Leslie LaFoy (50 page)

“You're not going?”

She paused, but didn't dare look back to answer. “No. There's no need for me to be there. It's not my property being sold.”

“Lindsay …”

She wouldn't let him see her cry. The illusion of pride and dignity was all she had left. “Good-bye, Jack. Have a safe journey home.” She blindly closed the door behind her, wondering if there would ever come a day when she thought about Jack without wishing she could just lay down and die.

H
E'D HEARD THE WHISPERED COMMENTS
all morning. They thought he was calm and collected and coolly aloof, a paragon of business poise and keen acumen. If the bastards knew the truth, they'd have died laughing—after they'd stripped his moony-eyed, distracted carcass clean. But somehow he'd gone through the motions and they hadn't guessed. He'd shaken hands and signed papers, offered thanks and accepted congratulations. And he couldn't have recalled a single name or face out the bunch if he'd had to. They were all a mindless blur behind the memories of Lindsay.

He hadn't known until she'd gone back into her room that he wasn't going to see her again, that the painfully taut conversation was to be their last. He hadn't wanted it to end that way and yet he didn't think he could survive going back to MacPhaull House and making a formal show of their parting. It had damn near killed him to stand beside the bed and get dressed. Every fiber of his being had wanted to go to her, to take her in his arms, to tell her that he loved her, and then lay her down on the bed and make sweet love to her until she agreed to go with him to Texas, to marry him and have their babies.

Jackson shook his head and expelled a hard breath. It was done, over, and going back for another dose of pain was just plain stupid. It hadn't ended the way he'd wanted, but then that was the way life went sometimes. You accepted it and you moved on. You didn't look back and regret. There wasn't any point in it except to make yourself
miserable. And God knew he was miserable enough already.

He missed Billy; acutely and more painfully than he ever had. Billy had known how to heal heartaches. When their father died, Billy had offered him and Daniel odd jobs to support their mother. When their mother passed on, he'd given them full wages, full days, and a place to live. Two days after Daniel had been killed, Billy had thrust a set of ledgers at Jack and told him it was time he learned how bookkeeping was done. And soon after laying Maria Arabella and Matthew to rest, Billy had announced that he wanted a business partner and Jackson Stennett was his pick. Billy had filled his life after every tragedy, leaving no room or time for grief to consume him. Jack smiled wryly, suddenly realizing that Billy had done it one last time from the grave. That's really what coming to New York for the money had been all about.

Unfortunately, Billy hadn't known that there would be yet another heartache to come of it. Jack sighed. At least a certainty of course came with seeing the pattern. The only way to heal the hurt of loving Lindsay was to go home and focus on the needs of the ranch and making it all that Billy and he had envisioned.

Jack looked around, noting the few stragglers visiting amongst themselves as auction company employees gathered up the chairs and tables. Ben sat at the makeshift desk he'd occupied throughout the auction, a black metal money box, an open ledger, and a stack of papers in front of him. Jackson strode toward the bookkeeper, determined to deal with the last of the business that needed to be done before he could go home.

“How much cash is in the till, Ben?”

The man didn't look up. “After paying Mr. Gregory for his services,” he said, consulting the neatly aligned figures in his ledger, “there's forty-eight thousand seven hundred sixty-six dollars and twenty-one cents.”

“A few thousand shy of what I need,” Jackson observed. “Is there a letter of credit in the stack for somewhere around four thousand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pull it and let's go to see the banker.”

Ben finally looked up. “You don't need me to go along, Mr. Stennett. The amount has been signed over to you. You need only present it and ask for the payment to be rendered.”

The conniving little pipsqueak probably thought he'd end up in an alley with his teeth lying on the pavers around him. It was a tempting thought, but Jack wasn't willing to expend even the slight effort it would take to exact the justice. He was tired of thinking, tired of fighting. Benjamin Tipton wasn't worth it. “Getting the money isn't why you're going,” he said. “I need someone to haul the change to Lindsay.”

“You could do that yourself, sir.”

“Could,” Jack agreed. “But I'm not going to. You are. Any others in the stack there that have been signed over?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then bring them along and we'll get them cashed while we're at it. You can take that money to Lindsay, too. I don't want to leave any loose ends behind when I head out of here in the morning.”

Coming to his feet, Ben said with a tight smile, “I'm afraid that I can't attend you, Mr. Stennett. Mr. Vanderhagen has asked me to retrieve the trust ledgers from the safety deposit box and to take them to Miss Lindsay. She's expecting me and I wouldn't want to keep her waiting. She is my employer. My allegiance lies with her.”

His allegiance? Through clenched teeth Jack asked sardonically, “Didn't it occur to you when you were setting fire to the apartment house that you could have killed not only me, but your employer, too? Not to mention a score of innocent people?”

Ben cocked a brow. “I didn't set that fire.”

“All right,” Jackson snapped. “Didn't it occur to you when you were
arranging
to have the fire set that—”

“I didn't make any such arrangements,” the bookkeeper protested.

“That's not what Otis Vanderhagen says.”

“Then he's lying.”

“What about the man on the stairs?” Jack pressed,
watching Ben Tipton's eyes for the slightest sign of subterfuge.

“What man? What
are
you talking about, Mr. Stennett?”

Either Ben didn't know or he'd missed his calling for a life on the stage. “How about the rat in the box in the seat of the chair? Know anything about that, Ben?”

“All right,” Ben said on a heavy sigh. “I did lie about that. Although,” he hastily added, “I didn't know what was in the box or even that there was a box until you showed it to me. As I was coming down the walk that morning to open the office, I saw Otis Vanderhagen leaving. I thought he'd been there to see me and I wasn't all that disappointed to have missed him. I may have assisted in his and Mr. Patterson's scheming, but it was only to help Miss Lindsay. I don't care for the man and I don't trust him. I didn't even suspect that he had a key to the office until you brought out the box and asked about it.”

“The thing about lies is that once you get caught in one,” Jackson drawled, “your word on anything else is worthless.”

“I made no attempts to harm you or Miss Lindsay. I abhor violence of any sort. In all the sabotaging I did for the sake of Miss Lindsay, no one was ever hurt in any way.”

“Why would Vanderhagen lie about it?” Jackson pressed. “Tell me that.”

Ben gave him a look that suggested that Jack might be the most naive man to ever breathe east of the Mississippi River. “Perhaps he made the attempts on your life and doesn't want to admit his responsibility for them. In case you haven't noticed, he doesn't have many scruples and those he does possess aren't particularly strong.”

Otis Vanderhagen might have a great deal of respect for Ben Tipton, but the sentiment sure didn't seem to be mutual. “There wouldn't be any point in his lying about it now,” Jack posed, still watching Ben closely. “He's laid all the cards on the table and explained why he saw me as a threat at the beginning.”

Ben rolled his eyes and snorted. “Frankly, I never thought there was much of a chance of you marrying Miss Lindsay.”

Jack chuckled darkly, the pain in his chest hard and deep. “Where did you get a crazy notion like that in the first place?”

“Mr. Vanderhagen; the first day you came here,” Ben said readily, shaking his head and rolling his eyes again. “He returned to the office for the copy of Mr. MacPhaull's will after you, Dr. Bernard, and Miss Lindsay had left with Mr. Patterson. He was afraid that you would marry Miss Lindsay for her money. He thought there was a possibility of her changing her will to make you her sole heir. He went on and on about how unfair it would be and how he just couldn't let that happen.”

Jack considered the explanation. Of course Lindsay had a Will. Richard and Vanderhagen would have understood the necessity of it, even if Lindsay hadn't fully understood the size of the estate she'd be leaving behind. She'd provide for Abigail and Primrose, Proctor, and John, but, knowing Lindsay, Henry and Agatha probably got the lion's share. If she were to marry, it would be logical to name her husband and their children as the heirs. He could see why Henry and Agatha would be upset and determined to keep that from happening, but why would it matter to Vanderhagen?

Ben slammed closed his ledger, nodded crisply, and then handed Jackson a short stack of thrice-folded letters of credit while saying, “If you'll excuse me, Mr. Stennett, Miss Lindsay is waiting for me to bring her the trust ledgers.”

Jackson watched him walk away, turning the man's words over and over in his brain. Otis Vanderhagen had claimed that Ben was the one who'd tried to kill him. Ben claimed to know nothing about the efforts. Obviously, one of them was lying. Which? And why were they bothering to cast stones at this point in the game? It didn't matter anymore. And there was something about the concern over Lindsay's will that bothered him; something he couldn't see clearly. It just didn't make sense.

“Ah, there you are, Stennett.”

At the sound of Otis Vanderhagen's voice, Jackson set aside his mental puzzle and turned, amazed that the man actually knew how to speak in something less than a bellowing roar and wondering why the lawyer had suddenly
changed his manner. One look at the man was explanation enough. Vanderhagen was ashen-faced and perspiring even more heavily than usual. There was a decided quiver around his lips and his eyes seemed to be slightly protruding from their sockets.

“I have both the codicil you requested that I draw up and the papers transferring the remaining MacPhaull properties into Lindsay's trust,” the man said. He fisted his hand, raised it to his lips, and coughed into it, wincing at the effort, before saying tightly, “Both are ready for your signature, Mr. Stennett.”

He laid the documents down on the table beside the cash box, adding, “There are two identical sets of the documents. One for my files and one for you to take back to your attorney in Texas.” He turned to a small knot of men standing nearby and with a thin smile managed to raise his voice to say, “Perhaps we can prevail on two of these gentlemen to witness your signature.”

Jack laid aside the letters of credit and picked up Ben's pen, dipping it in the inkwell as two men separated themselves from their companions and came to stand behind him. While they silently watched over his shoulder, Jack signed his full name in the places Vanderhagen indicated with a tap of his finger. Straightening, he handed the pen to the stranger on his right, and then stepped back to allow the man to sign his own name.

As the process of witness signatures went on, Jack glanced over at the attorney. His color was even more pasty than it had been only a few moments before.

“You're not looking at all well, Vanderhagen.”

He coughed into his hand again and swallowed with great difficulty before answering, “Ben shared with me some poppy-seed muffins he bought from a vendor on the way to the auction this morning. I'm afraid that I ate more than my fair allotment and, in revenge for gluttony, they haven't set well on my stomach.”

Jack had seen people suffer the effects of tainted food before, but muffins had never been the culprit. Rancid butter, yes, but most people knew it had gone had at the first
taste and didn't eat pounds of it. “Maybe you ought to see Doc Bernard.”

“I'm sure it will pass,” the lawyer said with a dismissive wave of his hand and a hard swallow. “I presume that you're going back to the Republic of Texas?”

“Yep. First thing tomorrow morning,” Jackson replied, nodding his thanks to the two witnesses as they stepped away. Jack picked up the stack of credit letters and perused the names of the financial institutions on which they were drafted. “Which bank is the closest? First National or Merchants?”

“First National.” He pointed with a trembling hand, adding, “You can see it right over there.”

“Look, Vanderhagen,” Jack said, his brows knitted. “I think you really need to see a doctor. If it is food poisoning, you've got it bad.”

“I'll be fine,” he said with a painful smile as he pocketed the signed documents. “I'm more concerned about Lindsay. She'll be sad to see you go.”

“She'll get over it,” he coolly assured the lawyer.

“It may take quite some time,” the other man observed, his breathing labored. “She's not as resilient as she would like people to believe.”

“I've noticed, Vanderhagen, that no one in this town is quite what they want people to believe.”

“You're angry that I wasn't straightforward with you,” he replied, wiping his jacket sleeve across his forehead. “Would it help to know that I won't oppose Lindsay's plan to rewrite her Will to make you her primary heir?”

He stared at the attorney, dumbstruck. Why in hell's name was Lindsay thinking about giving it all to him? Guilt? If Henry or Agatha had any inkling of what they stood to lose …

Vanderhagen's eyes suddenly widened and a breath gurgled and caught deep in his throat. He swayed on his feet as he face turned blue, and Jack instantly grabbed him by the lapels of his coat. Lowering him to the grass, he called out, “Someone send for a doctor! Hurry!”

A bubble of bright red blood glistened between the
lawyer's parted lips as one man ran off and the others gathered around. Jack knew well the signs of death, knew that no matter how fast anyone ran, the outcome would be the same. Otis Vanderhagen was dying. From the inside out. There was nothing that anyone could do to alter the course.