listen. I was in the mood to run, to escape. I needed to be away from him, from that big beautiful house where I really didn’t belong, and I needed a chance to do some thinking.”
“Your father never received that letter. At least, not so far as I know,” Annabel said coolly.
Both men stared at her.
“How do you know that?” Brett stopped pacing long enough to plant himself before her.
“Because he reported to Mr. Everett Stevenson that you ran away without any kind of letter or explanation. Oh, it was clear there had been some kind of a quarrel, but he obviously hadn’t known you were going to just up and disappear—and he told Mr. Stevenson that there was no farewell letter of any sort. Why, it was only later that he received your letter postmarked Justice. He did know about Red Cobb chasing after you, because a business acquaintance in Kansas City alerted him to that bit of gossip—and by the way, that’s something we need to discuss, too—but Brett, I’m certain that your letter about Frank Boxer never reached him.”
“Who the hell is Everett Stevenson?” Cade demanded, stalking toward her. “And if you’re not really Brett’s little fiancée, how the hell do you come to know so much about all this?”
Annabel took a deep breath. Here it comes, she thought. The explosion. Cade McCallum, you won’t like this one little bit.
“Everett Stevenson II is the president of the Stevenson Detective Agency. Ross McCallum hired him to find Brett and bring him safely home before Red Cobb could put a bullet in him.” She met Cade’s gaze as steadily as she could, wondering if he would simply shoot her or if he’d strangle her first and then finish her off with his gun. “I work for Mr. Stevenson—I’m a private investigator. He assigned me to Brett’s case.”
Anger as harsh and bitter as a Wyoming winter descended over Cade’s features. For a moment she thought he really might pull his gun. “So,” he said at last, his eyes like chips of black granite, “you’re nothing but a little liar. Ross McCallum’s paid sneak. I should have known.”
The brutal calm with which he spoke the words stung her deeper than the lash of a whip. “No! Cade,” she pleaded, desperation washing over her. “Let me explain!”
Annabel reached a hand toward him, but the scorn on his face stopped her cold.
“Reckon I’ll pass on that, Miss Brannigan. I’ve heard enough of your lies to last me a lifetime.”
Something inside of her withered like a wilted flower as Cade wheeled away toward the ranch house. Before he’d gone ten steps, he halted and threw a glance back at his brother. “We have a fight to finish. You coming?”
“Soon.” Brett drew an arm around Annabel as he answered, drawing her shaking form close to him.
Cade frowned at them. “Suit yourself.”
When he strode away this time, he didn’t look back.
“You and my brother don’t seem to like each other very much,” Brett commented, leading her back toward the tree stump and sitting her down. “What’s behind all this?”
Annabel was still seeing in her mind’s eye Cade’s coldly furious face. She could still hear his quietly contemptuous words flaying at her. “What?” she asked distractedly, as Brett shook his head and repeated his question. “Oh, well, it’s a long story, Brett. And very complicated. I’m too tired to talk about it right now.”
“Too tired—or too upset?” he asked curiously, studying the sheen of suppressed tears in her eyes. “You know, I have a few questions for you, too, Annie. How did you come to be the private investigator my father sent hunting after me? And why’d you tell my brother that you were my fiancée?” He gave a short laugh, his face softening a little with affection for her.
“It’s me, Annie, so stop playing your games. Time to fess up.”
“Oh, Brett, I can’t talk about it now.” She stood up, peering past him in the direction of the ranch house. “I have to find Cade.”
Vaguely, she knew she ought to be questioning Brett about Red Cobb and about Lucas Johnson, finding out if Brett had any idea why Johnson wanted him dead. And she also knew she should head immediately to Skull Creek to wire Mr. Stevenson with her latest theories and suspicions. Yet another part of her felt she should be making the most of these moments alone in this beautiful wild spot with Brett, opening her heart to him, and letting him know how much she loved him, and yet all she could think about was Cade.
“No, you don’t.” Brett placed his hands firmly on her shoulders as she tried to edge past him. “You haven’t given me a single answer.”
She scowled at him in exasperation as a sudden gust ruffled his dark hair and sent her own loose cinnamon curls flying. “Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many questions?”
“No. That’s what most people usually tell you.” He grinned.
She smiled back. But then she turned her head again and fixed her gaze on Cade just before he disappeared inside the ranch.
Something odd was happening here, something she didn’t understand at all, but which she couldn’t deny. She was all alone beneath a lemon sun and a lilac sky with Brett, her Brett, and all she could think about was his brother.
What is wrong with me?
“I didn’t know who Cade was when I met him—he was, after all, only Roy Steele,” she explained slowly, her eyes still fixed
on the ranch. “So of course I never guessed he was your brother. And I didn’t fully trust him at first, and didn’t think he would help me find you unless I had a very good reason—so I simply told him I was your fiancée.” She sighed. “I never dreamed everything would get so complicated ...”
Brett had been watching her face. He knew Annabel Brannigan as well as he knew any person on earth, and a strange thought popped into his mind as he saw the way she was staring at the place where his brother had disappeared.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” he murmured.
“Are you?” All Annabel could muster was a wry, sad little smile. “I’m glad, Brett, very glad indeed—because I don’t.” She leaned against him, felt his arms tighten protectively around her suddenly, and sighed again, feeling more bereft and confused than she ever remembered. “I thought I had everything in my life figured out, but now ... it seems I don’t understand anything at all.”
Chapter 18
Señorita Annabel, who would ever have guessed that your carpetbag should carry so many treasures?” Conchita gave her head a shake, and smiled in amusement as she watched Annabel brush her hair before the spare bedroom mirror. “That gown—it is muy hermosa. And your jewels are also lovely. I think Señor McCallum—both Señor McCallums—will be most pleased to escort you to the fiesta tonight.”
“Not in the least,” Annabel dismissed the compliments with a rueful smile. She turned, hairbrush in hand, to face the woman seated on the edge of the narrow bed. “Brett probably will not even notice my gown—he never has—and as for Cade McCallum, all he cares about is forcing Lowry into a fight. I’m sure escorting me to his private little battleground is the last thing on his mind.”
Conchita pursed her lips. For a quick-witted and intelligent young woman, which Annabel Brannigan gave every appearance of being, she was dense as a thicket of cedar. Conchita had seen the way Cade McCallum looked at her, and she would have bet every inch of the Racing Rivers Ranch that he was more than a little interested in this pretty girl who had come in search of Brett.
But “We shall see,” was all Conchita replied as she helped to clasp the amber necklet at Annabel’s nape.
“Perfecta.”
Annabel smiled back in the mirror, and then allowed her gaze to rest upon her own reflection.
A pleasantly attractive image gazed back at her. “I guess I’ll do,” she allowed, but her dimples popped out as her smile widened. “Maybe the McCallum brothers will notice me after all.”
She had chosen her favorite of her two Sunday best dresses—the sea-foam green silk with the leg-of-mutton sleeves and the fitted waist accentuated by the smart cream-lace sash. The soft green of the gown brought out vivid matching flecks in her eyes, and looked striking with her hair, which glistened to a rich burnished sheen. She had arranged it in an elaborate chignon, with tiny curls framing her face. With her amber necklet and the daintily dangling amber earbobs, silk stockings, and cream-colored slippers, she looked very nearly as elegant as the fashionable young women Brett squired around back home, Annabel decided.
She forced herself to walk sedately as she followed Conchita Rivers from the small but comfortably appointed guest bedroom to the parlor, and told herself it really didn’t matter what Cade McCallum thought of her appearance at all.
When they reached the parlor, Adelaide, Tomas, and the McCallum brothers were already dressed and waiting. A flush of color tinged Annabel’s cheeks as four pairs of eyes swerved all at once toward her and Conchita.
Adelaide spoke first, an approving smile on her thin old lips. “You gals look right nice. Better than old Calvin Lowry deserves.”
Tomas grinned at the striking figure of his mother in her tight-sleeved russet taffeta, with her hair coiled in an elegant coronet atop her head. “Sí, Mama. You’re beautiful.”
“You’re both beautiful,” Brett declared warmly, coming forward with a grin to offer Annabel his arm. He didn’t look any the worse for his afternoon’s confessions; as a matter of fact he had cleaned himself up, shaved, brushed his hair, and dressed neatly in a gray silk shirt and dark trousers, with a black string tie and vest. To Annabel’s relief he didn’t appear to have been drinking—he looked clear eyed and alert, and most delightfully impressed with her toilette.
“You’re even prettier than the last time I saw you,” he told her, sounding surprised. “Or is it only an appetite for blood that’s giving you this glow, and causing your eyes to shine so bewitchingly tonight, my incorrigible little Annie?”
“I am not the bloodthirsty wretch you make me out to be!” Annabel protested, yet she blushed beneath the admiring intentness of his gaze, and her heart took flight and began to soar. Was she imagining it, or was Brett finally noticing that she was a woman? She’d never seen this particular kind of interest in his glance before, but he was certainly appraising her face and her figure in the flowing silk gown, and from the way he was smiling, he didn’t appear to have found anything lacking.
Joy leapt through her and she tucked her arm eagerly in his, but the next moment it died as Cade McCallum, instead of saying one word to her about her appearance or anything else, stalked to the ranch door.
“Time to be going.” The familiar hard tone was like a blow to her heart. He didn’t even glance once at her as he held the door wide for the little group to pass through.
“Coming.” Brett steered Annabel toward the liquor cabinet. “First, I think this occasion calls for a drink. Something to fortify us for the—”
“We don’t need fortifying. We need to get to the fiesta and get on with this,” Cade interrupted him evenly. “Leave the liquor alone and let’s go.”
An angry red flush spread up Brett’s neck and into his cheeks. “I’m sick and tired of you trying to order me around! What I do is none of your damn business. I was getting along fine on this job before you showed up and no one has appointed you leader—”
“Brett, please,” Conchita interrupted, her tone low and pleading. “You have saved our lives more than once—our gratitude is endless, but your brother is a skilled gunman as none of the rest of us are. We need him tonight, his gun as well as his guidance. And he is right. Liquor will not help any of us this evening—we must have clear heads to follow Señor Cade’s lead, we must have all our wits about us if any of us are to survive this fiesta and whatever trouble erupts.”
“So go without me. You don’t need me. You just said as much.” Brett wrenched free of Annabel, and grabbed a whiskey bottle from the cabinet. “Go on. You have Cade McCallum, the genuine son of the great Ross McCallum. You couldn’t do any better. So go away, and leave me be.”
“Brett.” Caught between exasperation and anger, Annabel regarded him through narrowed eyes. “You’re acting like a ten-year-old. No,” she added, with a glance at Tomas, so quietly serious and mature for his age. “Like a six-year-old. We do need you and we are asking for your help. The Brett McCallum I know would never let down the people who need him.” She shook his arm, as he paused with the bottle in his hand. “Have you really changed so much? Aren’t you the same person I’ve known and ... and cared for all these years?”
“No! Yes! Hell, I don’t know, Annabel.” Brett suddenly closed his eyes and sighed. “You’re right. I’m acting like a damned fool. Can’t seem to help it lately,” he muttered.
He threw Conchita and Adelaide an apologetic smile. “Sorry, señoras. Vamonos.”
Still, he ignored Cade as he stalked past him out the door.
* * *
They drove up the long, tree-flanked drive leading up to the Lowry hacienda in style. Brett drove the women and Tomas in the Rivers’s carriage, while Cade rode alongside on Dickens. It was a grim procession, with scarcely a word spoken as they traveled along beneath a dark sky murky with clouds, unlit by stars or moon. The air felt hot and close and heavy, as if a storm was brewing, and once Annabel thought she heard distant thunder echo across the mountains.
As the carriage halted in the bright,
torch-lit courtyard before the ranch, Annabel found herself smoothing and re-smoothing the silken folds of her skirt. She scarcely noticed the grandeur of the rambling, two-story Lowry ranch, with its extensive outbuildings and corrals, its wide wraparound porch and gleaming pillars; she scarcely heard the gay flow of music streaming forth into the warm, humid night, music interspersed with laughter and merriment. She was watching Cade, wondering if she would ever again have a moment to try to explain to him, to make him understand.
He must hate me now for lying to him—even though he lied to me as well. Yet she sensed that, to him, her greatest sin was working for Ross McCallum. What was it Cade had called her? His father’s paid sneak. Frustration chafed at her as Brett helped first Adelaide and then Conchita to alight. When it was her turn, his fingers clasped her lightly around the waist as he set her down.
“You look like an angel, tonight, Annabel. You ought to be able to simply fly up there and through the door and dazzle Lowry to death with your beauty.”
“Flatterer!” Annabel laughed at him, though her heart beat a shade faster at the warmth in his eyes. “I’m not one of your fashionable debutantes, Brett. You can’t bamboozle me with a lot of fancy talk.”
“Oh, can’t I?” he teased her, and with elaborate courtliness took her arm to escort her up the flower-lined path to the door. But Annabel saw Cade watching them, stony eyed, and she suddenly halted.
“Brett, go on ahead with Conchita for just a moment. I must ... that is, there is something I must discuss with Cade.”
“Annabel ...”
She heard him sigh as she slipped away from him to the fence post where Cade stood beneath a canopy of indigo sky.
The scent of roses floated on the night air. But there was tension in the air, too, a raw, charged energy at odds with the lush scent. Then, for a moment, lightning lit the sky, and in its brief flare she was more aware than ever that Cade tonight of all nights looked incredibly handsome. Annabel waited until he had fixed that piercing black gaze upon her and then she offered him up her most winsome smile.