Authors: Ilsa Mayr
"You are a lady," he said softly. "And a lovely, intelligent woman."
Aileen leaned forward to see his expression.
"What?" he asked, meeting her gaze. "That wasn't a line,
if that's what you're wondering about."
"It wasn't?"
"I'm not going to use lines on you."
"That's good." Then why did she feel just a twinge of
disappointment? Because she suspected Quint might come
up with some sweet nothings that could bewitch a woman?
Since when did she yearn for honeyed little lies?
"We're partners. You deserve the truth," Quint said.
Partners. Of course. She couldn't keep forgetting that.
What was it Dora had said about the truth? That it was
overrated and disillusioning? Her mentor was a wise
woman.
At the ranch, Aileen picked up the mail she hadn't had time to look at before the dinner. She sat at the kitchen
table to read it.
Quint picked up the newspaper and joined her.
"What on earth?" she exclaimed, frowning at a letter.
Hearing the alarm in her voice, Quint looked up from
the paper. Aileen's face had lost its color. "What's the matter?"
"This is a letter from the Internal Revenue Service. It
refers to the tax return filed last year." Wordlessly she
handed it to him.
Quint read it. "How can the ranch owe this much money
in taxes to the IRS? I don't understand."
"That makes two of us." She shook her head. "I do my
own tax return, but that's straightforward and simple. I
have no idea what all's involved in figuring taxes that include a payroll, retirement accounts, depreciation on equipment, and heaven knows what else. Do you?"
"Not really. My taxes are little more complicated because
I itemize my rodeo expenses, but that's nothing like what
you have to file for an outfit the size of the Triangle B. Did
Jack do the taxes himself?"
"I'm sure he didn't. He disliked all paperwork." Aileen
glanced at the clock before reaching for the telephone. "I'm
calling the accountant's secretary. She gave me her home
number in case we had any questions."
"And do we have questions," Quint muttered.
"This is Aileen Bolton. I hope I'm not calling too late,
but we-" Aileen listened. "Thank you. I received a letter
from the IRS. They claim that the Triangle B owes twentyfive thousand dollars more for last year."
Quint watched as Aileen listened to the secretary. At one
point he saw her eyes widen and saw her slump against the
counter. He took a couple of steps toward her.
"Thank you," Aileen said. "I'll get in touch with the firm
that handled the taxes."
After she hung up, Quint said, "From your reaction, I
take it that the news isn't good."
Aileen sighed. "Two years ago, Dad took all the paperwork to a firm that specializes in taxes. Mr. Holloway, according to his secretary, is conservative. The tax service,
on the other hand, has a reputation for being creative. They
always promise big savings in their ads."
Quint frowned. "Creative? What does that mean?"
"I suspect it means looking for loopholes that may or
may not be legal. I can't believe Dad fell for their promises."
Aileen looked so bewildered, disappointed, and miserable that Quint wanted to take her in his arms and hold her.
Stroke her bright hair. Inhale that caramel-sweet scent that
made him hungry for things lost long ago or forever unattainable.
"Why would he?" she asked.
"Sounds to me like the actions of a man in trouble."
Aileen continued as if she hadn't heard him. "I always
thought Dad was honest and honorable. But apparently I
didn't know him at all. First you and now this. We lived
in the same house for a quarter of a century, and I have no
idea who he was!"
Quint laid his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. When she raised her face to look at him, he saw tears
glisten in her eyes.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I know it's tough when
somebody disappoints us. Especially if we care about that
person."
"I should have guessed that something was wrong."
"How?"
"By lots of small things. Like when I first got my job, we split payments of the household expenses. Then I noticed that he was no longer depositing money into that account, so I started to pay everything." Aileen shook her
head. "Even before that, there were plenty of signs, but I
didn't interpret them correctly."
"What signs?"
"When I started college, he gave me spending money.
The summer after my freshman year I took part in a special
research project that paid a very nice stipend. After that,
he no longer offered spending money. That was okay. I got
a part-time job in the library."
"What else? You said there were plenty of signs."
"Halfway through my sophomore year, he asked me to
live at home and commute. That surprised me because the
campus wasn't all that close. He claimed that the cleaning
woman wasn't doing a good job anymore."
"Now you think these things were signs that the ranch
wasn't doing well?"
"I'm not sure, but what else could they mean?"
"Maybe he was lonely and missed you and wanted you
back home," Quint suggested.
"I wish!"
"Explain that."
"Looking back over the years, he never seemed to want
my company. When Dad came to my school functions,
which wasn't often, I'm pretty sure it was because Mom
absolutely insisted. After her death we hardly spent any
time together, even after I moved back home."
"Maybe he thought you needed the time to study."
"I did, but every single evening? In retrospect, the only
reason for his asking me to live at home had to be financial." Aileen frowned. "Are you defending him?"
Quint chuckled without humor. "The sun won't rise on
the day I defend Jack Bolton. Trust me on that."
"Then why are you trying to make me think better about
him? Make me think he cared about me?"
"Because I cannot imagine that he couldn't care about
you. Me, he didn't know, so it was easy not to care about
me, but you?" Quint shook his head.
"You're trying to make me feel better. Thanks, but it
isn't necessary," she claimed, knowing that this wasn't true.
Deep down she still yearned for her father's love, just as
she had always yearned for his approval.
"So, what are we going to do about this IRS bill?" she
asked, needing to change the subject. "Idon't have twentyfive thousand dollars lying around."
"I don't either."
"Which means we have to borrow the money. You
agree?"
"I hate to borrow money, but I don't see what other
choice we have."
"I'll make an appointment with the banker."
After school on Monday, Aileen met Quint at the bank.
Greetings and pleasantries exchanged, the vice president
asked, "What can I do for you?"
Aileen explained their tax situation.
"Are you requesting a second mortgage on the ranch?"
the bank officer asked.
Aileen stared at the man for several heartbeats before
she was able to process this devastating statement. "What
do you mean, a second mortgage? There hasn't been a
mortgage on the Triangle B in...I don't know how long."
"Actually, never. Not until Jack Bolton mortgaged the
place four years ago," the vice president said. "I'd advise
against taking on a second mortgage. If you can manage to
pay the IRS any other way, do it."
"Why on earth did he take out a mortgage?" Aileen
asked, her voice shaky, her expression bewildered.
"He told me he'd started to play the stock market and
didn't do so well."
Aileen barely repressed a despairing moan.
"How big is the mortgage?" Quint asked.
She heard the sum and swayed as if poleaxed. Aileen
suspected that only Quint's steadying hand on her arm kept
her from sliding out of her chair in a dead faint. In a daze
she heard the men discuss the mortgage, refinancing, interest rates, and other options, such as drilling for oil.
Drilling for oil? The words penetrated Aileen's numb
mind. "That's not an option," she said. "Absolutely not.
Mom always opposed the idea of despoiling the land. I do
too."
"And I'm not in favor of a second mortgage," Quint said.
"How about you, Aileen?"
She shook her head. "Only as a last resort."
"Then we'll have to come up with other options."
Before they left, the vice president assured them that if
he could be of service, they should call him.
Aileen seemed to be in a state of near shock. Without
hesitation, Quint led her to Ruby's Cafe down the street.
He steered her to a table by the window.
The waitress set down two glasses of water. "You folks
want coffee?"
"Yes, and bring us two pieces of apple pie with ice
cream," Quint said.
He studied Aileen's face. It seemed drained of all color.
"How could he do that? Mortgage the ranch? After Mom
repeatedly told about how several local ranchers during the
Depression lost their land because they'd mortgaged it? She
would sooner have sold herself on the streets of Cheyenne
than have taken out a mortgage."
The waitress brought their order. As soon as she left,
Aileen continued in the same tortured, stunned tone. "What
possessed him to play the stock market? He knew nothing
about it. Dad was a rancher, for heaven's sake. Though I'm
beginning to think he wasn't a good one."
"Seems to me Jack was a desperate man. He hadn't done
well with the ranch, so he thought he'd recoup his losses
by playing the stock market," Quint said.
"Then why not go to a reputable stockbroker?"
"That would be like admitting that he
wasn't...perfect?" Quint shrugged. "I didn't know him, so that's only
a guess."
"It's a fairly accurate guess. He liked everything to be
perfect." She pressed the palms of her hands against her
forehead. "I don't believe any of this!"
"Aileen, eat your pie."
"I don't think I can."
"Yes, you can. I'm not having you pass out on me."
Quint picked up her fork, scooped up some pie and ice
cream, and held it out to her. "Eat."
"I'm not going to faint."
"I'll believe that when you get some color in your face.
Now eat. This is first-class pie." He kept holding the fork
until, with a sigh, she let him place the food into her mouth.
"Good girl. Just a few more bites."
Aileen rolled her eyes. "Give me that fork," she said,
half amused, half ticked-off.
"Not until you promise to eat."
"How can I, with the IRS breathing down our neck? You
know they take people's property in payment for back
taxes? We could lose the ranch!"
"We won't."
"And you know exactly how we're going to prevent
that?"
"Maybe. With your help, we can figure this out. Look at
the last form in the envelope the IRS sent."
"Why?" Aileen asked, even as she was taking the envelope from her handbag.
"I think there was a section asking how much the initial
payment was going to be and how much we could pay
monthly."
"The Internal Revenue Service has an installment plan?"
Aileen asked, her voice disbelieving. She flipped to the section Quint had mentioned. "I can't believe this! You were
right!" Aileen rooted through her bag until she found a pen.
On the back of the envelope she feverishly wrote columns
of numbers.
"What are you doing?"
"Listing our monthly living expenses to see how much
we need and how much we could pay out of my salary."
"Aileen, I can't let you do this alone."
"You're not. The profit from the ranch, which will
largely depend on you, will be responsible for the mortgage
payments, the salaries and insurance premiums for the
hands, property taxes, etcetera, etcetera. So you see, you'll
contribute more than your share."
"Well, if you put it that way-"
"I do put it that way because that's the way it is." Aileen
pushed the envelope toward him. "The circled figure is the
amount we can send the IRS every month. Below that is
how much I can take from my savings account for the initial payment."
Aileen picked up her fork and started to eat. Surprised,
she said, "This is excellent pie and ice cream."
"I told you it was." Quint studied the figures. "I can
match the amount for the first payment."
"Are you sure? I don't want you to be caught short."
"I can get by with very little, as long as you feed me."
"No problem." Aileen scraped up the last bit of pie. Then
she stopped, dismayed. "Oh no! I've eaten the whole thing!
First I skipped aerobics because of the bank appointment,
and now I consumed hundreds of extra calories. My hips
will spread and spread, and it's all your fault."
"And I have the perfect solution."
"What?" she asked, seeing the sparkling light in his
green eyes. He leveled one of his sexy grins at her. Aileen
could feel her toes curl. "What's your solution?"
He took her hand and entwined their fingers. "Tonight
I'll waltz you around the kitchen. Dancing burns lots of
calories. When we get tired of waltzing, I'll teach you to
rumba, mamba, and samba. Maybe even to polka."
"You know how to polka?" she asked, suppressing a
grin.
"Don't laugh. The polka is a lot of fun."
"If you say so," she said, smiling at him. With her peripheral vision she saw someone stop at their table.
"Sam, look who's here."
It couldn't be Myrtle Jensen, Aileen thought, but it was.
Guiltily she tried to tug her hand from Quint's. He wouldn't
let her.
"Good evening, Mrs. Jensen, Mr. Jensen. How are you?"
Quint asked in a calm, conversational tone. "We'd ask you
to join us, but we were just leaving." He let go of Aileen's
hand to reach for the check. "Excuse us."
"Nice to see both of you," Aileen murmured and followed Quint to the cashier's station by the door. She felt
Myrtle's speculative, triumphant, malevolent glance follow
her all the way.