Читать книгу A Man To Count On - Helen R. Myers - Страница 8

Usethe key…

It should have been impossible for E.D. to smile, but she did, several times on her drive to Dylan’s personal refuge. First because he’d pulled the kind of threat that should only be successful on puppies and kids under the age of five. When she was a child, her family had had a rebellious, independent pup that had never obeyed the simplest command until he’d heard her father’s warning, “Don’t make me come get you.” And then the leggy critter would charge for the stairs as if a T-bone was on the other side of the kitchen door. Dylan couldn’t possibly know that story, but he’d used the technique with her father’s intonation.

Next she smiled appreciating the man’s tenderness and compassion. What a pity that she couldn’t extol his goodness publicly. Regardless of what lay down the road, she would cherish his friendship and generosity.

Dylan’s ranch—although he was the last to call it that due to its modest size by Texas standards—was five hundred-plus acres in the Hill Country, property that he’d inherited from his parents after their untimely death while on vacation. He kept it because he wisely knew the most patrolled property in Austin couldn’t assure him the serenity and privacy these rolling hills of the rough prairie did. E.D. suspected that Dylan also kept it because a part of him clung to a dream never voiced to anyone but himself.

It took close to an hour to get there, her fault thanks to a wrong turn that cost her extra time. At the electronic gate, she spent another minute figuring out the keypad code. Dylan hadn’t provided it, which told her that he knew she could figure it out—and wanted her to. Suddenly reminded of the note with the last four digits of his phone number and his appreciation for puzzles, she tried it two different ways without success, then thought of “gate” and split, then inverted the two sets of numbers…and the real gate opened.

Shaking her head at his wit, as much as his determination not to allow her to get buried in fear and self-pity, she drove in. Mesquite, cedar and rock outcroppings protected the view of the house from the main road. Originally a one-bedroom log cabin, the building had been renovated to add on another bedroom, bathroom and a dream kitchen. E.D. remembered the layout only slightly from the wedding, but knew one thing for certain—she wouldn’t be sleeping in the bed where Dylan and Brenda had spent their honeymoon. That would finish denying her a wink of rest. One of the couches would serve her fine for this short stay.

As she pulled up to the house, she saw the lights on and a Jeep in front. A wiry-built man in his early forties pushed himself up from one of the large cypress rockers on the porch and stepped out to greet her. He wore a worn straw hat and denim work clothes, and politely removed the hat.

“Ms. Martel?”

How not surprising, E.D. thought. Dylan had obviously instructed his foreman how to address her. “E.D., please,” she said extending her hand. “You’re…?”

“Coats, ma’am. Chris Coats.” After the handshake, he pointed west of the house. “My cabin is down by the creek about a quarter of a mile. Press one on the phone’s memory dial or use the walkie-talkie if you need me. You’ll find your radio by the bed stand. If you’re planning to walk around outside after dark, I’d appreciate you letting me know. We have our share of snakes and varmints, you know.”

“I think I can safely assure you that I won’t test my luck.”

He nodded approvingly. “The fridge is freshly stocked and all utilities and linens have been checked. Is there anything else I can do, ma’am? Did you have dinner? My cooking won’t keep you up all night if you have a taste for a steak or an omelet.”

E.D. smiled. She felt comfortable with this what-you-see-is-what-you-get throwback to a fast-fading era, but suspected he’d already put in a long day with the stock and repairing fences, or whatever his job description included. “You’re kind, but I suspect it’s already been a long day for you, and I—” she’d almost said I lost my appetite before I went to bed last night. Quickly editing herself, she continued, “I’ll be fine, thank you very much.”

“My pleasure, ma’am. Having anticipated that you may be tired, there’s a salad, also a stew in the fridge that only needs warming. I’ll just get your luggage inside and be on my way.”

E.D. waited for him with her shoulder bag and briefcase in hand, wondering what his story was and how long Dylan had entrusted this mystical place to him. On further study she noted that he moved like a man of thirty-five or so, but his weathered features suggested adding some years. Suspecting that as much as he liked it here that life wasn’t a free ride, she appreciated Chris all the more for making this so easy for her—at least as easy as an already humiliated woman could feel at this point.

Minutes later, she stood alone in the cabin. It wasn’t her familiar two-story Tudor with halls full of family photos, hutches of antique crystal, silver and china, some that she could trace back to great-grandparents. Yes, there were antiques, but of a more primitive Mexican design. Interspersed with large leather couches and chairs, they reflected Dylan’s grounded, stable personality well and she could see him everywhere she looked.

Strangely, that left her feeling all the more of a fraud what with her home being predominantly about status and image and less about who she was. Save for her sunroom-breakfast nook, it struck E.D. that the word home had become mostly a lie to her. At least in the nook she could corner the kids long enough to share their experiences and ask about anxieties. It was also where her African violets and orchids caught her attention, getting the water and fertilizer they needed to bloom. She shook her head, realizing she’d have been willing to sacrifice the plants if her kids could have thrived more. The den was well lived in, thanks to the kids’study marathons and movie parties. But except for their bedrooms, the rest of the house was all for appearance—the French provincial dining room, the equally formal parlor. As for Trey’s office, it was known as No Man’s Land to everyone including her, and yet also furnished to give the impression of intellectualism and success. That was the biggest joke considering that all those wooden file cabinets contained were unfinished manuscripts and rejection letters.

As bitterness rose again like bile in her throat, the phone rang.

E.D. glanced around and found the remote on the sofa table. Grabbing it, she saw the caller ID information and smiled. “Yes, I’m here,” she said in lieu of a greeting.

“Good. I was beginning to worry.”

Aware she was breathing like a sprinter, E.D. pressed a hand to her heart.

“I made a wrong turn and almost ended up in El Paso.”

Despite the hilly terrain, a baritone chuckle came back clearly over the wireless connection.

“You’d be thirsty and hungry long before you got there.”

No doubt. She dismissed that to communicate her reactions to what he was making available to her. “Oh, my. I’d forgotten how refreshing yet peaceful it was here.”

“Sorry that I didn’t have time to do anything special.”

E.D. supposed he meant flowers. “Your man was here waiting. He’s been very kind—and thorough. Thank you.”

“You’re most welcome. Now that that’s out of the way, how are you, really?”

Several people had asked her that, but this was the first time that E.D. felt she could dissolve into a puddle upon hearing the question. She had to swallow hard not to embarrass both of them. “Stunned. Worried. Hurt. Getting angrier by the minute.”

“All understandable and probably healthy reactions. I’m particularly supportive of the latter one.”

“Unfortunately, it’s a luxury I can least afford. He may not let me speak to them, but I need to look into who he’s hired to represent her.” He, meaning Trey. Her, meaning her daughter. E.D. knew better than to give out names on yet another open line and suspected from his careful wording that Dylan continued to share her mindset.

“Is there something I can do from this end?” he asked.

Any queries he made would immediately make him vulnerable to public speculation. She had no doubt he could handle that, but could his career at this fragile juncture? “Thank you, but opening your home to me is more than enough.”

There was a slight pause on the line, then he said, “Since it’s obvious you’re not going to rest, I can help you think things through.”

E.D. covered her eyes with her left hand. “It’s humiliating to know you’ve heard what you have. I can’t bring myself to discuss them with you at this point, even if I had all the truth, which I don’t. He won’t talk to me, and he’s cut me off from my own children. Me! I’m the one who can actually help.”

As her voice broke, she compressed her lips and shifted her hand from her eyes to her mouth to help fight back a sob.

For a good while there was only the sound of Dylan breathing on the other end of the connection. Finally, he said with new determination, “There’s a fax machine in my office. Why don’t you go turn it on?”

“Excuse me?”

“You need an attorney willing to do what you’re in no condition to do for yourself. I’m writing down a name and number.”

How did she tell him that her finances were complicated right now, that Trey had locked her out of their checking and savings and had changed the passwords on their money market account? She had funds to secure a divorce attorney, but a top gun to go after the scum that was hurting her child? That was a different matter entirely.

Her silence apparently spoke fathoms to Dylan.

“Let me cover whatever retainers you need.”

She couldn’t believe he would make such an offer, let alone not recognize what a paper trail that would leave. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly, “but I need a minute.”

Without giving him an opportunity to protest, she disconnected, and with her insides roiling for the second time today, E.D. sought and found the bathroom and became physically ill. The day’s events were taking their toll and the only good news was that her stomach was mostly empty, which made her discomfort thankfully short-lived. Unfortunately, after she washed her face and rinsed her mouth, she was left back where she’d started—gruesomely aware of the long journey ahead, a journey full of traps and pitfalls regardless of the route she chose to take. Like her day job didn’t provide plenty of that.

Worried that Dylan would assume the worst and charge over here, she forced herself to key his number. Once again he answered immediately.

“You do know how to keep a guy’s attention. Better now?”

He spoke with a suspicious calmness and E.D. had the strongest urge to go to the window to make sure he wasn’t parked outside. “Ask me in six months…more likely a year.” God have mercy, she thought, please don’t let it all take that long. But it probably would—or longer yet—and Dylan’s failure to contradict her told her that he believed much the same thing.

“The good news is that often cases like your daughter’s have a tendency to settle out of court,” he said at last. “As to the other, let’s hope his attorney will see what prolonging the divorce would do to the kids.”

“We both know what his divorce attorney is thinking,” E.D. replied. It had nothing to do with their children’s well-being and everything to do with her willingness to pay to keep this out of the press as much as possible. Since both attorney fees would, inevitably, be coming out of her pocket there was no thought of hiring a private judge to assure that. “I’m heading toward the office and the fax machine. That said, as much as I appreciate your input, please know your offer is out of the question.”

Not surprisingly, her tone had him pausing again. Finally, he told her, “I’m only keeping my peace because I want you to continue talking to me.”

She wanted to. Their profession kept her busy and she knew many people, but trust was hard earned and allegiances too easily bought—and sold. Real friendships were priceless. That didn’t mean she didn’t feel the need to keep warning him off. “You should have clued me in on your predilection for gut-stomping punishment.”

“Takes one to know one.”

He had her there, she thought, flipping on the light switch in his office. “All right, moving on then. Give me a second to figure out how this thing works. Wait—we have this model in our office.” She turned on the machine. “Assuming you have a separate line for this, go ahead.”

After only a half minute the motor hummed to life. A single sheet printed in Dylan’s strong handwriting slid into the tray. E.D. narrowed her eyes on the name. “You can’t be serious?” Ivan Priestly. “He’s the Mount Rushmore among attorneys. Good grief, he’s as old as Rushmore!”

“Don’t let that unruly mane of white hair fool you. He’s only seventy-two.”

“Meaning if he hasn’t retired, he’s bound to at any minute.”

“Correction, he’s discriminating about what cases he takes. He’s fit for his age and enjoys fishing too much with the grandkids to accept every request that comes along,” Dylan informed her. “And trust me, he still gets plenty of them.”

“Yet another reason why this isn’t a good idea.” With defeat looking increasingly probable, E.D.’s tone exposed her plunging spirits. “This sleazy dilemma is going to be a turn-off to someone so esteemed. I need a snake masquerading as a fox, and you’re proposing a cross between Moses and Peter Pan.”

Dylan laughed. “He’s exactly who isn’t expected. Though you’re right about his bringing gravitas to the table. Between the two of you, whoever ends up the sitting judge for the trial will damned sure check his law before allowing any nonsense from the other side.”

She could feel herself blush. “That’s undeserved flattery for me. I’ll need to wear slacks to court every day for fear my knocking knees will disrupt the sessions. Please—” she barely caught herself from blurting out his name “—you know this is impossible. He’ll never say yes.”

“You won’t know unless you ask him.”

“Which I won’t do. It would be an indignity, an insult to his reputation.”

“Apply that same conviction to yourself. Someone has dared to compromise your dignity by using your child. Your reputation demands the best.”

E.D. closed her eyes against the wealth of emotions rushing through her. This was why she kept his number in her directory. He was so compassionate and good. He was her ideal on virtually every level.

“Do you trust me?” he asked quietly.

With all of my heart.

But she had no right to think with it. It was her daughter’s future she needed to focus on. “Hold on. I’m shutting off the machine.” The request was a pitiful feint; however, it bought her the precious seconds she needed. Slumping into the plush leather chair behind his desk, she flung the sheet of paper with Ivan Priestly’s phone number onto the spotless blotter.

“I can hear you breathing.”

His words couldn’t remotely be called chiding, but E.D. hid her face in her hand nonetheless. “You should do yourself a favor and say good night.”

“Is that a serious request or more self-derision?”

Was he kidding? She was partly being so hard on herself because she was afraid of when he did hang up and left her alone to deal with her own mind. There were thoughts buried deep behind walls and under thick floors constructed to never allow what he was making her feel or fantasize…those thoughts would want air. Free will.

“If you’re going to make me work this hard at reading your mind,” Dylan said, his voice gruff, “I should at least be allowed to see your eyes.”

His tender complaint sent a new delicious trembling whispering through her, one she didn’t have the energy or desire to repress. Ridiculous, she thought in the next instant. She was a married woman, eyebrow-deep in scandal—besides, surely he had someone, the proverbial significant other in his life by now…?

“You can’t come out here.” She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked like death warmed over, the last of her makeup just washed off, her eyes bloodshot from strain as much as from fighting tears the entire day. Dylan would be a dangerous mix of gentle strength and undeniable masculinity. Too tempting.

“All right. Not tonight…if you’ll promise to have a hot bath and go to bed. Whether you sleep or not, your body needs to stop,” he continued as though sensing her protest coming. “You’re too exhausted to reason clearly. You’re aware of that, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Good. We can debate things further tomorrow if you insist, as long as you understand that I am serious about being there for you. Try not to file that away under D for denial, okay?”

“Getting Mount Rushmore’s support could be a coup,” she said, feeling a need to give him some ground.

“Who were you considering to handle your divorce? Or do you see the potential for reconciliation?”

E.D. almost choked. “That’s not remotely funny.”

“Stranger things have happened,” he said with no inflection whatsoever.

“Well, it won’t here.”

The anger in her voice made her wince, but on the heels of that rushed certainty: her marriage had been suffering for a good while. She’d been delaying looking at the possible reasons, aware that inevitably she’d contributed to some of the problems between her and Trey. But his conduct was offsetting any guilt she had been willing to accept.

“Have you heard of Alyx Carmel?” she asked. “She’s risen to be one of the best divorce attorneys in the South.” And as luck would have it, they’d belonged to the same sorority at UT. E.D. hoped that would help her to negotiate some financial compromises as she worked out her financial bird’s nest.

“I’ve heard of her,” Dylan replied. “Didn’t she win a tough suit a few months ago for some widow-real estate heiress?”

“Benton versus Benton, that’s right. The stepkids were so power hungry they attempted to even dig into assets derived by the stepmother’s first husband.”

“Unusual. There wasn’t a trust? Those are difficult to invade.”

“That bottom line fell just below the requirements. And thanks to the new and ferocious generation of legal minds, many previously solid wills are considered breakable.”

Dylan sighed. “Dare I hope you don’t have to navigate those tricky waters?”

“Who knows what else Trey has up his sleeve? Let’s just say that imagining the attorney fees reminds me that I’m in the wrong side of this business.”

“Your problem is that you were never a bottom line person, though I must admit it’s another thing I admire about you. After you talk to Mount Rushmore, call me.”

“All right.” E.D. wanted him to know one thing. “You’re wonderful, you know that?”

Before he could reply she disconnected.

Energized by his support, she reached for her cell phone.