Читать книгу Texas Millionaire - Dixie Browning, Dixie Browning - Страница 10

Early on a Saturday morning, shoulders squared, head held high, Callie locked the front door, took one last walk around the house to be sure she’d remembered to close all the windows and fill all the feeders and headed for Texas.

“Grace, I’m on my way. Feed my birds about Wednesday, will you?” she called to her neighbor at the foot of the road.

“I’ll check every couple of days. See you in a week or so. Drive safe, have a good time, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Callie promised, her mind already miles ahead. This was a mission, not a vacation. Never given to impulsive acts, she had thought it through carefully, made her lists, pro and con, and checked one against the other. And now here she was, finally on her way.

By Tuesday, second thoughts were rapidly piling up. Back home in North Carolina, it had all sounded so logical. Now that she was actually in Texas, she was beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t have talked her plan over with Aunt Manie first instead of springing it on her out of the blue.

Quit fretting, Caledonia, it’s too late now. You’ve done all that work on the house and shut off the mail and paper delivery. You buttered your bread, now lie in it.

She was tired, that’s all it was. Besides, everything out west was so blessed big. This was the first time she’d ever even crossed to the other side of the Blue Ridge mountains. What in the world had she been thinking?

Back when the idea had first come to her, it seemed like the most logical thing in the world. She’d never even met Great-Aunt Manie until Grandpop Riley’s funeral last September, but the two of them had hit it off right away. Aunt Manie was so much like Grandpop, which was perfectly logical. They’d been brother and sister, after all. They shared the same common sense approach to life, the same dry sense of humor. They even looked alike, both being spare of frame and stern of face until you caught the twinkling eyes and the little twitch at the corner of the mouth.

And besides, Aunt Manie used to live in Grandpop’s house. It was Callie’s now. Nobody else wanted it, at least not to live in. Her father, who had grown up there, called it an old relic, which it was, which was why Grandpop had left it to Callie and not his own son.

It had taken practically all her savings, but she’d fixed the old place up so that Aunt Manie wouldn’t give it that sad-eyed look, the way she had after the funeral. A new roof, at least on the south side, where the sun baked the shingles so that they curled up and leaked. A fresh coat of paint in a lovely shade of gray, with contrasting trim. Next she was going to tackle the plumbing and wiring, but first she’d have to find another job and build up her savings again.

But the yard was in fine shape. Surrounded by rhododendrons and weeping cherry trees, flame azalea and the day lilies that Grandpop had called backhouse lilies, it sat plank in the middle of seven acres of woodland a few miles from Brooks Cross Roads. For someone who preferred life in the slow lane, it was ideal.

And Callie was definitely slow-lane material. Driving to Yadkinville five days a week to work was fast enough for her. And at Aunt Manie’s age, she was going to fit right in.

Callie’s father, Bainbridge, had expected her to sell out as soon as the will had been probated. Ever since he’d given up his position with the insurance company and gone to being a full-time potter and part-time fiddler, he’d been looking for ways to make money. Unlike Callie, he hadn’t inherited his father’s philosophy of work hard, live cheap and lay by for a rainy day.

He should have thought of that before he’d quit. Her mother was just as bad, but then, Sally Cutler was only a Riley by marriage. Riley tradition didn’t mean doodleysquat to her, never had. After working her way up to assistant manager at Big Joe Arther’s Motors and playing the organ at the Brushy Creek Church for as long as Callie could remember, Sally had hit menopause. She’d dealt with it by bleaching her hair, eating a lot of soybeans and playing keyboard with a homegrown country rock band who called themselves The Rockin’ Possum.

For the past few years Bain and Sally had taken in every fiddler’s convention and craft show between Galax and Nashville, leaving Callie and Grandpop to take care of each other. Which suited Callie just fine. She’d had her job, and Grandpop had had his garden.

But then last fall Grandpop had passed over. Died in his sleep, peaceful as a dove. And Callie had finally met his sister Romania, and one thing led to another, and now here she was in Texas, of all places.

Manie had told her back when she’d come east to the funeral that her own roots were in Texas, but Callie hadn’t believed it, not for a minute. Her leaves and branches might be in Texas, but Manie’s roots were back in the thick red clay of Yadkin County, North Carolina.

Callie hadn’t mentioned it at the time, but the plan had already started to simmer in her mind when they’d driven around to see all the new development and the old familiar places. Callie was a good planner. So far as she knew, she was the only truly reliable member of her immediate family, because even Grandpop had run off and joined the Merchant Marine when he was barely old enough to shave.

As for Aunt Manie, it was too soon to tell. If she needed looking after, then Callie was the one to do it. If, on the other hand, she was simply looking for a place to retire, why then, what better place than the home where she’d once lived as a girl? The plain truth was, Callie was lonesome in that big old house. And family was important. Now that Grandpop was gone, and her parents didn’t need her—not yet, at least—she was free to look after whichever family member needed her most.

It was the perfect answer for both of them. Once Manie was back in Yadkin County, where Rileys had lived since they’d crossed the Yadkin River on a ferryboat, driving a mule-drawn cart, she’d forget all about the Langleys.

Langleys. To hear her talk, you’d think they were second cousins to God, or something. In the week her aunt had been there, Callie had heard more than enough about their wonderful oil wells, their beautiful mansion and their fancy, exclusive, rich-man’s club. At the age of sixty-nine, according to Manie—seventy-two, according to Grandpop—poor Aunt Manie was still slaving away for the last of her precious Langleys. She’d described him as sweet, sensitive and vulnerable, with women trying to marry him for his money.

There was nothing sweet, sensitive, or even decent about a man who would allow a woman to work years beyond retirement age when she had a perfectly good home to go back to and a niece willing and able to look after her.

Besides, he sounded like a wimp. While the term sensitive might apply to old Doc Teeter, the man Callie had worked for ever since she was sixteen years old, she couldn’t see it applying to a rich, middle-aged bachelor. The man was obviously spoiled rotten. Probably one of those playboys who had their picture taken for People magazine with models and actresses draped all over him.

Well, Callie was calling the shots now. She hadn’t worked for a family practitioner all these years without learning a thing or two about handling people. Male, female, rich, poor, young or old, they were all the same when they were sick and scared. She stopped in Odessa for a chicken sandwich and a glass of iced tea, placed a call to her parents’ downtown loft in Winston-Salem and happened to catch her father in. Even though she disapproved of their lifestyles and some of the wild company they kept, she worried about them.

“Daddy? I’m in a place out in Texas called Odessa. It’s not too far from Royal, so I guess I’ll be getting in late this afternoon. Are you and Mama going to be home for a while? I worry about you when you’re on the road.”

“We’re heading out for Nashville come morning. I’ve got a big craft show this weekend, and the Possums are going to make a demo.”

“Oh. Well, call me when you know where you’ll be staying, all right? I gave Mama Aunt Manie’s number. And remember to take your pills with you, and don’t forget to walk at least a mile a day. I know it’ll be hot, but if you set out first thing in the morning—I know, I love you, too, Daddy. You be sure and go with Mama to those clubs, y’hear? You know what kind of people hang out in those places.”

Callie didn’t even know herself, not firsthand, but she’d heard things and read things, and her mama wasn’t exactly famous for her common sense. She had to trust her father to look after them both, which didn’t give her a whole lot of confidence, but she didn’t know what else to do. They were both in their middle fifties, but neither of them had a lick of common sense.

Had she remembered to bring Grandpop’s old photo albums?

She had. They were packed with the tube of Moravian cookies and the Moravian sugar cake, which was squashed and probably starting to mold, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Reminders of home, of childhood. It couldn’t hurt.

Lordy, she was tired. She’d never driven any farther than Raleigh, and now here she was, striking out across the country like a pioneer. Not that the interstate was any wagon trail. Not that her little red car was any covered wagon, either, but all the same, she felt proud of herself for setting out to rescue an elderly relative in need.

The Riley women—at least those who’d been born Rileys—might be short on looks and weird on names, but according to Grandpop, they had never lacked for gumption when something needed doing.

And Callie had convinced herself that Manie needed rescuing. She had the house all ready. She had taken her time looking for a new job after Doc retired, knowing she’d be heading west for a week or so, but as soon as they were back and settled in, she’d set out and find something that suited her.

Hank was tired when he got back from Midland. The unscheduled trip to his corporate headquarters, as it turned out, had been timely. He had an outstanding board of directors, but as Badge One, he occasionally found it necessary to question what he considered a risky move. Nine times out of ten, he was proved right. The tenth time served to keep him humble.

Greg Hunt was standing by the massive fireplace under the life-size portrait of old Tex Langley when Hank walked in. There was a private entrance to the second floor, but it was seldom used. The two men met in the middle of the room.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure, come on upstairs.” A close friend, Greg also served as his personal attorney, but Hank had a feeling this was about something entirely different. “You mentioned a situation. What’s up?” He led the way toward the broad staircase. There was an elevator, but like the private entrance, it was seldom used.

“I’d better fill you in on the background first, then we can take it from there.”

Hank poured his friend a drink, lit his own cigar and settled in to listen. He’d learned a long time ago that a moment of distraction during a briefing could spell disaster down the road.

“You remember my mentioning a woman named Anna?”

“Real looker? You had something pretty heavy going with her a while back? Family’s European and big on rules?”

“Yeah, well I forgot to mention her family name. She’s Anna von Oberland, of the Osterhaus von Oberlands. Crowned heads of a small European country. They’re pretty big on arranged marriages.”

“The hell you say. You’re marrying into royalty?” Hank stumped out his cigar and leaned forward.

“If it were that easy, there wouldn’t be a problem. They’ve got her in exile. I’m not even sure how she managed to get a call through, but thank God she did.”

Hank waited. Greg was a lawyer. The information would emerge in the proper form, at the proper time.

“You’ve heard of Ivan the Terrible?”

Hank nodded. Greg scowled. “From what I hear, this guy who’s determined to marry her is a dead ringer. Prince Ivan Striksky of Asterland, who’s interested in expanding his holdings any way he can. Marrying Anna is easier and cheaper than a full-fledged invasion. Did I mention she has a son? She’s also the guardian of her late sister’s twins, which is probably going to mean a separate mission as I understand they’re being held in another location. Getting all four of them out of the country is going to take some tricky maneuvering and a whole lot of luck.”

“Count me in.”

Greg drained his glass, sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“I already have. I’ll get back to you after I talk to the others.”

For a long time after Greg left, Hank sat tilted back in his favorite chair, booted feet on the windowsill, staring out the window as another hot day drained from the colorless sky. Aside from the creak of his chair, the only sound to be heard was the quiet whisper of cold air feeding through the elaborate system of ductwork.

A situation?

Hell, it was a full-blown technodrama. Romeo and Juliet out of Indiana Jones.

At thirty-two, Greg Hunt was nearly eight years Hank’s junior. The man was brilliant, experienced, old enough and smart enough to avoid trouble of the female variety. This Anna of his must be something special. With three kids, yet.

He only hoped she was worth it. They’d left it with the understanding that Greg would consult with Sterling Churchill, Forrest Cunningham and Greg’s younger brother, Blake, who was into cloak-and-dagger stuff for the feds. All five men, Hank included, were ex-military. It was one of the things they had in common, besides being highly successful in their individual fields.

Hank had assured Greg of his support, both financial and otherwise. Talk of undertaking a mission brought back a rash of old memories. For the first time in years, Hank felt the familiar surge of excitement, as if he were back with the First Battalion of the 160th Special Ops, being briefed for another black SOF mission.

His career with the military had been the most rewarding period of his entire life. Never before or since had he felt so fully alive. He might even have made the service a permanent career except for the confluence of several events, including his father’s death, a crisis in the oil industry and the crash that had landed him in a Turkish hospital with a flock of surgeons squabbling over whether to do a chop job or try to patch up his mangled left leg.

The truth was, he missed it.

Hank had been eighteen when he’d enlisted. Reckless, resentful and still raw from his aborted marriage. Toting a redwood-size chip on his shoulder, he’d been determined to prove something—God knows what—to his old man.

Instead he’d proved something to himself. Now, some twenty-one years later, he knew who he was, what he was made of and what he was capable of achieving, either as a part of a team or on his own.

And none of it had anything to do with the fortune amassed by previous generations of Langleys.

Of the five people Hank trusted most in the world, four were ex-military and Cattleman’s Club members, like himself. The fifth person with whom he would trust his life was Romania Riley. Prim, scrappy Miss Manie, a woman who smelled like lavender and who could throw the fear of God into the club’s two-hundred-fifty-pound ex-marine chef with one look over the gold rim of her bifocals. The lady might drive him nuts on occasion, but she did it with the best intentions in the world.

As if his thoughts had summoned her, there came a familiar rap on his door. Hank managed to lower his feet a moment before Miss Manie marched into the room with that familiar look that invariably spelled trouble.

“Now, you’re not going to like what I’m about to tell you, but just listen and don’t interrupt until I’m done, all right?”

“If it’s about—”

“Hush. I haven’t even started yet.”

Hank hushed. When she was done, he decided she’d been right. He didn’t like it. Naturally he started arguing. “Look, just go ahead and take off as long as you need, you haven’t had a vacation in years. Your brother’s funeral last fall didn’t count. Just get me someone down from the main office before you go, okay? Helen will do just fine.”

“Helen’s not going to drive all the way from Midland every day just to—”

“She can put up in staff’s quarters for the duration.”

“What, and leave her family behind?”

“Helen’s got family?”

Manie shook her head, causing her bifocals to slide down her long, thin nose. “I declare, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you didn’t have a speck of decency in you. You don’t know doodle-squat about all the folks who work their fingers to the bone for you.”

“Maybe not, but I pay ‘em damned well. And I do know Helen can suck data out of a computer faster than anyone else on my payroll.”

“That may be, but did you know she has two sons and a husband, and teaches Sunday School at the First Baptist Church? Did you know—”

“Manie, get to the point. What does all this have to do with your niece?”

“Great-niece. She’s all the family I’ve got left in the world, poor little thing.”

When Manie put on her “poor lonesome me” act, it was time to take cover. “Fine. Or sorry, depending on your sentiments. Is the kid weaned yet? Do I need to hire a nanny?”

“Have you heard a single word I’ve said?”

“Enough to know you want me to baby-sit while you go up to Midland. Have you and Helen planned a big shopping spree or something?” The two women had kept in touch even after Helen had transferred to headquarters after Hank’s father’s death.

Manie made a sound that was part snort, part huff. He used to try to reproduce it as a kid, but he’d never been able to come close. “What I want is for you to listen,” she snapped. “Now, I’ve put off this surgery for—”

“Surgery! What surgery? You didn’t say anything about surgery!”

“I just did. Now hush up and listen.”

“What kind of surgery? I can fly you to Austin—”

“I don’t want you to fly me to Austin, I’ve got a perfectly good doctor in Midland, and she’s scheduled me for next Friday morning at seven, which gives Callie just enough time to get settled and learn how we do things around here.” She said it all without giving him a chance to get a word in, and then glared at him over her spectacles, daring him to argue.

“Callie?”

“My great-niece. I just finished telling you all about her, didn’t you hear a single word I said?”

He’d heard it all, only he was having trouble collating all the data. “Just back up a minute, will you? First, I want to know the name of your doctor. Next, I want to know exactly what she told you, and dammit, I want to know why you never mentioned it before. Hell, I thought you just wanted a vacation. How long have you known about this? Why didn’t you say something before now? Does it-” He scowled and shoved back the thick, gray-spangled hair that fell over his tanned forehead. “Here, sit down, take my chair. Want me to get you some water?” He hit the intercom button that connected him to his chefs office. “Mouse, send up a pot of tea and whatever the hell goes with tea. Crackers, cookies—whatever. It’s for Miss Manie. You know what she likes.”

Everyone knew what Miss Manie liked. She was an institution at the club. A roughneck’s kid his father had taken in out of the oil fields and raised like his own daughter. Outspoken, occasionally outrageous, she’d earned the respect of everyone in town, even the women she called floozies. They might not like her, but they sure as hell respected her.

“Now, tell me what this is all about.” He squatted before her. It damned near killed him, but he needed to see her eyes. Taking her knotty-fingered, blue-veined hands in his, he said, “Manie, sweetheart, level with me. I want to know everything—diagnosis, prognosis, treatment—whatever you know, I need to know. We’re going to beat this thing, I promise. No way am I going to let anything happen to my Manie. Now what is it?”

She sighed, and he braced himself for the worst. He’d get her the finest specialists in Texas. In the U.S. In the world. What good was money if it couldn’t help the ones you loved?

“If you must know, it’s nothing at all serious. Just a simple repair that should have been done years ago.”

“Repair what? What’s broke?”

She snatched her hands from his and clapped them to her withered cheeks. “Oh, for mercy’s sake, it’s called female trouble,” she hissed. “Now, let’s get down to brass tacks, young man. Callie will be here late this afternoon, and I’m planning to bring her into the office tomorrow. She’s smart as a whip, she’ll be able to take over without a speck of trouble. By Thursday I’ll be—”

“Whoa, back up again, honey. Take over what?”

If there was one thing Manie Riley was good at, it was coercion. Done politely, there wasn’t a single thing wrong with a bit of gentle blackmail to her way of thinking, not when it was done for the good of all concerned.

And this certainly was. All she needed was a little nip and tuck to keep her from traipsing to the bathroom every fifteen minutes. What Hank needed was a decent woman to save him from all those floozies who judged a man by the size of his bankroll instead of the size of his heart, while her Callie…

Well, Callie needed a man. Some women didn’t. Manie had thought, until recently, that she herself didn’t need one, either, but then, live and learn, they said.

They also said there was no fool like an old fool, but that was another matter.

“Gracious, are you sure about this?” Callie exclaimed. Pushing away her plate, she tried to focus on all the lists her great-aunt had presented along with the sweet potato pie. She was still reeling from the trip, amazed that she’d actually managed to get here after driving for what seemed forever.

Royal was a tiny little town, hardly more than a speck on the map. She’d been afraid she’d miss it and wander around forever in the most desolate country she’d ever seen, but suddenly, there it was, green as a pool table, right in the middle of a desert. No wonder they had all those windmills going full tilt day and night, hauling water up from way underground. It must take a zillion gallons just to keep all the lawns watered.

“Wake up, don’t you dare fall asleep at the table. Now pay attention, I promised Hank I’d bring you in tomorrow and show you the ropes.”

“Aunt Manie, I’m not very good with a computer and my bookkeeping is probably not what he’s used to. Honestly, are you sure—?”

“I’m sure. Secretaries aren’t what they were in my day. What with all these machines people use nowadays, they’re practically obsolete, but don’t worry about that, what you’ll be is more like a personal assistant. If you worked for that crochety old man I met at Wharrie’s funeral, you can work for anybody. My Hank’s a sweet boy. All he needs is someone to screen his calls and keep folks from pestering him for donations, or papas wanting to take him home to meet their daughters, or these jumped-up schoolteachers wanting him to endow a chair at some university. You’ll be taking care of his personal needs, that’s all.”

Callie’s eyes widened, but before her imagination could shift into overdrive, her great-aunt continued, “Now, I’ve listed everything you need to know right here. What calls to put through right off, which ones to stall, who to let in, who to keep out, who to interrupt if they stay more than ten minutes. This list here is the numbers of his favorite restaurants for making reservations. If he’s taking a woman, he’ll likely take her to Claire’s, but if it’s one of his friends, they’ll go to the Royal Diner for hot dogs and coconut pie. The Royal don’t take reservations. Here’s the number for the florist, the cleaners and the pharmacy where he gets his migraine medicine. He won’t need it often, but when he does, he’ll need it right quick. They deliver. Here’s his private pilot’s number and—oh, yes, here’s the phone number where I’ll be staying once I get out of the clinic.”

Merciful heavens, Callie felt as if she’d run head-on into a Texas tornado, which couldn’t be much worse than the Carolina variety, only after a four-day drive, she wasn’t in any condition to put up much of a fight. “Yes, but—”

“I can’t tell you how much it means to know I can go off with a clear conscience, I’ve been putting it off for so long.”

“But, Aunt Manie—”

“This way, I can rest easy about my plants. Every third day for those in the east window, every day for the south side. I’ve left instructions in the kitchen.”

“Yes, but—” Callie tried again. Manie had hit her with this thing before she’d even opened her suitcase. “Shouldn’t I go with you? To the clinic, I mean? I could stay with you—even working in Doc Teeter’s office, I learned how to—”

“Pshaw. No point in turnin’ a real nurse out of her job. With you looking after things here, I can rest easy in my mind. You’ll be a darn sight more good to me here than you will in Midland. Besides, I’ve got plenty of friends there.”

They went back a forth a few more times, but youth and determination were no match for age, experience and a conniving turn of mind. Callie knew when to give in. Her own plans would just have to wait. “All right, I’ll do my best, but don’t blame me if your Mr. Langley sends me packing. I know a lot about men, and—”

Manie snorted again.

“—and one thing for sure, they don’t like any changes in their routine. Doc Teeter is the sweetest man alive, but just let me slip up and send in the first patient before he finishes his second cup of coffee, and he’ll growl all day.”

“You won’t have to worry about that with Hank. He’ll bend over backward not to cause you a speck of trouble. Like I said, he’s the sweetest boy in the world.”

Callie, shoulders slumping, eyelids at half-mast, had her doubts about that, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. The arrangements had already been made. Her aunt needed her, if only to water her precious plants and set her mind at ease so she could heal properly.

And after this, she thought smugly, Manie was going to owe her. “All right then, if your sweet boy agrees, I’ll do my best.”

Manie beamed. Face flushed with pleasure and two glasses of blackberry wine, she looked far younger than the sixty-nine years she admitted to. “I’m just as sorry as I can be the way things worked out, but when I scheduled my operation, I wasn’t sure you’d actually come to visit.”

“Yes, well…I guess it worked out for the best. Just remember, once the operation’s done, we’re going to have a serious talk about the future. I’ve had a wonderful idea, and I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

The elderly woman nodded, and then nodded again. Leaning over, Callie peered up into her face and saw that she was dozing.

Well. She was pretty tired, herself, after driving practically nonstop all the way across the country. A few hours of sleep in a series of cheap motels hardly counted as rest.

Hank stared morosely at the blinking red light on his answering machine, tempted to ignore it. Discipline took over. Besides, it might be Manie. He still wasn’t convinced she hadn’t made light of her illness just to keep him from worrying.

The first message was from Pansy. She wanted him to call her the minute he got back to town. The next two were from headquarters, about some drilling rights that were coming up for renewal. Another one was from a candidate in the upcoming election, wanting money. He happened to know the man was the biggest crook in six counties, not that that meant he wouldn’t be an effective politician, but all the same, he’d pass on this one.

The last message was from Manie. “Hank, I’ll be bringing Callie by in the morning to show her around and introduce her to the staff. She’s tired, so we might not be in before ten, but I want you to promise me you’ll be nice to her.” As if he’d be anything else to one of Manie’s relatives. “She’s a hard worker and real good with people. Give her a day or two and she’ll do just fine. I’ll be bringing you a slice of my sweet potato pie, too, so save room for it.”

Sighing, Hank dropped into his chair, raked his fingers through his hair and wondered, not for the first time, if he was too old and beat-up to get back into the service.