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Kitt’s body stiffened. J. T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch near Crystal Creek, and the McKinneys were the most important family in the county. Kitt knew more about them than she cared to remember, more than she dared to remember.
But she let her face betray nothing. “Yes. I know—most of them.”
“They’re stubborn, and they’re full of fight,” Cronin said, watching her expression closely. “They’ve got money and power. One of them’s out of the country—Cal—but the rumor is he’s coming back for this. Of course, next to Fabian, they’re small potatoes. Nothing, really.”
Cal’s name hit her like a physical blow, but Kitt didn’t flinch. She was too proud. The McKinneys were part of her distant past, thank God. Especially Cal. But to go back to Crystal Creek and write about them? About him? Her nerves jangled in protest.
She shook her head. “If you want a story on the McKinneys—”
Cronin waved his hand negatively. “No, no. They’re only one part. It’s the whole town—the whole county. It’s split. Some want the development. Some don’t. A house divided against itself. That’s the drama.”
Kitt allowed herself a skeptical smile. “But to fight Brian Fabian—”
“Yes,” Cronin said with pleasure. “A classic David and Goliath story. Except, of course, David gets his brains bashed out. Creamed. Murdered.”
Kitt kept her face carefully blank.
“Hopeless cause,” Cronin mused. “Idiotic actually. But valiant. I want both sides of the story, of course. Part of your job is to give the reader the point of view of the underdogs. Those kindly folks who live and love in your hometown. Their way of life ending forever. Heartrending.”
Inwardly Kitt squirmed. Did Cronin just want sob sister stuff from her? She was a better writer than that. Furthermore, even if the McKinneys weren’t the sole players, they were involved. She couldn’t help it—the fact made her profoundly uneasy. “I see,” she said without enthusiasm.
“Do you?” he challenged. “There’s something you haven’t asked. I expected more from you, Mitchell. Why haven’t you asked about the revenge part?”
Kitt squared her shoulders and tried to fake him. “I was about to. My sources—” she meant Nora, of course “—never mentioned such a thing.”
He steepled his fingers and peered over them, eyes glittering. “That’s because your sources don’t know yet. And you’re not to tell them. You’re going there to gather information—not leak it.”
Her chin jerked up defiantly. She’d never leaked a story, never purposely influenced one, and she never would.
Cronin smiled at her reaction. “Here’s the nitty-gritty. Brian Fabian wants more land. And he’s so incensed at his turncoat lawyer—”
“Nick Belyle,” furnished Kitt.
“—that he’s sending down the man’s own brother to finish the job.”
Kitt’s interest shot up several notches. “His own flesh and blood?”
“Yes. His younger brother. Mel. Ruthless man, I’m told. I’ve had research prepare a folder of information for you on each of them.”
Kitt narrowed her eyes. “Brian Fabian’s setting brother against brother? Like…the Civil War?”
“Yes. It’s quite nasty. I like it,” said Mr. Cronin.
Kitt didn’t. “What kind of a man would go gunning after his own brother? There must be more to this feud than just company loyalty. When I talk to him—”
“You won’t. He won’t,” Cronin said. “If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it’ll only be to bite your head off. Fabian hates the press.”
“I could try—” Kitt began.
“Forget it,” ordered Cronin. “I repeat. Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. You’ll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors.”
Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she’d turned her back on them long ago—with good reason. And there was the very real question of how objective she could be. This worried her. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn’t want this story.
But then Cronin said the magic words. “Do a good job of this,” he said silkily, “and you’ll be promoted from staff writer to contributing editor.”
Her misgivings vanished as if a lightning bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor? For a promotion like that, she would cover a story in the hottest part of hell.
EVERY DAY AFTER WORK when the weather was decent, Kitt went for a run in Central Park. Then she showered, nuked a frozen dinner and settled down to read.
She unplugged the phone because men sometimes called, and recently she wasn’t in a mood to bother with them. She was currently between boyfriends, a state she didn’t mind a bit. It was restful.
Now, wearing her ratty bathrobe, she flopped onto her sofa and opened the folder on the Belyle brothers. True to Fabian form, the information about them was scant.
There were actually three brothers, and their widowed mother had moved with them from Texas to New York. She’d worked for Brian Fabian as a cleaning lady or maid. Accounts differed, but he’d befriended her.
All three sons had gone to law school, and all three had taken jobs with Fabian’s firm. Rumor said that Fabian had been a patron to them.
Nick Belyle, the brother who’d defected, had gone to Harvard. Mel, the one being sent to fight him, had gone to Yale. Research had provided copies of their transcripts. Both had A averages. Kitt gave a grudging whistle of approval—these two should be able to wage a hell of a battle.
Mel made the gossip columns from time to time, dating models. Fabianesque, that appetite for beautiful women. Otherwise, the brothers kept their private lives private. That, too, was in Fabian’s mode.
Until Nick settled in Texas, he’d kept on the move for the corporation, living in a dozen different places. Mel stayed based in New York. His address was fancy. Very fancy.
And that was it. There were a few boyhood and teenage snapshots of Nick. None of Mel. Also missing was any mention of either brother’s hobbies, clubs, political affiliations—nothing. Kitt closed the folder, wishing the research department had dug more deeply.
She was going to have to do her own detective work and find the details herself—starting now. She would call Nora in Crystal Creek.
Nora was her aunt, but the word aunt always sounded august and elderly to Kitt. Nora was neither. Nora was thirty-three, just five years older than Kitt. She was bright, funny, down-to-earth, and generous.
Nora had made only one mistake in her life, and it had been disastrous. As a sixteen-year-old girl, she’d got pregnant and married a man who’d thrown all her dreams offtrack.
Nora had grown up wanting one thing: to be a teacher. After her divorce, she’d sweated blood to finish college. She’d married again, a good man. She’d even taught for a while, but circumstances had seemed to conspire against her.
Now, instead of teaching, Nora had a dead-end job. She worked fifty weeks a year, six days a week in a cow town café and managed a tatty little motel, too. Kitt shook her head at the waste.
She dialed Nora’s home number. She listened to the phone ring and thought of Crystal Creek. It still seemed ironic to be going back, but perhaps, at last, it was time. A feeble ghost or two might still haunt her, but this would be her chance to lay them to rest.
When Nora answered, she hooted with surprise to hear Kitt. “Kitt-Kat!” she cried. “Can you read minds? I was just thinking of you. I loved that piece you wrote about the little girl who plays chess.”
Kitt thanked her, feeling the pinch of guilt. Nora followed Kitt’s career proudly and read every issue of Exclusive. She sent notes of praise and funny cards and newsy letters, but Kitt was usually too busy to answer at length. Now and then she dashed off a postcard or an e-mail. It was not that she didn’t love Nora, but…
She paused, picturing Nora’s pretty face and blue-gray eyes. How often in the past had she turned to her, a girl barely older than herself, for comfort? Now she was turning to her again—but for reasons of ambition.
Kitt took a deep breath. “Listen, Nora, I’m coming down there next week. On Monday. I hope it’s not too short a notice.”
“Here?” Nora sounded delighted. “That’s great! I can’t wait to see you. Good grief, how long has it been?”
“Twelve years,” Kitt said. Another guilty twinge stung her, and she tried not to think of her long absence.
“Twelve years,” Nora said in wonder. “It’s not possible. It can’t be.”
“The prodigal returns,” Kitt said, trying to make a joke of it.
“It’s about time,” laughed Nora. “I was starting to think you got too citified. You wouldn’t claim us any more.”
“I’ve got an assignment,” said Kitt, trying to sound casual. “To write about Crystal Creek. The current troubles. You know, that whole land grab thing with Brian Fabian.”
For a moment, Nora went strangely silent. At last she said, “Write about it? I don’t know. Folks around here might not like it….”
Kitt made her voice conciliatory. “We’ll talk about it when I get there, okay? The main thing is I get a chance to see you. It’s been so long…I mean, I can still come, can’t I? Even if I’m on assignment?”
This time Nora didn’t hesitate. “You’re always welcome,” she said with warmth. “And I want you to stay with us. At Chez Slattery. I insist.”
It was Kitt’s turn to pause. For the first time since that afternoon she had a strong rush of apprehension about the McKinneys.
Nora was married to the McKinneys’ foreman. She lived within sight of the main house. For Kitt, it was uncomfortably close, too close.
“That’s good of you, but I shouldn’t. I mean, if the people in town don’t like what I write, they could hold it against you.”
“I know you’re always fair,” Nora said loyally. “That’s one of the best things about your articles. You put emotion into them, but they’re fair. Really, stay with us—please.”
“No,” Kitt insisted. “It wouldn’t be in my best interest, either. If I stay with you, it’ll look as if I’ve taken sides before I’ve even started.”
Kitt drew in her breath and held it. What she was saying was sound in journalistic principle. But she also could not bear spending a week or more living on the McKinneys’ land. Suddenly the ghosts of her past did not seem so few or so feeble.
Nora sighed. “I can understand that. I’d certainly never want to compromise the integrity of your story. But you can spend time with us—can’t you? You can’t work all the time.”
“You’ll be the first person I’ll come see,” promised Kitt. “I’ll drive straight to your house. Won’t even check into the hotel first. The old hotel—you said they remodeled it?”
“You won’t recognize it. You know that you could stay for free at the motel, instead,” Nora said ruefully. “But it’d hardly be doing you a favor. We’re putting in a new heating and air-conditioning system. It’s a mess.”
“No, it’s better I stay on neutral ground,” Kitt replied.
Nora laughed. “Oh, Kitt—these days there is no neutral ground in Crystal Creek. But it’ll be a kick to have you home.”
Home. The word almost froze Kitt. She tried to shake off the cold, empty feeling. New York was where she lived now, and she wanted and needed no other place to call home.
She pushed the emotion away and got back to her job. “The McKinneys,” she said with seeming casualness, “they’re leading the fight against Fabian?”
“J.T.’s the president of a citizens’ group. It’s running him ragged. I wish Cal could get home, but he’s tied up in business in Australia.”
He’s not there yet. Good, Kitt thought with a wave of relief. But he would soon be back—Cronin had said he would.
Kitt made herself press on. “Is there any word of Fabian making another move down there?” She knew, of course, that he was about to.
“We hope not,” Nora said. “J.T.’s got about all he can handle. He’s got Fabian tied up in lawsuits for the moment. And all the major ranchers have refused to sell any more land. But anything might happen. J.T. doesn’t need any nasty surprises.”
“I see,” Kitt said noncommittally. She couldn’t warn Nora that just such a nasty surprise was on the way, and it would come in the form of a man named Mel Belyle.
IN CRYSTAL CREEK the next day, Nora realized that Kitt’s phone call had sent a strange restlessness tingling through her.
The Longhorn Coffee Shop was languid, enjoying a rare Saturday morning lull. Nora savored the quiet and looked out the front window at the blue sky and sunshine and the strolling people.
This was the first time in two long weeks that the sky had been bright and clear. Every day had brought clouds that sprinkled, rained, or poured down storms. Suddenly, she yearned with all her heart to join those people out in the beautiful sunlight and be free, like them.
What would she do if she had a Saturday all to herself? A whole day to do anything she wanted? She leaned her elbows on the windowsill, giving herself up to this sinful fantasy. For starters, there were books to be read, tempting stacks of them, seductive heaps of them…
The crash of shattering glass hurtled her back to reality. Nora straightened, squaring her shoulders. She was training a new waitress, LaVonda Pollack. “Vonnie?” she called apprehensively.
The girl’s voice, nervous, came from the kitchen. “It was only an empty bottle. I’m cleaning it up. Sorry.”
“It’s all right. Don’t worry.” Nora sighed and pushed a hand through her ash-brown hair. Then she busied herself readying for the lunch hour rush. She had tables to wipe, fresh place mats to put down, condiments to restock.
Nora’s regular assistant, Kasey, was on vacation. Her other waitress, Shelby, had just gotten married, and Nora had been lucky to get a replacement—even if it was Vonnie.
Finding good, steady help for the café was hard. The hours were long, the pay only adequate, and the waitresses had to count on tips to make a decent living. Nora missed Shelby, and she envied her. Shelby had gone back to college for her master’s degree.
Sometimes in her heart of hearts, Nora still wished for life without the Longhorn. But the place was hers, and she was lucky to have it. Once the café had almost sold, but the deal had gone sour at the last moment, and Nora took that as a sign. It belonged to her and she belonged to it. There was no escaping and no use complaining.
The door opened, its bell jingling, and her vague discontent fled. When she saw who entered, her heart flew up in happiness.
Three tall men stood in the entryway. All wore Stetsons, western-cut shirts, jeans and expensive boots. Each was handsome, but in a different way. It was J. T. McKinney with both his sons, not only Tyler—but Cal.
The sight of Cal dizzied her with happiness. He and his family had been gone for months. She threw herself into Cal’s arms, half-laughing, half-crying, hugging and being hugged. Cal laughed out loud, Tyler gave a tight smile, and J.T. sighed as if in resignation.
“Cal,” she said in disbelief. “When did you get back?”
“This mornin’,” he said and whirled her around. Then he stopped and beamed the smile that showed his killer dimples. “Lord, is it possible? You’re prettier than ever. Got a kiss for me, sweet thing?”
Then he was bending, his lips firm and affectionate against her cheek. “Mmmwha!” he said, drawing back slightly.
She drank him in. Next to her husband and son, she loved Cal McKinney more than anyone else in the world.
He was as irresistible as ever, his hazel eyes just as full of high spirits. He had his hat brim tipped at a cocky angle, and though he was in his thirties now, he still had his boyish, sexy, carefree air.
He grinned again. “That worthless husband of yours has gone off and left you alone today, the fool?”
Nora hooked her arms around his neck. Her husband, Ken, was J.T.’s foreman and Cal’s best friend. “Ken’s in Medina. He should be back by tonight. Oh, Cal—it’s so good to have you home.”
“Good to be home. Mighty good.”
“And the rest of the family?” she asked. “They’re here?”
“Serena and the twins? Couldn’t go nowhere without ’em, could I? They’re sleeping at Daddy’s. It was a long trip. I hope those twins sleep a week. Ever been on a plane thirty-six hours with twins? Close to hell as I ever want to get.”
She laughed and led him to the nearest booth. “Let me get you some coffee. Or are you too wired?”
“Never too wired for your coffee, darlin’. Or your cheesecake. I’ve been thinkin’ of your cheesecake for the last three thousand miles. It was all that kept my spirits up. You got pumpkin?”
