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“How do you know?” Nora asked, looking puzzled.
“Phone rang just when Kitt drove up,” Ken said laconically. “It was Cal. He said that Nick’s brother just checked into the hotel.”
“Well, why didn’t you tell me?” Nora demanded.
“By that time, you were out the door. A-weepin’ on your niece,” Ken said.
Nora gave him a mock-angry look and pretended to jab him in the ribs with her elbow. He gave her a one-sided smile. Nora squeezed Kitt’s arm as Ken opened the door for them. “That’s coincidence, eh? You and he getting here the same day? Looks like the action’s about to begin.”
Kitt only nodded. She thought it best not to mention her little adventure in the Dallas airport.
They entered Ken and Nora’s living room, and Kitt was struck by how homey and right it seemed. The overstuffed chairs and sofa seemed to beckon one to sit down and sink into soft comfort. Family snapshots crowded the mantel, and the walls were lined with overflowing bookshelves. On the coffee table were a vase of golden carnations and the latest copy of Exclusive magazine.
“Kind of spooky, isn’t it?” Nora mused. “How fast news travels? That people already know he’s here?—Nick’s brother—what’s his name?”
Mel, thought Kitt, but said nothing.
“Mel,” Ken supplied.
“Come into the kitchen,” Nora invited Kitt. “Yes. Mel, that’s it. His ears should be burning, us all talking about him this way.”
Kitt smiled weakly.
BUT IF ANY EARS SHOULD have been burning, they were Kitt’s.
Mel lay on the big four-poster bed in the West Gold Room of the Crystal Creek hotel. He was savoring, with sharp appetite, a smorgasbord of delicious details about Kitt Mitchell.
“Now wait,” Mel said, “she was a homecoming attendant both years she was at this posh school in Dallas?”
“Both years,” said DeJames, a grin in his voice. “Queen her senior year. And the Sweetheart of Phi Omega Phi.”
“What in hell’s Phi Omega Phi?” Mel demanded.
“The boys’ academic honor society. She was also editor of the high school paper.”
“And star of the girls’ track team,” muttered Mel. The redhead was clearly an overachiever. Not normal, a driven person.
DeJames said, “This is what they put under her picture in the yearbook. ‘Some girls break records. Some break hearts. Kitt Mitchell breaks both.’”
“Cute,” Mel said sarcastically. “What else does it say?”
“Most ambitious,” said DeJames. “And most likely to succeed.”
Mel envisioned her, a fiery-tressed Scarlett O’Hara, conquering by sly charm. Consumed by ambition, a schemer to beware of—even back then. He intended to have the full goods on her. He said, “But how did she get from Podunk High in Crystal Creek to the Snob-brat School in Dallas? I thought her father was just a ranch hand.”
“The Stobbart School,” DeJames corrected. “He was. And Stobbart was expensive. Very.”
“Maybe a scholarship,” Mel muttered. For track. Or academics. Or for just being disgustingly over-talented.
“Stobbart didn’t give scholarships,” DeJames said. “I haven’t figured out yet how she got there. I will. The school itself’s been closed eight years. But I was lucky—got a copy of one of its yearbooks with her in it.”
Mel’s brow furrowed. “Yeah. How did you do that?”
“Because,” drawled DeJames, “I am excellent at my work. And I also have mystical powers. You want me to fax that other stuff to you?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mel said. “Send it on.”
DeJames had given him all the basic info on the redhead, where she’d gone to college, her job history, where she lived in New York, even who her last boyfriend had been, a writer who worked for Celebrity Magazine.
Mel glanced at his watch. “You’re working late, aren’t you, DeJames?”
“It’s how I’ll get to the top. My excellence. My mystical power. And my legendary tirelessness.”
“Don’t forget your becoming modesty,” Mel gibed.
“That, too. You want me to send this yearbook? I can get it there tomorrow by courier.”
“Do that,” said Mel. “And keep digging. I want to get beneath this woman’s surface.”
“I think you want to get beneath her skirt,” laughed DeJames.
“It’s time for you to go home now, DeJames,” Mel said from between his teeth. “To that pitiful, empty thing you call your life.”
“I happen to have a girlfriend who looks like Jada Pinkett Smith’s prettier sister. A steady girlfriend, Don Juan. You should try it sometime.”
“Goodbye, DeJames,” Mel said and hung up.
He sighed and rose from the bed. He’d kicked off his shoes and socks and was shirtless. He smacked his bare chest and padded to the window. It had luxuriantly full white curtains that matched the bedspread and the canopy over the bed. He was in a set of matched rooms called the Gold Rooms, with a sitting room in between.
The Plaza, it wasn’t. Still, it was a decent enough place, with a window seat and hooked rugs and a surprisingly well-stocked minibar. There was a combination restaurant and pub downstairs. Its Scottish décor would have struck Mel as absurd in the heart of Texas if he hadn’t known the hotel owner was from Glasgow.
Mel knew much about this town. He’d come to it as his brother had, armed with knowledge. Unlike his brother, he wouldn’t let some woman make him into a turncoat.
He stared out the window. He could identify the buildings as easily as if he’d lived here for months. There was the bank, Wall’s drug store, the Longhorn Coffee Shop, which was closed because it was Monday. Next to the café was the Longhorn Motel, where Nick had stayed.
It was nothing but an L-shaped row of units, not shabby, but clearly low-priced. It wasn’t the kind of place Nick would have normally stayed on a bet. But he had done so because of the woman, Shelby.
Mel looked at the whitewashed motel units and shook his head in disgust. He rubbed his upper lip and thought of all Brian Fabian had done for the Belyle family.
Their mother still got teary when she tried to talk about how Nick had turned his back on such a good man. How Nick had given up everything. For a woman.
“I trust you won’t make the same damn mistake,” Fabian had hissed at him before he’d left.
“No problem,” Mel had assured him. And he meant it. He was made of tougher stuff.
Behind him, the fax machine began to whir and click, receiving the first batch of data on Kitt Mitchell. She didn’t interest him as a person, he told himself. Not a bit. All he wanted was to know his enemy.
CHAPTER FOUR
KITT HAD BEEN WORRIED. After all these years, would she and Nora have anything in common, anything to say to each other?
But they couldn’t stop talking. One memory sparked another; each story unleashed a flow of more. The two found they could still complete each other’s sentences—and make each other dissolve in hopeless giggles.
They sat at the kitchen table with Ken, who listened to them with wry amusement.
“And remember when we hiked up to Hermit’s Cave—” Nora began.
“—we’d lugged tons of books up there—” Kitt put in.
“And a blanket to sit on. And potato chips and a canteen of limeade—”
“We were going to hide out all summer from my brothers—”
Nora grinned. “—and a bat pooped in my hair—”
“—and you screamed and ran halfway down the mountain—” Kitt snickered.
“—yelling, ‘Bat poop! Bat poop!’ and pouring limeade on my head. Oh, Lord! And you behind me yelling, ‘It’s okay! People use it for fertilizer!’”
Nora almost doubled up. Ken looked at his wife in wonder, as if he’d never seen her so giddy.
Kitt laid her head in her folded arms on the table and laughed until she cried. Nora told how she’d washed her hair four times and would never go back to the cave. Kitt had to carry all the books back down by herself.
This led to the story of how Reverend Blake’s dog had wandered into the church one Sunday morning when the reverend was preaching a sermon on the virtue of obedience.
“Shoo, Spot,” the reverend had thundered. But Spot wouldn’t shoo. He sat in the middle of the aisle, ignoring his master and scratching a flea.
Nora went to the counter, took a paper towel and dabbed at her face. “And we didn’t dare laugh. It nearly killed us.”
“Whatever happened to that dog?” Kitt asked. Her ribs ached.
“He died of old age. They buried him in the backyard under a rose bush. Eva Blake still gets misty when she talks about that dog.”
Nora sighed and added, “The Blakes are eager to see you, you know—Howard and Eva. They always ask about you.”
Kitt’s mirth vanished. An uneasy guilt filled her. She owed the Blakes a great deal, and she must visit them. But she didn’t want to, not at all. They brought back memories that still gave her bad dreams.
But with false cheer she said, “Of course, I’ll go see them.”
Ken got to his feet. “You two look like you’re just getting started. I need to catch some shut-eye. I’ve got a windmill to check out soon as the light comes up. Hope it doesn’t rain again.”
He kissed Nora. It was not a perfunctory good-night kiss. It was full on the lips and lingering—not long enough to be showy, but long enough to convince Kitt how deeply he cared for his wife.
“Good night, honey,” he said in a low voice. Nora rubbed her nose against his.
Suddenly Kitt felt like an intruder. Ken wanted to make love, and Nora wanted it, too. “I should be going—” she began.
“No,” Ken said. “You girls have catchin’ up to do. You don’t need me.”
Nora was insistent. “I’m not letting you go yet. After all, it took twelve years to get you back here.”
Ken kissed Nora’s cheek and limped from the room. Nora looked fondly after him. “He’s right,” she said, turning to Kitt. “We have a lot of catching up to do. I’ll make some cocoa?”
“He seems like a good man,” Kitt said, gazing after Ken.
“He is good,” Nora said. “The best. He’s made a world of difference in my life. And Rory’s. Lord, Rory. You should see him—he’s six foot one now.”
Kitt smiled the mention of Rory. He was the one good thing to come from Nora’s marriage to Gordon Jones. But Nora’s unplanned pregnancy with Rory was why she had to marry when she was only sixteen.
Kitt, eleven then, had been horrified. But she’d grown fond of Rory, and she knew how Nora loved him and how fiercely she had always protected him. And Rory had needed protecting. Gordon was abusive.
When Kitt was in college, she got word that Gordon had died—violently. In a haze of jealousy and drugs, he’d come after Nora and Ken. Cal McKinney had tried to intervene. There was shooting, and Gordon, fleeing, had been hit by a car from the sheriff’s department.
Kitt said carefully, “Does Rory ever mention Gordon?”
“Not much. But he knows the truth. I didn’t want him to find out by the gossip—which is still going around, dammit.” Nora’s frank eyes showed a spark of anger, but it quickly faded. “He’s dealt with it fine, just fine.”
“A freshman in college—I can’t believe it.” Kitt shook her head. “And he wants to be a professor, yet. He’s your boy, all right.”
Nora’s smile was both happy and sad. “He was editor of the high school newspaper. Just like you. I wish Dottie could see him. She’d be so proud.”
“She would.” Kitt put her hand over Nora’s and squeezed it. Dottie Jones had been a widow and Gordon’s mother. She’d always loved Nora and stood by her, even when Nora divorced Gordon. Dottie had been the original owner of the Longhorn, and she’d left it in her will to Nora.
“How long have you been running the Longhorn now?” Kitt asked.
“Almost ten years, off and on. I’ve poured enough coffee to float an aircraft carrier.”
“I thought,” Kitt said carefully, “that when you got married again and went back to school, you were out of that place.”
Nora tried to shrug as if it didn’t matter, but she didn’t fool Kitt. Nora said, “Ken saw that I finished my degree. He really wanted it for me….” Her voice trailed off.
“You had a job at the high school,” Kitt said, still perplexed at what had happened to Nora. “The kids voted you Best Teacher.”
“Ken got hurt,” Nora said, going to the counter. “And that was it.”
Ken had been trying to help unload an unruly Brahma bull bought at a stock auction. The brute had kicked and pinned him against the side of the truck, half-killing him. His leg was broken, his pelvis fractured.
“He couldn’t work for a year,” Nora said, stirring the cocoa. “J.T. did everything in his power to help. But at the same time, the school system was having money problems—no raises—and I could make better money going back to the Longhorn and managing it myself.”
“What I’ve never understood,” Kitt said with a frown, “is why the school system had money problems?”
Nora shrugged and filled two cups with cocoa. “The town’s lost people. The tax burden on those left—it was getting out of hand.”
Kitt crooked an eyebrow. “But Crystal Creek should have been growing. With this location? This close to Austin? Wasn’t the town even trying to attract any kind of industry or business?”
Nora gave her on odd look. “We have an industry—cattle. We have the winery. We don’t want things like that yucky cement factory at Kelso. Or the dairy operations at Bunyard—they both pollute something fierce.”
Kitt eyed Nora with surprise. Did she believe Crystal Creek could survive without changing?
