Читать книгу The Ransom - Maggie Price - Страница 10

KATHRYN CONNER HAD vowed to never again set foot on the Cross C Ranch until her bastard of a grandfather was dead.

Now he was.

“You’re home,” Owen Daily remarked, braking his black Cadillac beneath the massive oak that shaded one end of the porch of the two-story ranch house.

Home. The word leaped into Kathryn’s mind while she sat in heart-pounding silence beside the man she’d hired to handle her Texas legal affairs. Staring out the windshield, the knots in her stomach clenched tighter while she struggled to come to terms with her surroundings.

Bathed in afternoon sunlight, the house with its wraparound porch looked welcoming. For Kathryn, it had only felt that way when Sam was away in Austin dealing with senate business.

Always the wood had been painted white with butter-yellow trim. The wide porch had latticework at the eaves and long, sturdy columns. The swing—where she had sat so many evenings writing stories and spinning her private dreams that always took her far away—still hung from chains at the porch’s far end.

Racked by emotion, she swept her gaze across the immaculate lawn toward the distant barn, the stables, the out-buildings, all surrounded by post-and-rail whitewashed fences. In her ten-year absence she had forgotten the Cross C’s beauty—and only remembered her pain.

Her gaze returned to the house where yellow roses wound their way through the porch trellises. The bright blooms blurred in her vision while a nagging unease moved around the edges of her awareness, undefined, barely formed, a gray shadow.

She lifted a hand to her throat where a choking dread had settled.

“Something wrong?” Owen asked.

“I just…” Kathryn ran her other hand over the hip of her red linen slacks. “For a second it felt like someone stepped on my grave.”

Owen gave the house a considering look. “You haven’t said as much, but I have to figure your not coming home since that summer you left for college means not all your memories of the Cross C are good.”

That summer. If only she had been wiser, more mature, she might have avoided making a fool of herself. Even now humiliation crawled through Kathryn, as hot as the hunger she’d felt for a man who’d been rumored to have an unlimited number of willing women on speed dial. But she had wanted Clay Turner since she’d been a starry-eyed schoolgirl who was stupid enough to think she would be the one who could change him. And by the time she turned eighteen that crush had transformed into love. So she’d made sure to ride over to the Double Starr the day Clay showed up to work on his uncle’s neighboring ranch like he did every summer. She could still see him that day, leaning against the corral’s top rail, all tough and rangy and fit in a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Still see his dark eyes, focused like a laser on her as she sat astride her mare. “Well, look who’s all grown up,” he drawled.

There’d been no love in his gaze. Not even affection. Just dark, dangerous lust that slammed her heart into her ribs and zinged its way right to her toes.

And even though he made it clear he wanted only good times and fast rides, she leaped off the cliff.

As if pulled by some unseen force, Kathryn’s gaze shifted to the east. From talking to the Cross C’s longtime housekeeper, she knew Clay had moved to Layton two years ago after his parents’ tragic deaths at the hands of their kidnappers. He now managed the Double Starr, so it was inevitable they would cross paths.

Ten years had passed since she laid eyes on him. A decade, during which she had married another man, given birth to his son, agonized over Matthew’s health, won an Emmy for screenwriting and had her crumbling marriage to Hollywood’s “heartthrob” dissected by the tabloids. Yet the thought of seeing Clay again had a dark foreboding surfacing inside her with such corrosive force it seemed as if no time had passed to dull the pain.

“Well, there’s someone who’s anxious to see you,” Owen said.

Kathryn looked back toward the house. All the pain of the past winked away as she watched Willa McKenzie—short, stocky and clad in the usual gray dress and white apron—bustle across the porch. Just the sight of the housekeeper who’d raised and loved her had Kathryn’s heart swelling.

Willa was one of the good memories. And one of the people Sam had done a truly good, unselfish thing for.

Turning, Kathryn looked over her shoulder. Matthew hadn’t stirred since he’d fallen asleep almost before they’d driven out of the airport. He was a sturdy five-year-old with thick blond hair and brown eyes that sparkled with mischief. Now, though, he looked almost cherubic, stretched on the back seat in his jeans and Western shirt, his miniature dachshund, Abby, curled against his stomach.

No one would suspect he’d been near death two years ago.

She gave him a gentle shake. “Wake up, Matty. We’re here.”

Thick blond lashes fluttered off his cheeks. Yawning, he pushed up off the seat, fists rubbing his eyes. The movement had Abby stirring. The dachshund levered up on her short legs and shook her head, the sunlight turning her reddish coat a deep mahogany.

Willa pulled the car’s back door open and leaned in. “Is there anyone who can help me find a missing chocolate chip cookie?”

“Grandma Willa!” Grinning wildly, Matthew unhooked his seat belt then propelled himself into the housekeeper’s arms. Abby rocketed after her master.

Kathryn climbed out, wincing as a gust of hot wind and dirt hit her in the face.

“Welcome to Texas,” she murmured, shoving her sunglasses farther up the bridge of her nose.

“Bet I can find that cookie,” Matthew insisted to Willa.

Willa’s eyes sparkled. “Think so?” A wayward strand of gray hair that had slipped from the bun at her neck waved like wheat in the breeze.

Standing on tiptoes, Matthew poked a hand into one apron pocket, then the other. “Right here!” he exclaimed, pulling out a cookie the size of a man’s fist.

“How do you suppose it got there?” Willa slid a hand into a pocket on her dress and pulled out a rawhide chew bone. “Well, I’m carrying around all sorts of surprises today.” Abby barked, her entire body waggling like a bass on a hook. “Guess you’ll make good use of this,” Willa said before tossing the bone a short distance away.

Owen grinned at Kathryn, his denim shirt and jeans making him look more ranch hand than attorney known for his scorched-earth tactics. “They’ve done this before, right?”

“A standing routine,” she answered. “It started about the time I flew Willa out to California for Matthew’s third birthday.” Her heart brimming, Kathryn stepped into the housekeeper’s welcoming embrace.

“Lord, child, it’s good to have you home.”

Kathryn shot a furtive glance at the house. In a flash of memory, she pictured herself the last time she crossed the threshold, bruised, bleeding and lying on a stretcher.

No, she told herself and ruthlessly forced away the harsh image. She couldn’t allow herself to think about that. She’d returned to the Cross C because doing so was in Matthew’s best interest. She could do this for her son.

Inching back, Willa cupped a palm against Kathryn’s cheek. “Every time I see you, you look more and more like the pictures I’ve seen of your momma.”

To Kathryn, the parents who had given her life and died when she was an infant had only ever been faded names in the Conner family bible. With her grandmother already deceased, it was Willa who had raised her when Sam took in his only grandchild.

After giving Willa another hug, Kathryn slipped an arm around her waist. “Matthew has chattered for weeks about living on a ranch with Grandma Willa.” Kathryn glanced back toward the house. “Did our things get here?”

“I should say so. Pilar and I have spent days unpacking boxes.” She ruffled the boy’s blond hair while he munched on his cookie. “I expect you can wage a small war with all the tanks and toy soldiers.”

“A big war.” He glanced around in expectation. “Can I see the outlaw tunnel?”

“After supper,” Kathryn answered. The tunnel, connected to the basement, had been dug by her great-great-great-grandfather Conner so his bandit son could sneak into the house for visits. Matthew took exceptional pride in the fact one of his ancestors had been a real life outlaw.

Willa gave Kathryn another squeeze. “The decorator finished up the remodeling you wanted done yesterday. You won’t recognize your old bedroom.”

That’s the idea, Kathryn thought. She knew she would never walk into that room again without thinking about the final vicious fight she’d had with Sam. So she had instructed Willa to put her clothes and other belongings in one of the spacious bedrooms that the senator had reserved for guests.

Willa looked toward the porch. “Pilar, come get re-acquainted with Kathryn.”

Pilar Graciano came down the porch steps where she paused and gave a polite nod. “Señorita Conner, it is nice to see you after so long,” she said in the hesitant, accented English Kathryn remembered.

“Thank you, Pilar.” Kathryn smiled at the thin, small-boned woman with black hair plaited into a braid. The maid had always been as skittish and shy as a newborn colt. “How is Nilo?” Kathryn asked, referring to the swarthy ranchhand who’d won Pilar’s heart.

“My husband is well.”

Willa patted Matthew’s shoulder. “This is Pilar. Do you remember me telling you she has a boy named Antonio?”

Matthew nodded. “You said he has a horse named Gringo.”

Pilar quietly welcomed Matthew. That done, she slid her hands into the pockets of her dress and stood in silence as if awaiting orders.

A distant shout drew Kathryn’s attention beyond the vast lawn to the stables. She recognized Johnny Sullivan’s lean, craggy build. The Cross C’s longtime foreman appeared to be involved in an intense discussion with a tall, blond man who looked distinctly out of place in a gray suit.

Kathryn turned to Willa. “Is that Brad Jordan with Johnny?”

“It is.” Willa shrugged. “I expect the banker’s fussing at Johnny for not getting permission before calling Doc Silver out to look at the horses you shipped here.”

Kathryn’s eyes narrowed. “Johnny doesn’t need to check with Brad before calling the vet.”

“Tell that to Brad.” Willa blotted her damp brow with the back of her hand. “Everything changed once Sam’s will was read and the bank got control over the Cross C.”

The reminder of the last-minute codicil Sam added to his will before cancer killed him had Kathryn setting her jaw. Because all Conner land and money was held in a series of age-old trusts, there was no way Sam could disinherit her or Matthew. So her grandfather had done all he could to hobble her when it came to running the ranch. It was Sam’s way of reaching out from the grave and slapping her one last time, just to prove how totally he had loathed her every day of her life.

Even now, Kathryn had no idea why her grandfather had hated her like poison.

“The bank doesn’t control Cross C business,” she said, forcing back the anger she’d carried with her since she learned the contents of Sam’s will. “It oversees expenditures, is all.”

“Well, Brad’s been doing a lot of overseeing,” Willa commented. “I have to show him receipts for the groceries and everything else I buy. Waste of time when I’ve got a house to run. I expect he’ll bring all that up at the meeting you said you’ve got scheduled with him in the morning.”

“No doubt.” Kathryn looked back toward the stables in time to see Brad slide behind the wheel of a blue Jaguar. A moment later, he steered the car toward the road.

“Well now,” Willa said, cupping Matthew’s chin. “How about we find some milk to wash down that cookie?”

A smear of chocolate on the boy’s cheek lengthened when he grinned. “Okay.”

Willa and Matthew walked hand in hand toward the house, Pilar and Abby following in their wake.

Kathryn waited until they were out of earshot to turn to Owen. “You’re sure about the codicil? Positive the terms will stick?”

“They’ll stick,” her lawyer confirmed. “You know how Sam was—he didn’t do anything without thinking it through. Same thing goes for the codicil. And don’t forget the clause that states if you contest the will, a corporation made up of your grandfather’s political friends has authority to take over the running of the Cross C.”

“Meaning, everything stays in the Conner name, but there wouldn’t be a Conner at the helm.”

“Basically.” Owen raised a brow. “Do you want me here in the morning when you meet with Brad?”

Kathryn pulled in a deep breath, drawing in the scents of mown grass, fresh hay and animal flesh. It was a shock to discover that the scents and the land itself still called to her.

That land—and all the responsibilities that went with it—were now hers. There were always cattle that needed to be rounded up, fences to mend, grain to be planted or harvested. No matter the barriers Sam had erected in his will, it was up to her to deal with every aspect of running the ranch. She understood full well that all of Layton would be watching to see if the Hollywood screenwriter had enough of her grandfather in her to operate the Conner empire.

Watch me. Standing there, she could almost feel the mantle of her new responsibilities drop onto her shoulders. Those responsibilities would be in addition to the writing career she’d worked so hard to establish and intended to continue.

Turning, she looked back at Owen. “Yes, since I’m not familiar yet with all the terms of the financial noose Sam put around my neck.”

“That’s what you pay me for.” Owen checked his watch. “You need me for anything else before I head back to Layton?”

“No. Thank you for picking us up at the airport. It was good to have a chance to discuss business face-to-face.” Kathryn squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry, Owen, I got so caught up talking about Cross C matters that I haven’t asked after your father.”

A muscle ticked in his cheek. “The stroke left him weak, but his mind’s as sharp as ever. I expect he’ll be back in the office in a couple of weeks.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” She wondered, but didn’t ask, if Owen partly blamed Sam for his father’s stroke. How could he not, the way Sam had so suddenly and ruthlessly jerked all his legal dealings away from the man who’d not only been his attorney for decades, but a close friend since childhood?

While Owen’s car headed down the driveway, Kathryn turned toward the house. It was hers now. Hers and Matthew’s. She would make him a good home here, a happy home. And over time she would wipe away the darkness of the past.

A past that, right now, hung heavy around her as she scaled the steps. Her pulse beat dull and thick as she moved across the porch toward the massive front door. She knew there would be ghosts. But if she was going to make a good life here for Matthew, she was going to have to face them.

Better to get that over with she told herself, then eased the door open and stepped inside.

And was instantly flung back in time.

Her breath shallowed as she remained unmoving in the dim entryway. The same drop-leaf table still stood against the wall holding her late grandmother’s crystal vase that was eternally filled with yellow roses. The familiar antique mirror in the gleaming brass frame hung over the table. The long rug still ran muted colors along the length of the wide hall that stretched from the front door to the back.

Gathering her courage, she shifted toward the staircase that swept up two stories. As always, the wooden railing and newel post gleamed with polish.

The ghosts of the house circled around Kathryn, whispering taunts, making her feel as if her nerves were crawling under her skin. An ache settled in her heart. Yet, she couldn’t cry. The tears had frozen inside long ago.

Damn you, girl, you’ll do as I say!

She pressed a hand to her stomach while the memory of that last awful fight snapped out at her like fangs.

Squeezing her eyes shut, she reeled against the onslaught of pain and remorse that pounded her with the force of a sledgehammer. Two of the most important men in her life had rejected her. Sam had taken her in after her parents died solely for the sake of appearances. Clay Turner had wanted her only for a good time, a pleasant diversion during a searing-hot summer. Then he headed back to Houston and his job as an agent in the U.S. State Department’s diplomatic security service.

She had seen him only one time after that when she woke to find him sitting beside her hospital bed. He hadn’t had to speak the words for her to know he regretted her fall, but nothing more. The child she had lost would have been a complication, one of those strings he’d told her up-front he didn’t want.

But she had wanted. Oh God, she had wanted both Clay and their child.

She grimaced as she realized what she was thinking. Everything about that summer was a part of the past, she reminded herself. She had Matthew now and she’d come back to the Cross C for his sake. Not only because he deserved a life away from the fishbowl of his father’s fame—she could have taken Matthew to live any number of places where he’d be sheltered from the unrelenting media attention that was a byproduct of Devin’s stardom. No, she’d brought her son to Texas because this had been Conner land for nearly two hundred years. The Cross C was Matthew’s heritage. His future. His right. She would make it their home and run the ranch to the best of her ability until Matthew was old enough to take over the reins.

For her son, she would deal with the memories that taunted her, the pain she’d buried deep and anything else that came along. Including the inevitable unavoidable encounters with Clay Turner.

Squaring her shoulders, Kathryn gripped the banister with a damp palm, then headed up the stairs.