The Loner (21 page)

Who was she kidding? Since her father had cut her off, she didn’t have the cash for a bus ticket to Mexico.

She punched the pillow and rearranged it under her head. As tempting as the thought of flight was, she couldn’t leave Billy in the lurch. He needed her. Will needed her. And, though Billy’s mother was often difficult—actually, a real pain in the ass—Dora needed her.

For the first time in her life, Summer was an indispensable part of a family. She felt strings of responsibility—and love—tugging at her, holding her to this ramshackle homestead.

She stared at the chipped nail polish and ragged cuticles of the hand lying not far from her nose. She’d never thought too much about how easy her life was at the Castle. She’d always worked hard, but whenever she’d needed a break, there’d been some hired hand to take up the slack.

The past month had been a wake-up call. The day-today effort necessary to take care of Billy’s son and his mother and do chores around the house and barn was exhausting and tedious. The worst part was knowing there was no relief to be had.

Summer realized how few real challenges she’d faced in her life. How seldom she’d been forced to dig deep for reserves of energy or spirit in the face of adversity. The temptation rose again to do what Billy feared she would do—to cut and run.

She kept imagining the look of disappointment and disillusionment in Billy’s eyes when he came home and found her gone. She couldn’t bear to hurt him like that. She’d have to find the fortitude—somewhere—to keep going.

Summer shivered. What if she dug down deep for the strength to carry on and discovered it wasn’t there? She tried to imagine herself living Billy’s life, being knocked down over and over and getting up every single time to fight again. In the same situation, would she have kept on slugging?

Summer understood Billy’s defiance far better now that she’d walked a mile in his shoes. She’d never realized just how hard it was to stare disaster in the face and thumb your nose at it. She just wished he hadn’t felt he had to fight her whole family to prove himself.

She took a deep breath and let it out. Her moment of truth had come. In her mind’s eye, she dusted off her fanny. She’d been knocked down, but she was up again. And by God, she was determined to fight. It was her turn to confront her father and make it plain she was Billy’s wife and nothing he said or did was going to make her turn her back on him.

When the phone rang, Summer waited to see if Billy or his mother would get it. After four rings, when neither of them had picked up the phone, she lunged out of bed and scampered barefoot into the kitchen, where a phone hung on the wall.

“Hello,” she said breathlessly.

“Oh, I didn’t expect to get you,” a male voice said. “I was hoping to catch Billy before he left.”

“He’s already gone,” Summer said.

“Damn. Oh. ’Scuse me, ma’am.”

Summer waited for the caller to say more, but the silence dragged on. Finally she said, “Is there a message I can give him?”

A nervous cough, and then a gruff voice that said, “This is Harvey Kemper. Billy’s been working for me. I wanted to let him know I won’t be needing him anymore. I told him there’d be work for a few more days, but last night at the barbecue Mr. Blackthorne made it clear—” He stopped, apparently realizing who he was speaking to, and finished lamely, “I won’t be needing him anymore.”

He sighed and there was another pause, and Summer imagined Harvey Kemper rubbing the back of his leathery, sun-browned neck. “I suppose I can tell him that when he gets here,” Kemper said.

“Thank you for calling.” Summer held the phone for another moment, then hung it gently back in the cradle and sank into one of the kitchen chairs. She reached down to straighten the curled vinyl that was scratching the underside of her thigh, but that irritation reminded her how hopeless Billy’s situation had become. She jumped up and began pacing the kitchen, from one end of the worn linoleum squares to the other.

Had her father been making threats all along? Summer stopped at the sink and stared out the kitchen window past a faded gingham curtain toward a field of dry brown grass that stretched as far as the eye could see. She pressed her palm against her stomach, which spewed acid.

It was time Billy got a break, and she was going to convince her father to give it to him. All he really needed was his TSCRA job back. She wasn’t sure what argument she would use on Blackjack, but she’d come up with something.

Having decided to act, Summer immediately felt better. She smiled wryly. Her stomach was still flipping and flopping around at the thought of facing down her father, but that couldn’t be helped. Time to get moving.

With any luck, Dora would be having one of her “good days” and she’d be able to watch Will while Summer “ran an errand.”

She poured a cup of coffee for Dora from the pot Billy had left and made a slice of dry toast, which was all Dora could keep down these days, then put coffee and toast on a tray and headed down the hall.

Dora’s bedroom was lit by narrow beams of early morning sunlight that shot through holes in the ancient
roll-up shades that covered the windows. Summer set the tray on the table beside the brass-railed double bed and said quietly, “Mrs. Coburn?”

Dora whimpered as she rolled over.

Summer’s groin twisted as she imagined the other woman’s pain. She leaned down and straightened the pillows behind Dora as she struggled to sit up, then straightened the covers around her legs, which looked like sticks beneath the sheets. “How are you this morning?” she said, knowing the answer before she asked.

“How do you think I am?” Dora replied peevishly, reaching for her black plastic glasses and shoving them onto her face. Her dark eyes looked even more sunken through the thick lenses. She was wearing an old-fashioned flannel nightgown that was too warm for the weather, but even so, she often complained of a chill in her bones.

Summer dug deep for the patience to deal calmly with Billy’s mother. “I’ve brought coffee and toast.”

“I’d rather have slept in,” Dora said, at the same time reaching for the lap tray.

Summer started to help and was told, “I can do it myself!”

The tray tilted dangerously, and Summer reached to straighten it without a word.

“I have to go out this morning,” she said. “I’ll take Will with me.”

“He was up half the night crying,” Dora said.

“I’m sorry if he kept you up,” Summer replied.

She waited for Dora’s sharp retort, but when it didn’t come, she met the older woman’s gaze. Dora’s brow was
furrowed, and her dark brown eyes looked troubled. “I don’t understand you,” she said.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Summer said, flustered by Dora’s probing stare.

“Why are you doing this? It isn’t what you’re used to. Don’t try telling me you don’t mind living here. I’ve seen your face when you don’t think Billy’s looking.”

Summer flushed. “I want to help Billy.”

“You think it helped to marry him?” Dora shook her head. “All you did was raise that boy’s hopes. And bring disaster on him. The sooner he faces the life he’s destined to lead—”

“Billy doesn’t dream impossible dreams, Mrs. Coburn,” Summer interrupted, angry for Billy’s sake. “All he wants is a decent life for himself and his son. And he wants to take care of you and Emma. Is that asking so much?”

“It is when you have an enemy like Jackson Blackthorne.”

“My father—Billy’s father—won’t keep Billy down for long. You’ll see—”

“He clipped your wings pretty good.”

Summer made a growling sound in her throat. “He took away my money. He can’t keep me from living my life the way I want to live it. I still have choices.”

Dora made a snorting sound. “Yeah. Like what? Starving in a hovel with your father’s bastard son.”

“Why are you so bitter? Why can’t you be happy for Billy?”

“Because it’s my fault he ended up coming back here,” Dora said in an anguished voice. “If I weren’t
sick, he would’ve stayed where he was, and you damned Blackthornes couldn’t have made his life a living hell again!”

Summer flinched at being included in the group Dora had vilified. “Billy will never let Blackjack get the better of him,” Summer said. “You watch and see—”

“I won’t be here to see what happens. Goddammit, girl, use your eyes and see what’s staring you in the face. I’m dying. And there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. It’s killing me to lie here and do nothing to help my son. To know he can’t forgive me for what happened, for not defending him when he was helpless to defend himself. And to know he’ll be fighting another battle alone—”

“He won’t be alone,” Summer said. “I’ll be here.”

“You can’t count on a Blackthorne for anything but more trouble,” Dora shot back.

Summer sat down next to Dora and took her hand, hanging on when Dora tried to pull free. Summer covered the wrinkled, age-spotted flesh with her hand, feeling the bony knuckles under her palm. She looked into Dora’s eyes and said, “I promise you that Billy—and his son—will always be loved.”

Summer had loved Will from the first moment he’d smiled up at her. Promising to love Will was easy. She wasn’t as comfortable making such a promise where Billy was concerned. To be honest, she needed more time to sort out her feelings about Billy, especially after what had happened in the barn last night.

But it was time Dora didn’t have.

Dora needed reassurance that someone would be looking out for Billy when she was gone. Summer had
no qualms about making such a pledge. She would always be Billy’s friend. And friends took care of friends.

Dora pulled her hand free and said, “You can leave Will here if you’ve got errands. I’m feeling downright spry this morning.” She winced as she spoke, so Summer knew she wasn’t as well as she pretended to be. But it would be a lot easier facing down her father without Will on her hip.

“Fine,” Summer said. “I won’t be gone long. I’ll bring Will in once he’s dressed and fed and set up the playpen so you can keep an eye on him.”

“I can dress and feed him,” Dora said.

“I know,” Summer replied. “But I like doing it, and that’ll give you a little more rest before you have to be up and about.”

The truth was, Summer didn’t simply
like
taking care of Will, she
loved
it. Of all the chores she had to manage, taking care of Billy’s son was far and away the most fun. She’d never felt anything like what she felt when Will reached out to her, asking to be picked up.

Her insides turned to mush when he curled his tiny body against her and put his arms around her neck and made a baby sigh of satisfaction. She felt pure delight when he grinned, exposing his tiny front teeth. And her heart turned over with love and joy at the sound of his laughter.

Summer stared down at Will, who was still sleeping soundly. She brushed aside a dark curl on his forehead, and he made a snuffling sound. It would be a shame to wake him up just so she could have the pleasure of dressing and feeding him. He hadn’t slept any more last night than she had. She swallowed her disappointment
and turned to dress herself. If she hurried, Will might sleep until she returned.

On her way out the door, she stopped by Dora’s room and said, “I decided to let Will sleep. If you’re feeling bad when he wakes up, give me a call on my cell phone, and I’ll come back and get him.” Her cell phone was paid up for the month. She might as well use it while she could.

“Take as long as you need,” Dora called after her, as Summer headed for the kitchen door.

“I will,” Summer said. Since the C-Bar had once been part of the Bitter Creek Cattle Company, it was only twenty-five miles from Billy’s house to the back door of the Castle. Summer spent the drive over calculating what she would say to her father.

She half expected to find one or both of her brothers having a cup of coffee in the kitchen, since they’d come home for the annual barbecue, but was relieved when the only person she found was the housekeeper Maria. She said good morning but didn’t bother to ask where she might find her parents. She already knew.

Her father would be in the library, which also served as his office, organizing the day’s work. Her mother would be upstairs in her studio painting.

But she found the library dark, the blinds closed, the desk surprisingly bare of papers, the room vacant. “That’s strange,” she muttered.

It had never occurred to her that Blackjack wouldn’t be home. He’d stomped out of the house the night she’d broken up with Geoffrey, but he had come back the very next morning. And even though her parents had argued in public last night, something they’d never done before,
Summer had been certain her father would be at his desk this morning because it was from there he managed his vast ranching empire.

Her mother would certainly know where he was.

Summer left the library and bounded up the stairs, taking them two at a time, hurrying down the hall to her mother’s studio. She knocked, but didn’t wait for an answer, because her mother ignored the rest of the world when she was working.

To her astonishment, her mother’s studio was also vacant, though bright sun streamed in through the skylight and bare windows and reflected off the white walls. The room smelled strongly of turpentine, and Summer crossed and screwed the lid on an open can. She wiped her hands on a rag she found on the counter, which was cluttered with squeezed tubes of oil paint, some of them also open. She wondered how her mother kept from suffocating while she worked.

The trip across the room brought her close enough to see what her mother was painting. Summer stood stunned, gazing at the canvas in awe.

Eve Blackthorne didn’t merely paint beautifully, she only painted beautiful things. Her work had always been a source of quiet splendor and grace in a turbulent world. Which made the canvas on her mother’s easel all the more horrifying.

Summer had never seen anything so vicious. So violent. So terrifyingly merciless.

Threatening purple storm clouds roiled across a lavender sky. A longhorn cow was backed up against a wood-railed fence, knee-deep in snow, her head lowered, one horn impaling the writhing body of a slavering wolf.
Another wolf gripped her by the throat, while a third razed her flank with razor-sharp white teeth. Her calf lay dead at her feet, its throat ripped out, blood staining the wind-drifted snow.