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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.
CHAPTER TWO
“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.”
