Читать книгу The Millionaire and the Mum - Patricia Kay - Страница 8

R ain and wind battered the casement windows of the first-floor library of the Stockwell mansion as thunder rumbled overhead. The storm had been moving toward the greater Dallas area for two days and had finally hit. But no one was complaining; the rain was a welcome change from the relentless heat and droughtlike conditions that had plagued this part of the state all summer long. Yet despite the noise of the storm, the four occupants of the room seemed oblivious to what was happening outdoors, so intent were they on their conversation.

“So we’re agreed?” Jack Stockwell was saying. “I’ll leave tomorrow for the Johnson farm.”

Cord and Rafe, his twin brothers, both nodded. His sister, Kate, was slower to concur, but she finally nodded, too.

As always, when regarding his sister, the hard shell Jack kept around his heart softened. He hated that her joy over her recent engagement was marred by sadness. Learning a few months back that Caine Stockwell had been lying to them all these years had shaken Kate to the core, yet her love for their father hadn’t wavered, and these past few days since his death had been very difficult for her.

As it had many times since their father had confessed his duplicity, anger flooded Jack. How could Caine have done this to his children? How could he have banished their mother from their lives when they were little more than babies and then told them she was dead? Depriving them of Madelyn’s presence was a despicable thing to do, and Jack wasn’t sure if he would ever forgive his father. He understood his father’s motives, but no matter what Caine thought Madelyn had done, he’d had no right to cut her out of their lives.

Regardless of how many times Jack told himself it was wrong, he couldn’t mourn his father. Caine Stockwell had been a real bastard. From earliest childhood, Jack had known his father hated him. His feelings were evident in every word, every slap, every brutal act directed Jack’s way. Caine had not once had a loving or kind word for his oldest son. Indeed, he never missed a chance to belittle Jack.

As he had so many times before, Jack wondered what it was about him that had caused his father to hate him so much. Angry that this question continued to bother him when he should have come to terms with it long ago, he shoved it aside. What did it matter? Caine was gone. The wrongs he had perpetrated against Jack could never be changed.

“It’s still hard for me to believe that Daddy didn’t at least try to find out if Gabriel Johnson was telling the truth,” Kate said, her dark blue eyes meeting Jack’s. She was referring to the fact that she and her brothers had—in going through their father’s papers—discovered a series of letters from Gabriel Johnson in which he accused their grandfather Stockwell of stealing Gabriel’s father’s fortune. He’d said he had proof and had demanded restitution. “After all,” Kate continued, “the Johnsons are our mother’s family!”

“Hell, Kate, why is it hard for you to believe? Look at what our father did to us!” Even though it would have given Kate some measure of comfort if they all pretended their father had been unaware of the possibility that a long-ago Stockwell really had cheated their mother’s family out of its rightful inheritance, Jack refused to do it. First of all, he didn’t believe it for an instant. Secondly, he wouldn’t lie to Kate. Hell, his father didn’t deserve any whitewashing of his actions. Caine Stockwell had been ruthless in his business dealings. He would not have wasted one moment of sympathy on the Johnson family, even if he thought Gabriel Johnson’s claims were legitimate.

Caine’s philosophy and that of his cronies echoed that of the jungle: survival of the fittest. If the Johnsons couldn’t hold on to their fortune, that was their problem, not his.

And yet, even as Jack knew his father was entirely capable of turning a blind eye to any shady business deals that might have happened in 1900, as Gabriel Johnson claimed, Jack had some doubts about the authenticity of Gabriel Johnson’s claims himself. If this Johnson man really had proof of being cheated, wouldn’t he have produced it? Wouldn’t he have taken Caine to court to try to get back what was rightfully his? No, something was odd about this business, and even though Jack was prepared to believe the worst about his father, he was too familiar with the way people twisted the truth to suit their own purposes to believe Gabriel Johnson’s claims simply because he’d made them.

Still, if there was any possibility their ancestors really had stolen his mother’s ancestors’ property, the only right thing to do was make restitution. They were all agreed on that point.

In investigating, Jack had discovered Gabriel Johnson was dead, and that he’d had only two direct descendants of that original Johnson, a boy and girl who lived with their mother on a rose farm in Rose Hill, Texas.

So tomorrow Jack would leave for Rose Hill.

“What’re you going to tell this Beth Johnson when you see her, Jack?”

Jack shrugged. “I’m not sure. I’m just going to nose around, see what I can find out, then play it by ear.”

Cord nudged Rafe with his elbow. “See? What’d I tell you? Jack flies by the seat of his pants.”

“I’ve been thinking on my feet for a long time now,” Jack answered mildly. He was referring to the fact that he’d been a mercenary specializing in hostage negotiation and rescue missions for the past fourteen years. The only way a mercenary stayed alive was by thinking fast.

“I know,” Cord replied. “I was just kidding. Rafe and I trust you to make the right decision about the Johnsons, don’t we, little brother?”

Rafe rolled his eyes. Cord never missed a chance to remind him that he was eight minutes older. “Yes.”

“I trust your judgment, too,” Kate was quick to add.

Jack smiled at her. “Thanks. When are you leaving for Massachusetts?”

Months ago, after finding out their mother might still be alive and that there was a possibility they had a sibling they’d never known about, Jack and his brothers and sister had started trying to find them. One lead led to another, and last month Jack had gone to France to follow up on the latest information. While there he’d found a painting of a woman and a young girl who strongly resembled Jack’s sister, Kate. The painting led them to a woman named Madelyn LeClaire, who lived on Cape Cod. They were fairly certain this woman and their mother were the same person, and now that their father’s funeral was over, Kate planned to go back to Massachusetts to try to arrange a meeting with Mrs. LeClaire.

“On Monday.” For the first time since their meeting had begun, the sadness faded from Kate’s eyes. “Brett has some things he has to take care of first.” Brett Larson was Kate’s fiancé.

“What about you? Got any idea where you’ll be staying once you get to Rose Hill?” Rafe asked, directing his question to Jack.

“No, but I’ll call you once I get settled.”

That decided, the four of them turned their attention to their father’s will. Cord had been named executor and would work along with the family lawyer to make sure all the specific bequests were taken care of.

“You don’t mind, do you, Jack?” Cord asked.

Jack shook his head. “No.” Even though, by rights, as the oldest he should have been named executor of the will, he had no interest in any aspect of his father’s estate. He had turned his back on the Stockwell money long ago, preferring to make his own way in the world. Besides, for once, Caine had been right to pass over Jack. Cord had been working in the family business for years. He was the logical choice to oversee distributions under the terms of the will. Rafe, a Deputy U.S. Marshal, was like Jack and had no interest in the Stockwell businesses. Nor did Kate, who was an art therapist.

With no other business to discuss, the meeting broke up and the siblings prepared to go their own ways.

“Take care,” Cord said, shaking Jack’s hand.

“Remember what I said about the will,” Jack reminded him.

“Jack, I am not going to—”

Cutting him off, Jack said, “I don’t want any of the money.”

“That’s ridiculous, Jack,” Kate said.

“It is ridiculous,” Rafe agreed. “You’re a part of this family, just like we are.”

Not just like you are.

“Jack,” Kate said softly, touching his shoulder. “We can’t not give you the money. It wouldn’t be right. You’re our brother.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. “I don’t want it. I’ll just give it away.”

“Fine,” Cord said. “If you want to give away, that’s your business. My business is to follow the terms of our father’s will. And he gave you an equal share of his estate.”

Jack would never understand why. Caine had loved his other children, that much had always been clear. He might have lied to them, and he might have been heavy-handed in his dealings with them, especially after they became adults, but he’d loved them. So it made sense he’d leave them equal shares in his estate. But he didn’t love me. “I don’t need the money,” he insisted stubbornly. “I have plenty of my own.”

“So now you’ll have more,” Cord said.

As a negotiator, Jack knew when it was time to back down. “Fine. We’ll talk more when I get back.”

Kate smiled at him. “Good luck. You’ll keep us posted, won’t you?”

“Of course. Good luck to you, too.”

“Thanks. I’m looking forward to meeting her, but I’m scared, too.”

Jack nodded in understanding. Of all of them, Kate had missed having a mother the most. “Don’t worry,” he said softly, giving her a shoulder hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

Kate nodded, but she didn’t seem convinced. Jack wanted to offer her more assurance, but he held back. Hell, who knew? Maybe this Madelyn LeClaire wasn’t their mother. They were pretty certain, but they could be wrong.

A few minutes later, as he climbed the stairs to the second floor of the mansion and headed for the wing where he had a suite of rooms, Jack was still thinking about Kate’s mission. She would be very disappointed if this LeClaire woman turned out not to be their mother. Worse, if she was their mother but wasn’t interested in having any kind of relationship with them. He and his brothers would survive the rejection—them because they were both newly married and Jack because he was used to being rejected.

The bitter thought was one he didn’t often allow to surface. And yet it was always there, waiting to pounce on him anytime he allowed himself to be vulnerable. Which was why, except for his sister, he’d always avoided close relationships. It was also why he’d chosen the profession he’d chosen, where he didn’t have to depend on anyone but himself. He would be relieved to get this mystery settled, once and for all, and then head back to his solitary, answer-to-no-one life.

And if, sometimes, he was lonely, so what? Better to be lonely than to be betrayed. Telling himself he had exactly the life he wanted, he firmly pushed all other thoughts from his mind.

The following morning Jack was packed and ready to hit the road by six. The horizon was streaked with pink and gold by the time he entered the on-ramp for Interstate 20. Because it was early, traffic was light. He would make good time. According to the map, Rose Hill was fifteen miles west of Tyler, and Tyler was only ninety miles from the Dallas suburb of Grandview where the Stockwell home was located, so even stopping for breakfast, as he planned to, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to get there.

He debated about what approach to take, whether to head directly for the Johnson farm once he reached the area or to first see what he could find out about Beth Johnson’s situation. Rose Hill was a small town, so he figured he’d have no trouble finding the rose farm. He finally decided it would be best to check in to a motel and do some investigating before going out to the Johnson place. He figured Beth Johnson must know the background of his ancestors and her husband’s family. If she believed as Gabriel Johnson had believed, she probably hated all the Stockwells. Hell, if he just showed up there without warning she might shoot him on sight! Wouldn’t that be ironic? he thought, chuckling aloud—to survive countless dangerous situations, to outwit passionate revolutionaries and the henchmen of despot rulers, and then to be felled by a lone woman defending her farm in Rose Hill, Texas.

When Jack reached the outskirts of Tyler, the sun was high and bright in the eastern sky and clearly illuminated how much harm yesterday’s storm had caused. As he slowly drove through town, he noted the mangled trees, twisted and uprooted signs, broken windows and damaged roofs. In some places, debris blocked part of the roadway. Everywhere he looked he saw people cleaning up. It seemed the storm had been much more severe here than in Grandview. Had they had a tornado?

Less than a half hour later, a small green sign on his right proclaimed Rose Hill, Population 297. The speed limit dropped to thirty, and Jack slowed down. He figured he’d stop at the local gas station and ask for directions to the Johnson place. But just as he made the decision, a small motel appeared ahead. It looked clean, so he swung his Dodge pickup into the driveway and climbed out. Five minutes later he was registered, paying cash in advance for one night’s stay.

The owner, a garrulous old man with a shiny bald head and friendly eyes behind trifocals, handed him a key. “That there’s Unit Seven,” he said in a country twang. “Jest pull your truck along back and you can’t miss it.”

“Thanks. Maybe you can help me. I’m interested in touring a rose farm. Does anyone around here give tours?”

The old man frowned. “Mebbe. But this ain’t a good time for tours. That storm did a real job yesterday. Most of the farms had lots of damage.”

“What about the Johnson farm? Somebody mentioned that they have a pretty nice place.”

“Used to when it was Lillian Wilder’s place. But they’ve been havin’ a rough time lately, and they had turrible damage from the storm. Bud Thomason up at the Sack ’n Save told me the tornado hit one of their greenhouses—the one where they do their propagatin’—and I guess all but wiped out their waterin’ system. Poor Bethie was in town earlier buyin’ milk for the kids. On top of ever’thin’ else, her electric has been out since yestiddy afternoon. I feel so sorry for that little gal. For the past couple years, it’s just been one dang thing after another.” He tsk-tsked and shook his head, his eyes filled with sympathy. “I don’t know what she’s gonna do now, what with all the cleanup and replacin’ that waterin’ system. See, her cousin, who was workin’ for her, he left the beginnin’ of the summer. Got him a much better job down in Houston, and I know she can’t afford to hire anybody else.”

As Jack headed toward Unit Seven, he thought about what the talkative old man had told him. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for Beth Johnson, but at least now he knew how to approach her.

“Mama, can we go play?” they said in unison.

Beth wearily pushed her hair out of her eyes and straightened up, wincing at the pain that shot through her lower back. She had been working steadily since sunup, trying to salvage whatever she could from the damaged greenhouses. She’d only stopped to make a quick run into town to buy some milk for the kids’ breakfast.

“Please, Mama?”

She considered her seven-year-old son and five-year-old daughter’s request. They were bored. Because of the devastation the storm had caused, she hadn’t wanted them out of her sight today. There were too many ways they could get hurt if they played outdoors unsupervised. Yet she felt sorry for them. After all, they were only kids.

“All right, Matthew,” she finally said, “go on. But you’ve got to promise me you’ll keep a close eye on Amy and that neither one of you will go anywhere near the sweet gum tree.” When the tornado had struck yesterday, it had completely wiped out several trees at the back of the property, but it had only partially damaged the sweet gum, which sat on the side of the house. Now the sweet gum was unstable, and Beth was afraid it could tear loose and fall over at any time. She would have to do something about the tree, and quickly. It was a danger to her and her children as well as to the house, which had miraculously escaped any serious damage from the storm.

“But, Mama,” Amy said, “our tree house is there.”

“Yes, I know, sugar, but I told you earlier, you can’t go up into the tree house anymore. Not until I can get somebody out here to take it from the tree.”

Amy’s bottom lip quivered. “But my Pooh bear is in it.”

Beth sighed. “I promise you, honey, I will find a way to get your Pooh bear out of there, just not today, okay? Can you be patient a little while longer?”

Amy toed the ground with her sneaker. “Okay,” she finally said.

“I’ll watch her, Mama,” Matthew assured her.

“All right, but I mean it, now. You must stay completely away from that tree. Do you promise?”

After giving her their solemn promises, they ran off happily. Beth watched them for a moment, then turned back to her task. Oh, God, there was so much to be done! Suddenly she felt overwhelmed, and tears blurred her eyes. Why, on top of everything else, did this storm have to happen? Wasn’t it enough that Eben had left them with nothing—no insurance and no savings—and that grasshoppers had all but wiped out their plants last year?

Now this.

Yesterday’s storm had caused enormous damage to the farm. One of the trees hit by the tornado had fallen on the propagation house—the greenhouse where she nurtured the cuttings taken from leftover stock and grew into viable plants. The misting system had been destroyed, and one of the tanks used to catch rainwater had been torn from the ground and thrown a hundred feet. It had missed hitting anything when it landed, which was about the only good thing Beth could say.

The other six greenhouses, which held the more mature plants—the ones she sold—had all suffered damage. Because the greenhouses weren’t covered until November, the plants were sitting under open roofs. At least half of them had been completely ruined by the wind and hail. The ones remaining looked half-drowned, but Beth was hopeful they’d perk up again. If they didn’t, she wouldn’t have any way to obtain new root stock, because she certainly couldn’t afford to buy it.

Of course, how she would tend the baby plants, even if she was able to salvage enough of the mature plants to take cuttings, she had no idea. It would have been hard enough before this happened, seeing as how she had no money to hire help, but now! A misting system was absolutely necessary, because the baby plants needed water on a regular basis. Her misting system had been automatic, turning on every hour for a few minutes. And to make matters even worse, the water used by the misting system had come from her rainwater tanks, one of which was now gone.

It seemed ludicrous. Why was she trying so desperately to hang on to the farm? Yes, it had belonged to her dear grandmother, and yes, the farm and the old country roses her grandmother had introduced to the area nearly fifty years ago were Beth’s heritage and she loved them, but were they really worth the price she’d had to pay to keep them?

She thought about how she hadn’t had a day off since Eben died a year ago. How she’d had to say no to Matthew when he wanted to play soccer because she knew she wouldn’t be able to get him to and from practices and games. How she hadn’t bought herself a new outfit in three years. How most nights they ate spaghetti or soup or meat loaf—things that didn’t cost a lot of money. How her truck was ten years old and had more than 150,000 miles on it and how she prayed every day that it would last another year.

When Caleb, her cousin who had worked for her since Eben’s death, left at the beginning of the summer, he’d said, “Bethie, if I were you, I’d try to sell this place.”

Beth knew it would be a lot easier for everyone if she sold the farm. With the proceeds, she could buy a small house in town, get a job in Tyler, live a normal life. Yet every time she thought about leaving the roses she loved—Madame Hardy and Bloomfield Courage and Madame Alfred Carrière and Jacques Cartier and hundreds of others—she got such a desolate feeling in her stomach, she knew she would never willingly do it. Her grandmother had loved her roses passionately, and she had passed that passion on to Beth. She would never sell. Not unless she was forced to. Not unless there simply was no other way for her family to survive. And I’m not there yet. I may be close, but there’s still Grandma’s jewelry.

As she had many times since her drunken husband had run his truck into an oncoming eighteen-wheeler, she told herself it didn’t matter that she was virtually penniless. That she had no idea how she would get another crop together for the spring selling period. That she had never before had to do everything herself. She was strong, and she wasn’t afraid of hard work.

I have to keep this place going. This place isn’t just my heritage. It’s my children’s heritage, too.

They were such good kids. They made up for all the bad stuff she’d had to endure during her marriage.

Beth’s grandmother hadn’t wanted Beth to marry Eben. “He’s lazy,” she’d warned. “Always wanting something for nothing.” She hadn’t added, like your good-for-nothing daddy, but Beth had known it was implied. “He’ll give you nothing but grief,” her grandmother had added sadly.

But Beth hadn’t listened. She’d been twenty-two and a hopeless romantic. He’d been twenty-four—handsome and charming. It was a whirlwind courtship; they were married four weeks to the day after she met him at a country-western dance.

Marry in haste, repent at leisure.

Beth grimaced. Truer words were never spoken, cliché or not. Beth and Eben hadn’t been married a month when he started coming home drunk. Later she found out he’d always had a problem with alcohol.

Oh, Granny, I should have listened to you. And yet, if she had, she wouldn’t have Matthew and Amy today.

Beth became pregnant with Matthew almost immediately after marrying Eben. For a while after Eben found out about the coming baby, he’d tried to be a good husband, but the lure of booze was stronger than his good intentions, so when Matthew was a year old, Beth decided to leave Eben. But then her mother got sick. And her grandmother couldn’t do everything—run the farm and take care of Beth’s mother. So Beth abandoned her plan to leave Eben and talked him into moving out to the farm instead. She didn’t have to do much in the way of persuading. Eben liked the idea of being a rose grower. Rose growers were respected and looked up to. That he knew nothing about growing roses didn’t seem to daunt him, and to be fair, he had worked pretty hard that first year. Beth began to hope that he had changed.

Carrie Wilder lasted six months before succumbing to the cancer that plagued her body. A week after her funeral, Beth discovered she was pregnant again. Distraught over the loss of her mother, Beth resolved that unless things got worse, she would try to stick it out with Eben—at least until the kids were in school.

The following year, just fourteen months after her mother’s death, Beth’s grandmother suffered a massive heart attack and died. It was a shock to all who knew her. Lillian Wilder was only sixty-eight years old, and had always seemed indomitable.

Beth was devastated by the loss of the woman she had so admired, but there was no time to mourn. The farm was now hers. By the following week, she had taken over its management.

Eben couldn’t handle it. Once again, he began to drink heavily. Beth knew his ego had suffered a fatal blow, yet how could she have done anything else? He didn’t know enough about the business to run it without her supervision. So his drinking increased, and as he drank more, he worked less. Beth had to hire more help. Instead of one helper, she had to have two men, one to replace Eben, one to assist. She spent as much time as she could overseeing the work, but the children were young and needed her attention, too. She was busy day and night, too busy to worry about Eben’s bruised ego.

Now he was gone and, except for the children, Beth was all alone. She wasn’t beaten yet. And with that thought to sustain her, she turned back to the job at hand.