Heiress (42 page)

The place crawled with carpenters, other laborers, and tradesmen. MacCrea stopped an aproned carpenter who walked by, balancing a long wooden plank on his shoulder. "Where can I find Lane Canfield?"

The man jerked his bandaged thumb toward the house and walked on. MacCrea took a step, then paused as a slender woman with dark hair emerged from the structure. Just for an instant, he was thrown by her resemblance to Abbie, and felt the stirring of old feelings. Grimly, he clamped his mouth shut and forced his gaze to the man behind her, Lane Canfield. Silently he cursed the fact that this happened every damned time he saw Rachel, certain he would have forgotten Abbie months ago if it weren't for her.

Lane lifted a hand in greeting, then Rachel claimed his attention. She seemed upset about something, but MacCrea couldn't hear what she was saying until the couple came closer.

". . . shouldn't wait to hire a night watchman. I want one now,” she was insisting forcefully. "You know as well as I do that she's just waiting until the construction is further along before she does something."

"Rachel, there is no proof that she started the fire." There was a tiredness in Lane's voice that indicated this discussion was an old one.

"I don't need proof. I know her. She hates me." She seemed frustrated by her failure to convince her husband and turned to MacCrea in desperation. "Ask MacCrea. He'll tell you."

"Don't drag me into this," he said, shaking his head. "I don't get involved in personal disputes. I'm out of it and I want to stay out of it." But for him, the expressions of loathing and distrust, of resentment and anger, were echoes of the past. The difference now was that they came from Rachel instead of Abbie.

"I don't care if either of you agrees with me or not. I want somebody on guard here at night to make sure nothing happens." But she was no longer demanding; she was pleading with Lane. "Surely that isn't asking too much. After all, this is going to be our home."

"All right." Lane gave in, seemingly incapable of refusing Rachel anything she wanted. "I'll have the superintendent hire one right away."

"I'll go tell him for you. Thank you, dear." She gave him a quick peck on the cheek, then hurried away, heading back to the house to find the superintendent.

More than once MacCrea had observed the lack of passion in their relationship. Admittedly there were displays of affection between them—touching and hand-holding—and they seemed happy enough together. But as far as MacCrea could tell, there was something missing. Maybe he just remembered the way it had been with Abbie: whenever he was with her, he didn't want her to leave, and whenever he wasn't with her, he wanted to be.

Obviously Lane and Rachel were satisfied with something less. He wondered whether their age difference had anything to do with that or if it was simply a reflection of their personalities. Lane was very businesslike in his approach to things, and Rachel was somewhat reserved and quiet, although more and more she seemed to be coming out of her shell.

Either way, it wasn't any concern of his, MacCrea decided, and glanced at Lane. The man looked vaguely troubled as he watched his wife disappear inside the partially framed structure.

Sighing, Lane turned back to MacCrea and said, almost reluctantly, "She's been like that ever since the fire. She's obsessed with the idea that Abbie's to blame for it. Of course, it isn't as if she hasn't had cause to think that way. Abbie has. . ." Lane paused and smiled ruefully. "But I didn't ask you to come by to talk about her."

"No." He reached inside his windbreaker and took the papers from his pocket. "Here's the proposal. I think you'll find it pretty much the way I outlined it to you over the phone yesterday."

He handed him the papers and watched Lane's face as he skimmed the first page. Not that he expected to see a reaction: Lane was too canny for that.

But he did raise an eyebrow at MacCrea. "Are you certain your testing system doesn't work? This offer could be just a way of squeezing you out."

"I thought of that. But when negative reports started coming in from the field tests, I went out on test sites and checked it myself. It doesn't work. But they still like the concept. Rather than risk a possible infringement suit sometime in the future, they want to buy the patent rights on it now." MacCrea didn't mention that the drilling fluids company had initially suggested that he stay and work with the project. But he wasn't a scientist. Besides, he knew the longer he stayed around here, the longer it would take him to get Abbie out of his system once and for all. "In my opinion, I think we should accept the offer."

"You're probably right," Lane conceded.

"I know I am."

"So what will you do now?"

"I've acquired the mineral rights to some property in Ascension Parish. I plan to put a deal together and drill a development well there."

"From what I've been able to gather, the land men with a lot of big oil companies have been trying to get their hands on the oil and gas rights to that property for years now. How did you manage to get it?" Lane asked curiously.

"The old lady that owns it took a liking to me." MacCrea didn't think it was necessary to inform Lane that the old woman had once taken care of him when he was a child, sick with a bad case of bronchial pneumonia.

"I wouldn't mind getting in on it," Lane said. "I'd consider backing you on this, assuming, of course, that we can agree on a split."

Covering his surprise over the unexpected offer, MacCrea shot back quickly, "It all depends on how greedy you are."

"Or how greedy you are." Lane smiled. "Think it over and give me a call. We'll sit down and talk numbers and percents."

"I don't have to think about it. You have the money and I have the lease, the drilling rig, and the crew. I'm ready to talk a deal now. Maybe you need to think it over."

"Tomorrow, be at my office at ten. We can talk privately—without all this confusion." Gesturing, Lane indicated the construction going on around them.

"I'll be there," MacCrea promised.

Chapter 27

As Abbie turned River Breeze loose in the small pen, the half-dozen horses in the adjacent corral crowded against the fence and nickered for the gray filly to come over and talk to them. The filly hesitated and swung her head around to look at Abbie as if reluctant to leave her.

"Go ahead." Abbie petted the silvery neck. "I have to leave anyway."

She stepped away from the filly and ducked between the board rails to join Ben on the other side of the pen. The filly moved haltingly over to the fence, her gait stiff and awkward. The casts had been off for a month now. Each day, her legs had gotten stronger, her coordination was better, most of the sores had healed, the swelling was reduced. Abbie knew the filly would have a permanent limp and there would always be some disfiguring enlargement of the forelegs but that didn't matter. Watching her move about on all four legs was the most beautiful sight Abbie had ever seen.

"She's going to make it, isn't she, Ben?"

"Yes. She will improve every day." He nodded.

"Do you think by this spring she'll be strong enough that we can get her bred?"

"I think so."

"We'll need to start deciding on a stallion. I want her bred to the best. I don't care how much the stud fee is." Then she sighed. "There's always the possibility she won't be fertile. We've had to give her a lot of drugs."

"We will have to wait and see."

"Yes." But she wished, just once, that he would offer an opinion. "Nobody expected Breeze to get this far. I want to start making a list of stallions that will nick well with her, Ben. We're going to breed her in the spring." She said it with confidence and determination, yet she had the uneasy feeling she was daring fate to intervene.

But when she saw the smile of approval that broke across Ben's lined and craggy face, she knew he shared her optimism. "The list I have already begun. It is God's miracle that she walks. We must believe that in His time, she will also become in foal."

Abbie smiled faintly. "Sometimes I wish I had your faith, Ben." It was mostly grit that carried her. She couldn't trust blindly. She hadn't been able to do that for along time, she realized with a sigh, and pushed away from the fence. "I'd better get ready. I promised Momma I'd give her a hand at the party tonight."

Every tree and shrub along the driveway leading to the private estate in River Oaks was etched with tiny fairy lights. The sprawling house with its Spanish architectural details was decked in its holiday finery, too. Garlands of greenery strung with lights draped the porte cochere that welcomed the arriving party guests. With Thanksgiving barely over, this was the first party of the holiday season.

A Christmas tree, nearly twenty-five feet tall, dominated the glass-ceilinged gran sala. There, Rachel gave her mink jacket to a waiting maid and lightly grasped Lane's arm as they joined the rest of the guests milling throughout the expensive and lavishly decorated house.

Briefly she touched the Van Cleef and Arpel's diamond-and-emerald brooch that anchored the plunging sweetheart neckline of her gown, assuring herself it was still firmly in place, at the same time conscious of the weight of the matching earrings pulling on her lobes. Ever since their marriage, Lane had showered her with presents: clothes, jewelry, furs, expensive perfumes, and other trinkets. At first she had felt uncomfortable with all the gifts, remembering too well the way Dean had tried to buy her love and ease his conscience with them. But Lane took such joy in bringing her big or little gifts that Rachel thought it unfair to question his motives. Yet the doubt remained.

A waiter offered them a glass of champagne from his silver tray. Rachel took one, needing something to occupy her hands, but Lane declined. "I think I'll get a drink from the bar. Will you excuse me?"

"Of course." Invariably he left her alone at these social gatherings, though not always intentionally. Usually he ran into a business associate or someone he knew, and she was forgotten while he stopped to talk. To her regret, Rachel had quickly learned it was always business with him. That was his idea of a good time.

Meanwhile, she had to suffer through these evenings as best she could. She looked around, remembering that MacCrea was supposed to be here. At least he was someone to talk to. But she saw few familiar faces as she glanced around the room. She was still a stranger among them, not totally accepted yet.

When women had discussed her in various private powder rooms, they had accused her of being aloof and unapproachable. Little did they know that she didn't say much, unless the subject was art or Arabian horses, because she didn't know the people or the events they were talking about. Rather than show her ignorance, she said nothing. And there were some, she knew, who were covertly hostile to her—mainly those still loyal to Abbie and her mother. But they couldn't cut her, not Lane Canfield's wife. Rachel tilted her head a little higher. Whether they liked it or not, she belonged here as much as, if not more than, they did. She'd show them. In time, they'd have to accept her as one of them.

The soft strumming of a guitar came from one of the rooms that opened off the grand entry. Rachel gravitated toward the sound, taking advantage of the diversion it offered so that it wouldn't appear as obvious that she had no one to talk to.

In one corner of the spacious family game room, a small country band played for the couples dancing on a cleared area of the terrazzo floor. As Rachel wandered into the room, the singer stepped up to the microphone. She felt a little shock go through her when she recognized the slim man in the black tuxedo. Even at this distance, the black cowboy hat with its concho-studded band that had become Ross Tibbs's trademark was unmistakable. She should have guessed he'd be the entertainment tonight. Ever since the song he'd written had climbed to the top of the country charts, he'd become a mini-celebrity in Houston, despite the fact that the song had been recorded by another artist.

She knew she should leave, walk right out of the room, but his clear baritone voice, rich with feeling and warmth, reached out to caress her and draw her closer. She moved along the wall until she found a place she could stand and watch him safely, inconspicuously.

But when the song ended, he turned to acknowledge the applause and looked directly at her. For an instant he was completely motionless, staring at her as if he was seeing her in a dream. Rachel wanted to look away, break the eye contact, but she couldn't. . . any more than she could control the sudden fluttering of her pulse.

Again he stepped up to the microphone. "I'd like to do another song for you that I wrote. As a matter of fact, I'll be recording it myself next week when I go to Nashville. It's called 'My Texas Blue Eyes' and goes something like this." He nodded to the band to begin, then glanced directly at Rachel and said softly into the microphone, "This is for you, my own Texas blue eyes."

Her skin felt as if it had suddenly caught fire. She looked around to see if anyone else had noticed that he'd dedicated the song to her, but all eyes were on him. Then he started singing:

Tell me, boys, have you ever seen her,

The lady with those eyes of Texas blue?

She'll steal your heart if you ever meet her,

And leave you all alone and lonely, too,

My blue eyes, my Texas blue eyes.

I want to listen to your sighs

And feel your body next to mine,

But you're too far away to touch.

Why do I love you, oh, so much,

My blue eyes, my Texas blue eyes?

The sweet longing in his voice, full of passion and pain of loving, pulled at Rachel. She didn't want to feel the sensations he was evoking. They were too strong—and too wrong. Abruptly she turned and blindly picked her way through the crowd that had gathered to listen. At last she emerged from the room and paused to draw a calming breath and stop the pounding of her heart.

But his voice followed her.

I know that she will always haunt my dreams,

That lady with those eyes of Texas blue.

Moving as swiftly as she dared, Rachel crossed the atrium-like gran sala and went in search of Lane. When she didn't find him near the bar, she checked the formal dining room, with its stunning cut-crystal chandelier presiding over a long buffet table. She stiffened in surprise when she saw Abbie on the far side of the room, speaking in a hushed voice to one of the waiters.