A Woman of Fortune (12 page)

13

N
ights were the worst. Those endless hours in the dark, lying in bed knowing he was awake too, but neither of them acknowledging their mental anguish. Ultimately, Claire resorted to moving into one of the guest rooms, where the silence didn't mock her. Unfortunately, she couldn't escape the loudest taunt of all. The internal voice that kept pelleting her with one question.

How could she not have known?

The late nights. The tense phone conversations cut off when she'd walk in the room. The tension often hidden in Tuck's assurances.

Everything now made sense.

But like Ranger said, all that was behind them. They needed to focus on the future. Tuck had made huge errors in judgment, but she knew her husband was basically a good man, despite his failings.

Sure, she'd been pretty angry at first. Outraged that Tuck had played so loosely with all their lives. Ultimately, though, she understood there was a fine line between hurt and anger. No amount of emotional daggers thrown at her husband could kill the truth.

They loved one another. And that was all that really mattered.

This whole cattle thing had gotten away from him, that was all. Like he'd said, economic situations out of his control hindered prof
its, and Tuck felt pressure to turn a profit for those who deposited money in his care, people who'd trusted him to come through.

He'd in essence robbed Peter to pay Paul, only until economic circumstances turned back around. Tuck never meant to defraud anyone. By some crazy notion, he'd believed he could ride the downturn out. In the end, he'd hoped to see this economic storm through, promising himself he'd get out at the first glimpse of blue sky.

She knew this man, the way he rubbed his chin when something bothered him. How his eyes brightened when the solution to the problem finally dawned. She knew Tuck had a large freckle on his right hip, oddly shaped like a motorcycle—similar to the first Harley he'd bought when they'd been married seven years and he'd made his first million-dollar cattle trade. She still warmed at the memory of his offering to take her for a ride, with a deeper meaning than gunning down the highway.

She knew how grouchy he got when suffering the slightest head cold, how he'd poke a thermometer in his mouth every twenty minutes and huff when he saw no change from the last time he'd checked his temperature.

He liked foot rubs—both giving and getting. And he was never happier than on Christmas morning, playing Santa under the family tree. One year, even though they easily could afford to purchase new Tonka trucks, her man had spent days in his shop making wooden pickup trucks and horse trailers for the boys. Custom painted with the Legacy Ranch logo.

That was the year he gave her the cream-colored silk nightgown from Paris, and later that night moaned in her ear as he slid the pencil-thin straps from her shoulders.

Claire stared into the darkness, feeling a tear trail toward the pillow.

How was she ever going to be able to wrap her head around all this?

Tuck Massey was a good man. A good man who'd done some
thing terribly wrong. But with God's help, they would make things right again—eventually.

Not everyone would get paid, but Ranger had a plan. Receivers would liquidate the huge amount of assets turned over in the plea agreement—their real estate, including homes in Sun Valley, Pebble Beach, and Bermuda. They'd relinquish equity holdings, stocks, and aviation assets—the Long Ranger helicopter and Gulfstream Lear. Tuck's luxury yacht, which he'd named
Touchdown
to commemorate his college football career, would have to go, and his envied gun collection. For her part, many of Claire's designer gowns and shoes would be sold, a small sacrifice given how infrequently she'd be invited to parties in the coming years. Those days were likely over, at least for now.

With the judge's approval, the Masseys would retain Legacy Ranch, three vehicles—each valued under fifty grand—and a half-million stipend to cover living and staff expenses. Margarita and Henry would be the only house staff left. Garrett would run the scaled-down ranch operations, keeping things going until Tuck's release. Then they'd rebuild.

The Massey dynasty was over, but their family must go on, despite the wounds.

Yesterday at an empty breakfast table, Margarita had wiped her hands on her apron more than once—a sign Claire knew meant she had something to say. “What is it, Margarita?”

She lifted the silver coffee carafe from the sideboard and walked to where Claire sat. She poured the coffee and her heart out. “It's not good for a family not to talk, not to forgive.”

When Claire didn't respond right away, the housekeeper went on. “Mr. Massey did a terrible thing,” she said, shaking her head. “His actions created much hardship. But you mustn't let your family break into pieces.” She set the carafe down and placed her hand on Claire's forearm. “I'm sorry if I overstep, but there is an evil one who will use this hurt, and all this silence, to further destroy.”

Claire knew her sage housekeeper was right. Since Tuck's re
lease, Garrett and Marcy barely came out of their house. Lainie spent all her time in the barn, and Max suddenly found himself very busy at the paper.

If her children were feeling anything like her own struggle, their hurt and confused distance was understandable. But she couldn't let the situation go on too long, or Margarita's fears would become well-founded.

She supposed she needed to set an example and focus on the positive.

Tuck would find a way to parlay their circumstances into a more quiet yet comfortable lifestyle. Maybe Max would finally get contracted to write that novel of his dreams. Publishers loved celebrity.

Perhaps investors wouldn't be made whole in one sense, but the firm's attorneys argued most of the money lost represented profits reinvested. People would ultimately be paid a percentage, most of which would restore original deposits.

Ranger said if Tuck complied with the federal agents' efforts and worked to make restitution, and if a few people of influence would be willing to testify at the hearing on Tuck's behalf, the judge would render a light sentence. Likely five to seven years. With good behavior, Ranger promised parole would likely come at the end of two years and Tuck could be home again.

Claire wasn't sure how she'd get through twenty-four months without Tuck, but she didn't have a choice. And certainly the legal aspect of all this could have been much worse, given how many were out for Tuck's blood.

The plea bargain would also end any further investigation of Garrett.

Pastor Richards often preached that God used all things for good. Claire could choose to believe that. The alternative would be to sink into despair, and that simply wasn't an option. Not for her marriage, and certainly not for their family. They'd all have to forgive and move on.

If Jana Rae were still talking to her, she'd say Claire was serving up jam on an idiot cracker. She'd claim she had a Pollyanna attitude and tell her to face reality. “Claire, a sinner who pokes his eye out can ask and be forgiven, but he'd still be blind.”

Well, yes. Perhaps that philosophy was true.

But Claire needed to be optimistic. What was religion's purpose if not for getting you through the bad times?

She couldn't turn on the television without horrible things being said about Tuck and her family. Cruel remarks. Vicious, really. No one could understand the deep shame and embarrassment, how Claire's skin crawled the moment someone recognized her and gave her
the look
. If she dwelled on all that, or how things might
actually
go, she'd never climb out of this bed.

No, instead she'd try hard to follow the advice of that lady televangelist and take all thoughts captive. She'd stop the “stinkin' thinkin'” and lean on the promises of God.

Claire wiped at her damp face. In fact, she had a plan. Tomorrow she'd turn to Pastor Richards and ask his help to get them out of this mess.

Her body shifted, and she pulled the coverlet tight. Closing her eyes, she let the tension drain from her shoulders. And for the first time in many nights, Mrs. Tuck Massey fell sound asleep.

Claire stepped into the massive circular foyer. The reception counter was to the right of the water fountain, sandwiched between the bookstore and the staff offices. She cleared her throat. “Excuse me, miss. You're new here, aren't you?”

A fortyish woman with blonde hair clipped at the back of her head looked up from her magazine. The motion caused her earrings to swing wildly from her ears. “Well, hello there. What can we do for you today?” The woman strangely resembled the perky actress she'd seen in a recent commercial for feminine products, except a bit older. And maybe heavier.

Claire pushed the thought from her mind. Whenever she was uneasy, her mind seemed to wander to strange places.

This church, probably the most prestigious of all the churches in northern Dallas, didn't get its nickname—St. Minks and All Cadillacs—by catering to the blue-collar crowd. She had no reason to be nervous. The Masseys had been members for years. She'd chaired the missions conference, for goodness' sake.

She glanced at the lady's name tag. “Uh, Shelly, I'm here to see Pastor Richards. Is he here?” She forced a smile. “Claire Massey.”

The woman suddenly eyed her with suspicion. She slowly closed the magazine cover. “Can I tell Pastor Richards what this is regarding?”

She managed a weak smile. “A personal matter.”

The receptionist nodded. “I see. Well, you wait here just a minute and I'll check his schedule.” She pushed away from the desk and stood. “And see if he has time available,” she added.

Claire watched the woman duck into the hallway leading to the staff offices. Minutes later, she returned, trailed by the pastor.

“Claire, what a surprise.” Pastor Richards's eyes barely met her own as he stepped forward. “What brings you here?”

“Could we talk? Privately?”

“Absolutely.” He led her back to his office, a room appointed with fine furnishings and lined with bookcases filled with volumes of reference books and Bibles in various versions. Above the sofa, on the wall opposite his massive walnut desk, hung a huge mount of a cape buffalo head he'd shipped back from Africa, from a hunt Tuck had sponsored four years ago. A similar trophy hung in Tuck's office.

“I'm sorry I haven't called since . . . well, since the arrest.” Pastor Richards motioned her to a chair. “But, well . . . you know how these things go.”

No, she didn't. But Claire nodded anyway and settled her purse squarely in the middle of her lap. “No problem,” she said. “I understand completely. Like Tuck often says, businesses don't run
themselves. And I guess that would go for churches as well.” She shifted in the chair, suddenly a bit nervous after all, although she didn't know why exactly. She'd known this man for years. “Pastor Richards, I'm here because I need a favor.”