Читать книгу The Ransom - Maggie Price, Maggie Price - Страница 10

“POW! POW! You aim the staple gun like this ’n pull the trigger. Pow!”

Matthew pointed a finger at an invisible target as he bounded down the staircase beside Kathryn. Abby followed in their wake, the dachshund’s short legs taking her down each step in a seesaw swagger.

“Sounds like important work.” Kathryn held back a smile at the sight of her son in his desert-camouflage shorts and a T-shirt. As fashion statements went, the cowboy boots he’d begged to wear didn’t quite make the outfit.

She paused to slick back his blond hair, still wet from the shower she’d had to insist he take after his outing to help mend a fence. Above them, Kathryn caught sight of Pilar Graciano moving as silent as death along the hallway, a stack of linens in the maid’s arms. It had been Pilar’s husband, Nilo, who’d taken his own son and Matthew out that morning.

Kathryn felt immense relief that in the three days they’d been at the Cross C, Matthew was fast on his way to making a new friend in Antonio.

With the staircase behind them, she and Matthew walked hand in hand, he swinging her arm to-and-fro as they traversed the hallway’s glossy wood floor. Abby trotted beside Matthew, her toenails tap-tapping lightly as she went. After turning a corner they came even with the door of Sam Conner’s study. Although Kathryn felt her grandfather’s heavy presence each time she walked into the room, she was determined to use it for her own office. After all, generations of Connors had ruled the Cross C from inside those dark-paneled walls. She had already set up her computer on the massive desk and was in the process of organizing files on the screenplay she was currently writing. In time, she would go through all of Sam’s files and purge him, page by page.

Arms swinging, she and Matthew continued down the hallway. The kitchen was at the back of the house, a cheerful room eternally filled with the heady aroma of Willa’s cooking. The room’s ash walls were painted white, butcher blocks covered the countertops and work island. Chains hung from the high-vaulted ceiling, suspending racks heavy with brass and copper pots. The kitchen was as modern as Sam Conner’s money could make it; the oversize refrigerators, dishwashers and ovens had been installed to ease Willa’s supervision of the extra help brought in for the lavish parties hosted for constituents and anyone else deemed capable of furthering the senator’s various agendas.

Still, Kathryn had to admit that not everything Sam did had some political motive behind it. When Willa’s husband suffered a heart attack, Sam had kept the ranch hand on the Cross C’s payroll until his death three years later. It was only his granddaughter whom Sam never opened his heart to.

“Lunch is almost ready.” Willa sent a bright smile across the center island while spreading peanut butter on bread.

Kathryn’s gaze flicked to the oak table in the alcove where Brad Jordan sat, a half-eaten piece of apple pie on the table before him. Beside the banker was a stack of receipts. Kathryn supposed Willa was trying to use her take-you-to-heaven pie to ply some goodwill from the man who now had his hand on the Cross C’s purse strings.

Not his fault, Kathryn reminded herself when heat rose under her skin. Brad wasn’t to blame for what was in Sam’s will.

Matthew lifted his chin and sniffed. “What smells so good?”

Brad pointed his fork at his plate. “Willa’s apple pie.”

Matthew’s face brightened as he peered around the center island. “Hi, Mr. Jordan!” He tugged from Kathryn’s hold and headed across the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

Brad feigned a look of horror as Matthew climbed onto a chair. “You’ve got a serious case of the wet look, son.”

While Abby settled beneath his chair, Matthew scratched his head. “Mommy made me take another shower.”

“Two in one day?” Brad asked, meeting Kathryn’s gaze.

“Couldn’t be helped,” she replied. “Matthew had a pound of prairie dirt on him.”

Brad Jordan was tall and wiry with dark hair and intense eyes. The smile he now flashed at Kathryn was the same one that had once had handfuls of females at Layton High School melting. But the star quarterback had eyes only for head cheerleader Felicia Smith. Their wedding had been the social event of that long-ago summer.

It was Brad’s father-in-law—a crony of Sam’s—who owned Layton National Bank. And it was Garner Smith who insisted the codicil be enforced with microscopic exactness. Brad had assured Kathryn he would work with her to make their transactions painless. She knew that wouldn’t be the case if she were forced to deal with Brad’s dour-faced father-in-law.

She retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “Brad, did we have an appointment I forgot about?”

“No. I had to go by the Double Starr this morning to discuss business with Clay Turner.”

Kathryn tightened her grip on the carton. Dammit, the part of her that had loved Clay was hollowed out. So why did just the mention of his name put a hitch under her ribs?

“Since I had to be out this way,” Brad continued, “I decided to drop off the check that you’ll present to the hospital board at the fund-raiser on Friday night.” He winked at Willa. “I got lassoed into having pie.”

“In a movie, my daddy tied up a bad man with rope,” Matthew said. He smiled up at Willa when she served him. “Can I have some pie?”

“I think your momma is taking you for dessert after you meet Dr. Teasdale.” She finger-combed his damp hair before moving back to the counter. “Kathryn, I almost forgot to tell you two things.”

Kathryn rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension that the mention of Clay had settled there. “What things?”

“First, Johnny needs to update you on what Doc Silver found when he checked that mare with colic. Second,” Willa continued, pulling a piece of paper from her apron pocket, “Shannon Burton called again. The Layton Times is sending her to the fund-raiser, and she wants to interview you about the wing you’re funding for the hospital.”

“Thanks.” Kathryn took the paper from Willa. “I’ll talk to Johnny before Matthew and I drive into Layton.” As for the reporter, Kathryn knew Burton had written articles in the Times that put a harsh light on her missing Sam’s funeral. Marriage to the country’s top box-office actor had taught Kathryn numerous ways to deal with that type of reporting.

Brad gave Matthew a considering look. “Are you going to see Dr. Teasdale because you don’t feel good?”

“No.” Matthew took a bite of sandwich. “This is a…Mommy, what kind of ’pointment is this?”

“An introductory appointment,” Kathryn said while opening a carton of yogurt. Even after two years, she still found herself gripped by a terrible panic when she thought about how ill Matthew had been when his kidneys had failed. After months of hospital stays and dialysis, a transplanted kidney had saved his life.

Now, a daily dose of an antirejection med and an occasional checkup kept Matthew on a healthy, even keel.

Glancing Brad’s way, Kathryn pulled a spoon out of a drawer. “Matthew and Dr. Teasdale are going to get acquainted today.”

“I’ve got two girls of my own,” Brad told Matthew around a bite of pie. “They both go to Dr. Teasdale.”

“Is he nice?”

Brad nodded. “He’s so nice, he has permission to deputize little boys. And give out special deputy badges.”

Matthew swiveled in his chair. “Mommy, can I be a deputy? And get a badge? Then I can arrest the outlaws in our tunnel.”

“We’ll ask Dr. Teasdale.” Kathryn slid into the chair beside her son, and pretended not to notice the bite of pie Brad snuck onto Matthew’s plate. Yes, when it came to banking, she much preferred dealing with him than with his father-in-law.

CLAY TURNER strode out of Layton City Hall into the fiery heat of the late afternoon sun. He was tall, nearly six foot four with a rangy, disciplined build more accustomed in the last few years to a rancher’s denim than the body armor and holstered weapons that were a part of his past. A well-worn Stetson shaded a tanned face that was lean and square-jawed. A scar slashed across his right cheek, disappearing into the dark hair at his temple. The scar was a reminder of a time he would never leave behind.

By the time he’d crossed the town’s busy main street, Clay’s white dress shirt was damp with sweat and he was sucking in air as dry as old bones.

He glanced at his watch, frustrated that so much of the day had gotten away from him. He’d spent the morning repairing fence near the road bordering the north side of Double Starr property. Fortunately he’d been able to continue working while talking financial business with Brad Jordan. Then he’d had to clean up and drive into town where he’d just wasted a couple of hours in a meeting of the Layton Municipal League, of which his uncle was chairman.

While an agent for the U.S. State Department’s diplomatic security service, Clay had attended so many meetings he’d grown to hate just the thought of sitting through another one. But his uncle was out of town on ranch business and he’d asked Clay to attend in his place. Since Les Turner was also his employer, Clay couldn’t very well say no. So he’d crammed the tail of his dress shirt into a clean pair of jeans, lashed on a damn tie and driven to town.

The tie was now loosened, his shirt’s upper buttons undone and its sleeves rolled up on his arms. He glanced toward the end of the block where a digital display scrolled beneath the bank’s sign. One hundred two degrees. Clay gritted his teeth. No man was supposed to live in these temperatures.

Lucky for him he’d been as good as dead nearly two years.

His eyes narrowed against a blast of hot wind and brutal memories. He feared he would hear his mother’s screams, his father’s shouts for the rest of his life.

His parents were dead. He was at fault. Blame weighted his shoulders, a heavy, unyielding albatross.

He dragged an unsteady hand across his jaw, swallowing the bile that rose like poison in his throat. The only thing that held back the guilt was work. Physical and mental labor, preferably to the point of exhaustion.

Clearly he hadn’t done near enough work today.

With his uncle out of town and the cook off, Clay decided to pick up his supper before he left Layton. When he got back to the Double Starr he would eat while he inputted the banker’s latest figures into the spreadsheets he maintained on the ranch’s finances.

Since his pickup was parked in front of a new place that featured sandwiches, ice cream and designer coffees, that’s where he headed. Pulling open the door, he stepped into the brightly lit glass-and-tile-lined café. To his left was a glossy black counter and a display case full of pastries and cookies the size of hubcaps. The tables that dotted the floor were covered with butcher paper and in the center of each was a glass holding colored pencils. The place looked good. And the air conditioner was set on arctic.

Clay glanced toward the far corner. Six teenage girls, each licking on her own ice-cream cone, were clustered around one of the tables, giggling and sharing secrets. A man and woman whom Clay didn’t recognize sat at one of the booths that lined the front window.

Easing back the brim of his Stetson, he scanned the menu board on the wall behind the counter.

“Afternoon, Clay. Glad you came in.”

He nodded to the plain-faced middle-aged man behind the counter. Norman Adams and his wife were teachers at the high school. Clay recalled hearing talk that a bad investment in the stock market had tumbled the couple into debt, and they’d opened the café to supplement their incomes. “The place looks great, Norman.”

“Thanks. So far, business has been good.” He sent Clay a smile that was shaky around the edges. “What can I get for you?”

While he ordered, Clay heard the café’s door open and close. He pulled money out of his billfold at the same time a child’s voice said, “Mommy, look at the football player in the window.”

“That poster he’s on lists the high school football games. We’ll have to go to some this fall.”

Clay froze. That voice. For an instant, he thought it was just another from his past, come to haunt him.

Throat tight, he forced himself to turn toward the door. A hot ball of awareness settled in his gut as he took in the woman clad in slim white slacks and a sleeveless crimson blouse who was leaning down, one arm around a small boy’s waist. She spoke to him softly while nodding toward the poster in the window.

He’d known she was coming back. With the newspaper running pictures and articles, and all of Layton buzzing about Kathryn Conner Mason’s return, there was no way Clay couldn’t have known.

What he hadn’t known was that studying every picture of her he’d come across had been the easy part. Seeing her in the flesh was the equivalent of a fist smashing into his solar plexus.

The eighteen-year-old girl he’d walked away from was now a woman. The raven-black hair she had worn to her waist now barely skimmed her shoulders, framing a face that had become more fine-boned with maturity. The slender, angular body that he’d known every dip and hollow of had developed a woman’s seductive curves. Studying her, Clay felt his heartbeat spike. His mouth went dry. And the floor beneath his boots shifted due to some age-old emotion, coupled with regret. Dragging regret over the choices made by a young man who had not fully understood repercussions, hadn’t thought long-term. Hadn’t wanted to.

A band tightened around his chest. On nights when his nightmares woke him he lay alone in a cold sweat, thinking about Kathryn Conner. Wondering which direction their lives would have taken if back then his mind hadn’t automatically done a quick sidestep at the thought of a woman, any woman, tying him down.

If only he’d responded differently when Kathryn pressed for a commitment. If only he’d taken time to explore the emotions he’d been so quick to deny that had drawn him to the spirited dark-haired girl. Maybe then he would have taken her to Houston with him when his vacation ended. Doing so might have saved their child. If so, his parents would have moved back to the States like they’d always promised they would when he settled down and gave them a grandchild.

His gaze went to the boy. Kathryn’s son. He was blond and brown-eyed, the image of his superstar father. Matthew Mason, five years old, Clay thought, his cop’s mind pulling back the information he’d read in the newspaper.

And in the People magazine he’d secretly bought to sate his curiosity about the woman who’d brutally clung to his thoughts over the past two years.

Her laugh drifted on the cool air as she cupped her son’s chin, gave him a kiss, then straightened and turned toward the counter.

With her gaze locked with Clay’s, Kathryn went still while everything around her slipped out of focus. A shudder shot down her spine and onward to bury itself behind her knees.

If she took two short steps she could reach out and touch him. Touch the man whom she had once wanted more than she’d wanted even to breathe. The man she had made such a fool of herself over.

She fought back humiliation along with the urge to grab Matthew into her arms and run as fast as she could away from Clay Turner, away from the past. The pain.

But all she could do was stare back at him while she struggled for words that wouldn’t come. His face was thinner than she remembered, the hollows of his cheeks deeper. Lines were scored into the corners of his eyes and mouth. His body was trim, muscled and looked hard as granite. A white dress shirt, open at the neck, revealed curling black hair as rich in color as the hair that brushed the shirt’s collar. Beneath the brim of his Stetson, his dark eyes looked as sharp as a sword.

Her gaze slid to his right cheek, now marred by a thin scar that slashed upward across his temple. A memory came: her own fingers stroking a similar scar on his back as they lay on rumpled sheets.

“Hello, Kat,” he said quietly.

“Clay.” Despite the blood pounding in her cheeks from his use of his private nickname for her, she kept her voice casual and controlled.

“Been a long time,” he said.

Not long enough. “It has,” she managed to say through stiff lips.

“Mommy, you’re squeezing my hand too tight!”

Jolting, she loosened her grip. “Oh, Matty, I’m sorry.”

“You going to introduce us?”

Her gaze whipped back to Clay. She needed to breathe, but she couldn’t quite remember how. “This is my son, Matthew. Matthew, this is Mr. Turner.”

Matthew tipped his head back so far in order to meet Clay’s gaze that the boy rocked on the heels of his cowboy boots. Kathryn placed a steadying hand on his shoulder.

“Hi, Mr. Turner.”

“Hello.” Clay stepped closer and crouched, putting them eye to eye. He noted that Kathryn kept her son’s hand firmly in her own.

“Nice to meet you, Matthew.” Clay skimmed a fingertip across the plastic badge pinned in the center of the boy’s T-shirt. “You the new law in these parts?”

He nodded, his brown eyes sparkling. “I got to spit into Dr. Teasdale’s hand and that made me a deputy.”

Clay raised a brow. “Sounds like the doc knows a good man when he sees one.”

“Now, I can arrest the outlaws in mommy’s tunnel. Have you seen the tunnel?”

The outlaw tunnel. Lifting his gaze to Kathryn’s, Clay saw that her face had paled. Was she thinking about all the nights she’d used the tunnel to sneak out of her house? About how he’d ride over to the Cross C after dark and wait for her in the stand of scrub oaks that hid the tunnel’s outer entrance so it couldn’t been seen from the house? Did she remember the time when a rainstorm whipped in and they’d had hot, wild sex in the tunnel?

When she tore her gaze from his, Clay had his answer. Yeah, Kat, you remember. He struggled against the urge to tell her there was no way she could detest him more than he detested himself for the way he’d treated her.

Instead he looked back at Matthew. “I’ve seen the tunnel. It’s a long stretch of land. Are you sure you can rustle up those outlaws all on your own?”

Matthew nodded. “Me ’n Abby can do it.”

“Who’s Abby?”

“My weenie dog.”

“Clay, your order’s ready,” the café owner said.

“Thanks, Norman.” As he spoke, Clay kept his gaze on Matthew’s compelling face. “Time for me to go, Deputy. I’ll be sure I stay on the right side of the law so you and Abby won’t have to come arrest me.”

“Okay.”

“Matthew,” Kathryn said while Clay rose, “you can look in the display case and choose one cookie.”

“Okay, Mommy.”

Realizing the café had gone quiet around them, Clay checked across his shoulder. The man and woman in the booth, and all the teenage girls were staring holes through Kathryn. Since she didn’t seem to notice, he assumed her years of marriage to the heartthrob actor had made her immune to that kind of attention.

When he looked back, her expression was impenetrable, her eyes unreadable.

“I was sorry to hear about your grandfather,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.” She closed her eyes for an instant. “And I’m sorry about your parents. Losing them that way must have been devastating.”

Clay felt the bright, swift pain twist inside him. There was no way she could know how closely linked she was in his mind to their deaths. He tightened his jaw.

“Guess we’ve both had our share of loss to deal with,” he said. “You’re doing a good thing by building the wing onto Layton’s hospital in Sam’s memory. He’d have been proud of you for continuing all he did for folks around here.”

She smiled now, her lips as thin as a blade. “I’m sure,” she said then looked toward the counter. “Hello, Mr. Adams, how are you?”

“Fine. I’m just fine, Kathryn. Seems like only yesterday you were sitting in my English class.” A blush settled under his skin and a muscle ticked in his cheek. “It was real nice, you mentioning my name when you won your Emmy award.”

“You taught me about writing. I owe a lot of my success to you.” She looked back at Clay. “You mentioned you were leaving. Don’t let us hold you up.”

Clearly she wasn’t interested in letting bygones be bygones. Couldn’t say he blamed her.

He touched a finger to the brim of his Stetson. “See you, Kat. Bye, Matthew. Norman.”

“Bye,” the boy responded. Norman nodded. The fact that Kathryn said nothing sliced Clay into a thousand pieces.

With guilt and regret sitting in his stomach like jagged rocks, he snagged his sack off the counter.

He headed for the door, deliberately distancing himself from Kathryn Conner for the second time in his life. This time, though, he was the one who felt all the pain.

KATHRYN WOKE the following morning feeling as if a spider had woven a thick, sticky cobweb inside her brain.

The sun’s rays slanted into her second-floor bedroom through the gauzy curtains, reflecting off the brass bed’s ornate grillwork. The light felt like ice picks stabbing into her eyes. She shoved at her tangled hair, thinking surely she hadn’t overslept. In the time she’d been back at the Cross C she had woken each day before dawn. As had Matthew.

She told herself to get up, willed herself to, but her eyelids felt heavy and refused to stay open. On top of her lethargy, faint waves of nausea lapped at her stomach. Sick, she thought hazily. She’d picked up a bug. Since Matthew hadn’t been in to pounce on her bed like he did almost every morning it was possible he’d come down with it, too. The thought shot a sharp pang through her. Her concern wasn’t just a mother’s general worry that her child might be ill. Any sort of bug—even a cold—could have devastating effects on his transplanted kidney.

That knowledge had Kathryn swallowing the sick taste in her mouth and drawing on all her inner strength. She forced her eyes open, instantly squinting against the sun’s glare. Her concern took on added weight when she focused on the clock on the nightstand. Ten o’clock. Good God, sick or well, she never slept this late!

Nor did Matthew.

She knew the distress she felt wouldn’t be rocketing toward the ozone if Willa were home—she sometimes kept Matthew occupied before breakfast in the kitchen. But just as she had done every Wednesday since Kathryn could remember, Willa had driven to Dallas yesterday evening to spend the night with her daughter. Today was her day off. And Pilar wasn’t coming this morning to clean because she had to take Antonio to the dentist. It was just Kathryn and Matthew in the house.

Matthew, she thought as she clamped her teeth on her bottom lip.

She pushed herself up against the bank of pillows lining the headboard, which intensified the nausea. A headache worked its way up from the base of her skull. Swallowing convulsively, she put her head back and waited for the sick feeling to pass.

Several long, slow breaths later she shoved back the sheet and antique wedding-ring quilt. Not trusting her legs to hold her, she flattened one palm against the nightstand and pushed herself up. Beside the clock sat the empty wineglass she’d sipped from the night before. She wished the glass was full of water so she could ease the dryness in her mouth. Thoughts of stopping in her bathroom to get a drink dissipated when her bedroom whirled once, then righted itself. She’d be doing good just to get down the hallway to Matthew’s room without adding a side-trip. Working hard to even her breathing, she forced her unsteady legs to take tentative steps, feeling like a drunk staggering against a current.

Although her head still felt like it was packed with gauze, her stomach seemed to be settling now that she was on her feet.

Good. This is good.

Dressed in a yellow cotton camisole and sleep shorts, she left her robe on the bed’s footboard and made her way across the bedroom, the wood floor cool beneath her bare feet. Her hand shook when she reached for the doorknob. She stepped into the hallway; except for the low hum of the central air-conditioning the house was ominously silent.

“Matthew?” Her shout seemed to hang in the air around her.

From down the hallway came Abby’s muffled bark. The dachshund’s toenails scraped against the closed bedroom door.

Since Abby stuck loyally to Matthew, Kathryn reasoned both dog and boy were still in his bedroom.

Her movements felt hazy, almost dreamlike as she made her way along the hallway. Although the distance between the bedrooms was short, she had to stop several times when the trembling in her legs worsened.

The closer she got to Matthew’s room, the more urgent Abby’s barks. The instant she swung open the door the dachshund leaped out, weaving frantic circles around her mistress’s bare feet.

“Matthew?” Kathryn stumbled over the dog into the large, airy room with windows that looked out over the front driveway.

Her gaze swept the bed. The jungle-theme sheets and spread were rumpled, as if her son had just climbed out. His robe lay on the end of the mattress. Kathryn swiveled toward the waist-high bookcases built into the far wall. Toy tanks, airplanes and platoons of soldiers crowded the shelves. Several Jeeps and Humvees lay in a jumbled pileup on the braided rug.

“Matty, where are you?”

Pain pulsing behind her eyes, Kathryn walked toward the adjacent bathroom, Abby on her heels. Glancing down, Kathryn frowned. There was something odd about the way the dog moved, as though she had a slight catch in one hip.

“Matthew?” The silence that pressed like fingers against Kathryn’s eardrums told her before she got to the bathroom that she’d find it empty.

It was.

Her concern growing, she shoved at her hair. Considering it was past ten, she wasn’t surprised Matthew was out of bed. What bothered her was Abby. Matthew never went anywhere without the dachshund in tow. Unless, Kathryn reasoned, he hadn’t gone far.

“Are we playing hide-and-seek?” she asked, stepping to the closet.

When she slid the door open, Abby darted inside, snuffling into each shadowy corner. A whine rose up her throat when she failed to locate her master. Kathryn lifted her gaze to the closet’s shelves, but she saw nothing out of place.

When two short beeps sounded, she stepped to the bookcases. Her heart tattooed in her ears while she waited for the beeps to sound again as she scanned the shelves, trying to figure out what toy had emitted the unfamiliar electronic signals.

When the beeps sounded again, she whipped around toward the bed. Her gaze settled on the nightstand and her eyes widened. A cell phone lay beside the miniature airplane that doubled as a lamp. Matthew didn’t have a cell phone. And even if he’d found one that had been laid aside, she knew for sure the phone hadn’t been there last night when she’d tucked him into bed and dropped a kiss on his rumpled blond hair.

She crossed the room in two strides, grabbed the phone and flipped up its cover. The screen displayed the text message icon.

Kathryn’s fingers made trembling, fumbling stabs at a series of buttons. When the message displayed, its first line sent fear pressing against her heart so she could hear the panicked beat of it roaring in her ears.

WE HAVE YOUR SON.