Rivals (27 page)

Sam chuckled. “That's true enough. As a matter of fact, you know that old cliché about believing the sun rises and sets on someone. As far as Molly's concerned, Chance is the sun. And nobody had better dare to cast a dark shadow over his life or they'll answer to her.”

“I did get that impression. Truthfully, though, I like her.”

“It's impossible not to like Molly. She's quite a woman. Once you get to know her better, you'll understand what I mean.” He paused to slide Flame a sideways glance, a boyish grin pulling up one corner of his mouth. “I hope I have half of her energy and spunk when I'm her age. Do you know that she was in her forties before she went hunting and fishing for the first time? On top of that, her first time out she bagged a trophy buck. I know. I was there. In fact I was the one who took her hunting. She's something else,” he declared, then added, “and independent as the day is long. When she first went to work for Chance, she was taking a night school course in auto mechanics. She'd decided that the local garage was taking advantage of her because she was a woman and didn't know anything about cars. Speaking of cars, remind me to show you my vintage Porsche when you and Chance come for dinner on Sunday.”

“He mentioned that your hobby was restoring classic sportscars.”

“Patty would tell you it's my passion.” Again there was a flash of boyishness in his grin. “I don't know that I'd go so far as to say that, but I do enjoy tinkering with cars. I always have. For me, it's a great way to relax and—it's a hobby I can share with my sons along with hunting and fishing. Patty and I have four boys. The youngest is eleven and the oldest is sixteen. Right now we're in the process of rebuilding a 'seventy-six Corvette for Drake, our oldest.” The brake lights on the car directly in front of them flashed red as the traffic on the freeway began to bunch up. “Hello, what's this?” Sam frowned as he applied the brake and reached for the stick shift to gear down. “This is the wrong time of the day to be having a tie-up.”

But a tie-up it was, as the traffic slowed to a crawl, then came to a stop altogether another hundred yards farther.

Flame thought she heard the wail of a siren. “Do you suppose there's been an accident?”

“Maybe.” With a tilt of his head, Sam peered into his side mirror. “Here comes a motorcycle cop. I'll see what I can find out.” He rolled down his window and flagged the policeman slowly wending his way between the stopped cars. “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

“A tractor-trailer rig jackknifed on the overpass,” came the reply, half-muffled by the revving of the cycle's engine. “There's a tow truck on the scene, so it shouldn't be much more than ten minutes before they get a lane cleared.”

“I hope not.” Sam glanced at his watch. “We have a plane to catch.”

Trapped between freeway exits, they had no choice but to wait it out. Ten minutes turned into fifteen, then twenty. Finally, nearly twenty-five minutes later, the traffic started moving again.

When Sam pulled up to the curb in front of the airport terminal, Flame had barely fifteen minutes to make her flight. “With luck, your departure will be delayed. They usually are,” he said as he hurriedly retrieved her luggage from the trunk. “Just the same, we'd better check your bags at the gate to make sure they're on the same flight with you.”

As they started toward glass doors, an airport security guard stopped them. “I'm sorry, sir, but you can't leave your car parked here. This is an unloading zone only.”

“Five minutes, that's all I'll be. I swear,” Sam argued, but he argued in vain. Sighing in defeat, Sam turned to her. “It looks like you're going to have to go ahead to the gate while I park the car. He won't listen to reason. Can you carry your bags? He claims there are luggage carts inside.”

“I can manage,” Flame assured him.

“Okay.” Reluctantly he transferred the two cases to her. “I'll meet you at the gate as soon as I can.”

“That's not necessary, Sam—”

He cut her protest short. “I'll be there anyway—just in case you miss the flight or it's delayed.”

Recognizing it would be a waste of time to argue, Flame gave in. With a bag in each hand for balance, she entered the terminal building and walked directly to the monitor screens listing the departing flights and their respective gate numbers.

As Flame scanned the screen for her flight, a gentle drawling voice intruded: “Beggin' your pardon, ma'am.” She glanced absently at the man who had stopped beside her, an aging cowboy in a suit of brown polyester with the distinctive yoked front of the western cut. “You're Margaret Rose, aren't you?” A pair of rheumy blue eyes lifted their glance to her hair. “Miss Hattie said I'd know you straight off by the red of your hair.”

“Hattie Morgan.” Momentarily she was startled to hear him speak the woman's name. “I had planned to call her when I came back,” she said more to herself than to the aging cowboy. “Do you know her?” she said, then smiled, realizing she had asked the obvious.

“Yes, ma'am.” As if suddenly remembering his manners, he doffed the cream-white Stetson and held it in front of him revealing a head of wispy thin white hair, flattened by the hat. “Miss Hattie said she'd mentioned me to you. I'm Charlie Rainwater, the foreman at Morgan's Walk.”

“She did, yes. It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rainwater.” Just for an instant, Flame eyed him curiously, taking in his wiry slim body, the half-moon shape of his white mustache, and the deep tan of his skin, leathered by years of sun and wind. He had a strong, lean face—and a kind one, innately gentle, like his eyes.

“How did you know I'd be—” But her question was interrupted by an announcement over the airport's public address system. “That's my flight. I have to go. Please tell—”

“You can't go, ma'am.” He lifted a hand as if to stop her. “Miss Hattie needs to see you.”

“But—”

“Ma'am, she's dying,” he inserted firmly over her half-formed protest.

“What?” Stunned by his blunt statement, Flame stared at him.

“It's true, ma'am. I wish it weren't, but wishin' don't make it so.”

“But…I talked to her only last week. She sounded fine on the phone.” She struggled to shake off the sense of shock. “What happened? Did she have a heart attack?”

“No, ma'am.” A dip of his head briefly concealed his expression. “She has a brain tumor. The doctors told her last spring there wasn't anything they could do.”

“No,” she whispered, remembering the desperation she had sensed in the elderly woman, a desperation she had blamed on loneliness. But that hadn't been the cause at all.

“She's been asking for you, Miss Margaret.” His watery eyes made their own silent appeal. “Will you come to Morgan's Walk with me? I promised her I'd find you and bring you back. If the good Lord's willing, we won't be too late.”

“I—” Flame glanced uncertainly at the monitor screen. The flashing number indicated her flight was in the boarding stage. But it wasn't imperative that she return to San Francisco on this particular flight. She could catch another…later. She turned back to the white-haired ranch foreman and smiled faintly. “I'll go with you.”

Deep gratitude welled in his look. “It will mean everything to Miss Hattie. Thank you.” He pushed his hat back onto his head and picked up her suitcases. “I have a car waiting outside. If you'll come with me…”

She hesitated, the thought occurring to her that perhaps she should wait and advise Sam of her change in plans. But the anxious look on the foreman's lined and weathered face revealed his eagerness to be on his way back to Morgan's Walk. And time was of the essence. Nodding her assent, Flame turned and walked to the glass doors.

Approached by a winding road and circular drive, the stately Georgian mansion of red brick stood atop a knoll overlooking a long golden valley flanked by a ridge of hills painted in the gold, scarlet, and rust of autumn. Some one hundred yards to the right of it, nestled in a pocket of oak trees, were the ranch's outbuildings, the rustic simplicity of the utilitarian buildings in sharp contrast to the subtle grandeur of the manor house.

Through the car window, Flame gazed at the imposing three-story structure with its pillared entry and gleaming white shutters. This was Morgan's Walk, designed by her great-grandfather, Christopher Morgan. She frowned, suddenly wondering why he'd left it. Why had he gone to San Francisco? Hattie had never explained that. In truth, she had never thought about his reasons, believing that San Francisco was obviously preferable to the vast nothingness of Oklahoma. But, at the time, she hadn't known he'd left something this special behind. Why?

The Lincoln pulled up behind two cars already parked in the circular drive. Before the engine died, Charlie Rainwater was out of the car and opening the rear passenger door for Flame. Picking up on his sense of urgency, she wasted no time stepping out to join him.

“Doc Gibb's still here. I hope that's a good sign.” He nodded in the direction of the car directly in front of the Lincoln, then tucked a hand under her elbow and guided her to the mansion's pillared entrance.

“I hope so, too,” she murmured, gripped by the memory of another hurried trip following the car crash that took her father's life and ultimately her mother's.

Inside, afternoon sunlight streamed through the leaded glass windows and laid a golden pattern across the rich parquet flooring of the spacious reception hall. Absently, Flame scanned the ornate ceiling moldings, the glittering crystal chandelier, and the hall's period furnishings, recognizing that the mansion's interior filled the exterior's promise of gracious formality within. Yet it was the silence, the stillness, of the house that made the greatest impression. She turned to the aging foreman as he removed his hat and ran combing fingers through his thin white hair, rumpling its flatness.

“I'll bring in your bags directly, ma'am, but it'd be best if I took you straight up to Miss Hattie.”

“Of course.”

He led her to the gleaming oak staircase that curved in a grand sweep to the second floor. As Flame climbed the steps, she trailed her hand along the smooth banister, its finish darkened by the oils from the many hands that had touched it before hers…Morgan hands. Again she felt a sense of the past, a curiosity about the ones who had lived here.

“
Your roots will pull you back
.” That's what Hattie had told her. Was that what was happening to her? Hattie would say so. Hattie. Flame lifted her glance to the second-floor landing, her thoughts now turning to the woman.

At the top of the stairs, she glanced expectantly at the set of double doors that obviously led to the mansion's master suite, but Charlie Rainwater directed her to the right with a wave of his hat.

“Miss Hattie's room is over here,” he said.

This time he led the way. A tightness gripped her throat almost the instant she stepped inside the room—a tightness that came from the sudden rush of fear. All the drapes were closed, shutting out the afternoon sunlight and throwing the corners of the room into deep shadow. A lamp on the dresser cast a feeble pool of light.

“Why is it so dark in here?” She wanted to fling the drapes open and rid the room of this feeling that death lurked in its black corners.

“The light hurts her eyes.” The answer came from a tall, harried-looking man standing to her right, the cuffs of his dress shirt rolled back and the vest to his suit stretched tautly around his protruding middle.

“This is Doc Gibbs, ma'am.”

Even before the foreman introduced him, the stethoscope around the man's neck had identified him for Flame. A smile touched the corners of his mouth, conveying sadness and regret. “You must be Margaret Rose,” the doctor said, his voice soothingly low and quiet. “I'm glad you could come. She's been asking for you.”

Flame stared at the inert figure lying in the four-poster bed, half in shadows. “Shouldn't she be in a hospital?”

“There's very little that can be done for her now.” The admission came reluctantly, betraying a frustration at his own helplessness that, for all his medical skills, he couldn't deny. “And this was Hattie's wish—to be here in her own home—in her own bed.” He touched the medical bag on the dresser beside him, a syringe lying at the ready. “I wanted to give her something for the pain, but she wouldn't hear of it.”

“She wanted to be lucid when you arrived, Mrs. Stuart.” The third voice came from the shadows. Momentarily startled, she turned as a short, round man stepped forward into the dim light.

Something about him reminded Flame of a leprechaun. Maybe it was his small height at barely five foot two or the white socks he wore with an old suit or loud green tie or the shiny pate of his balding head partially ringed with a fringe of a brown hair or the jovial roundness of his face. Yet he had the shrewdest pair of brown eyes she'd ever seen.

“This here's Ben Canon, Miss Hattie's attorney,” Charlie Rainwater explained.

“Mr. Canon,” she murmured the acknowledgment.

As he nodded in return, a thin, thready voice came from the four-poster, “Who is it? Who's there?”

As if commanded by the faint, demanding cry, the wiry foreman moved swiftly to the bedside. Leaning down, he gently laid his hand on top of hers. “It's me, Miss Hattie. Charlie,” he said, a touching warmth in his voice. “She's here. I fetched her just like I promised.”

There was a sigh, followed by an agitated, “Maxine?”

“Ssh,” the aged cowboy murmured in an effort to quiet her. “I sent her home this morning; told her she needed to rest after sitting up with you the past two nights.”

“Good.” A weak nod of approval accompanied the comment. Then her voice seemed to gather strength as she commanded, “Bring her to me, Charlie. Bring Margaret Rose to me.”