Titans (23 page)

T
hat Sunday morning, Todd Baker rang the doorbell of Mavis Waverling's town house. Last night, because of the delay, he had taken the last train out of Fort Worth to Dallas and arrived too late to meet with his employer. He had made an appointment to see him this morning. Trevor Waverling let him in, motioning away the new maid who'd come in answer to the bell. “Let's go into my study where we won't be disturbed,” Trevor said. “My mother and daughter will be arriving from church any minute amidst a lot of flurry and flummery.”

“Has Nathan arrived back from his brother's graduation in Oklahoma?” Todd asked.

“He got in late last night and accompanied the girls to church this morning. He'll join us when he returns. What's so important that it couldn't wait until Monday?”

“I believe I've found us an oil field,” Todd said.

Risking his employer's ire at the late hour, Todd had telephoned his residence last night from his office at Waverling Tools. Never would he impart his message over the telephone to the listening ears of those on the party line, so he'd briefly explained that he had news of great importance that couldn't wait. Could Mr. Waverling see him in the morning?

There had been no way to get in touch with Ginny to tell her of his delay, since their apartment possessed no telephone. She was worried sick by the time Todd made it home, but he hadn't been able to resist a laboratory analysis of the soil and strata he'd collected at Windy Bluff. A simple test of mixing a portion with water proved the presence of hydrogen and carbon, the chief components of oil and natural gas. The oil floated to the top, but dissolved in carbon disulfide, further evidence that an oil seep, not yet broken through the surface, was present in the northern reaches of Las Tres Lomas de la Trinidad. Todd had nothing to wager, but if he did, he'd bet it all on his certainty that underneath that sandy soil was a reservoir of oil.

He had borrowed a small hammer and chisel from the manager of the livery stable and had just removed the skull from its base when he'd heard a horse canter up to the fence and stop where he'd tied his nag. His hairline had risen. It shot up further when he saw that the rider was Sloan Singleton.
What the hell are you doing here?
the rancher had demanded, and Todd had almost wet his trousers. What could he say? He was a miserable liar, and before someone as intimidating as Sloan Singleton, it would have been impossible to come up with a plausible explanation, and he'd not had time to get rid of the skull. He'd told him everything.

So he was now in the clutches of Sloan Singleton. Would the man betray him to Samantha? Would it matter in the long run? His goose would be cooked with Samantha anyway when she learned he'd steered a landman to lease the area for oil exploration that he, too, believed could be a dinosaur cemetery. Todd treasured his special friendship with Samantha. She accepted his persnickety ways (just because he liked things done right) and didn't mind that he thought himself superior (because he was!), and she was his wife's best friend, but those considerations paled in comparison to what was at stake. He planned to make his boss happy, the Gordons very rich, and himself a very big name in the oil business.

They moved to the back parlor, Samantha closing the door with a look at her exultant mother and Mildred, warning she'd better not catch them listening through the keyhole. She and Sloan kissed long and passionately again, then sat down on the couch and held each other like spent but happy survivors of a shipwreck.

“How long have you known your feelings for me, Sam?” Sloan asked, smoothing her hair. It had always made him think of early maple leaves overlaid with gold. Memories of Samantha's locks flashed through his head like sun glinting off water. Samantha at three, lost at the county fair, his nearly seven-year-old heart frozen in the search for her until he spotted the glimmer of her hair among the crowd. Samantha at ten, thrown from her horse and knocked unconscious, the straw of prairie grass matted in her hair that scratched his cheek when he cradled her in his arms and begged her not to die. Samantha at sixteen, her hair shining like a bright penny under a black graduate's cap, the dive of his heart as she walked across the stage of Simmons Preparatory School to receive her diploma that he saw as her passport to a future far beyond their ranches, Fort Worth, and him…

“Since I could walk,” she said. “Until Anne came along, I'd always assumed we'd just extend our childhood together, marry, and live happily ever after together, just like everybody else in our families expected.”

“I wish my dad were here to share in our news. He'd be so pleased.”

“Mine will be ecstatic,” Samantha said. “Now maybe he'll find it in his heart to forgive me.”

Sloan lifted her chin to look at him. “Don't you think it's time you told me what's going on between you and Neal? What did you do to make him think you had betrayed him?”

Samantha blew out a sigh of deep regret. “I made an effort to locate my birth parents, and Daddy found out.”

Sloan's stomach went hollow as Samantha explained. God help her! It was a breach of loyalty, after all. Neal, possessive of all that carried his brand, tolerant of no threat to home, land, and family, would regard Samantha's search as treason, much as he loved her. The grisly view of the mountain lion tail strung from the flagpole at Las Tres Lomas flashed through his mind. Sloan had never forgotten Samantha coming to him years ago with the conversation she'd overheard between Neal and Estelle after her return from the orphanage.
I
'
d never leave Mother and Daddy! Why would Daddy believe I would!

She'd been ten years old and spoken as a child. Now she was twenty and had acted as an adult. Neal would view her attempt to connect to her roots as a slap in the face, a rejection of all the parental devotion he and Estelle had heaped upon her. Even if she did nothing with the information her trip across the Red River might have gleaned, he'd find her curiosity unforgivable. And now, another conflict, equally as serious, was about to rear between father and daughter.

“I threw Mrs. Brewster's letter away,” Samantha said. “I had no use for the information. I don't know why I ever pursued the idea that I did.”

“I do,” Sloan said. He must try to mitigate at least a little of her anguish over her perceived mistake. “It's a primal thing to want to know where you were born, who birthed you, and in your case, why you were put up for adoption. It's an urge you could no more get rid of without at least an attempt to find the answers than you could escape your shadow.”

Samantha drew out of his arms and looked at him wonderingly. “How can you possibly understand all that, since you've always known where you came from?”

“For that very reason,” Sloan said. “I've grown up knowing I'm a Singleton. That knowledge explained me to myself, for better or worse. It's provided a map for my life, set goals, given me an anchor and a compass. After Dad died, I don't know how I would have survived without that ballast. So I can understand how you'd feel somewhat… undefined.” Sloan fondled a rope of her hair lying across her shoulder. “I wish you'd let me in on the situation. I'd have gone to Neal and told him your search was not a matter of wanting to connect with a new family, but simply to know more about yourself. I'd have told him to remember that you're a scientist. It's natural for you to be curious, to get to the origin of things.”

Samantha shook her head in awe. “I'd forgotten that about you, Sloan Singleton.”

“Forgotten what?”

“How well you understood my feelings and could say just the right thing to make me feel better. Remember those long afternoons under that giant old ash tree on the Triple S by the creek where we used to tell each other everything?”

“I remember,” Sloan said. The ash tree had stood in a field of dandelions. Their horses had loved to eat the pungent-smelling flowers. His father's death had put an end to the afternoons under the tree's shade—days of the dandelions, he'd thought of them in wistful moments of recalling carefree times that would never come again. Lightning had struck the tree not long after his father died, and Sloan would have had it cut down but for his memories. Samantha, with growing excitement, had begun telling him about the animal skull she'd found at Windy Bluff, and Sloan, listening in dismay, found himself thinking of the tree's charred remains. They stood as a reminder that even the strongest, most invincible relationships could topple under the right forces.

“I believe I've found evidence that might indicate a mass grave of dinosaurs out there,” Samantha was saying. “The skull will at least be a start to proving my theory. Todd has volunteered to send photographs to the Museum of Natural History in New York City and contact a paleontologist friend at the Peabody Museum of Natural History at Yale for analysis.”

“Photographs?”

“From my Kodak. I took pictures of the skull, and I gave my camera to Todd to mail in the morning to the factory in Rochester, New York. It will take about a month to hear back. Meanwhile I want to keep the news to myself. My interest in paleontology makes Mother uncomfortable, and…” Samantha's voice faltered. “I want to settle this trouble between Daddy and me before I tell him about my discovery. I don't think he'll object to a dig, since the Windy Bluff area is not good grazing land.”

Sloan pushed up from the couch. He'd spotted a pitcher of water on the tea trolley and had suddenly developed a dry throat. By the time those photographs were returned, Neal would have signed the lease papers with Waverling Tools and digging might have already begun at Windy Bluff. Sloan was sure Todd was counting on it. It was the right moment to expose the geologist and to tell Samantha of his rescue of the skull. But Todd's cool argument resounded in his head:
If my samples prove me right, I
'
m taking my report to my boss, and he
'
ll be calling upon Neal Gordon. I think we both know which side he
'
ll favor.
And:
All I
'
m asking is that you think twice before handing over that skull to Samantha. Without it, there
'
s no evidence to support claim of her finding.

Sloan took a long draught of water. He was back to the question of loyalty as Neal would interpret it. That skull would present another test of Samantha's devotion—this time to Las Tres Lomas. Nothing was too sacred that would prevent Neal from doing what he thought vital for the land of his fathers. He had tolerated but never understood Samantha's—or any scientist's—interest in prehistoric life. He would take an outraged view to her equally fiery argument that a burial ground of old bones was more valuable than an oil field if drilling for petroleum meant preserving the homestead. The disagreement could finish tearing the family apart. Sloan couldn't bear to think of Estelle's devastation, and he mustn't forget the side he'd be forced to take in the conflict, which would be Neal's. Oil was a natural resource of the earth, as necessary to cultivate for human welfare as land for food and animals. He agreed with his mentor that damage to a part of the land was worth it to secure the whole. So, if he had a voice in the fray, he'd speak for drilling, and where would that put him with Samantha? Without the skull, like Todd said, she would have no ground to stand on. Without it, she might give up the battle, especially now that they were to be married. Marriage—and in time, motherhood—would fill her life. How could they not? He and Neal would partner to run their combined ranches while Samantha took charge of home and hearth.

Sloan stared out the parlor window unseeing of the bright summer day outside. What in hell was he to do? Whose interest should he consider first, what greater good should be served? A person's motivations defined them, like his father said, but what if a person wasn't sure of the rightness or wrongness of his decisions?

It was a long shot, but there was the chance that Neal might honor Samantha's claim until the photographs came back as proof of it one way or the other. In that case, she wouldn't need the skull. “Sloan?” Samantha called softly, concern in her voice. “What are you thinking about?”

He made up his mind. No need to make a decision now. There was time. He turned to Samantha in the sun-dappled light of the June morning, a grin breaking. “I was thinking how early we can set the date to get married,” he said.

T
hey parted at the crossroads to their ranches in late afternoon after Samantha invited Sloan to ride out to Windy Bluff with her to cordon off her treasure. At Samantha's request and without Estelle's knowledge, Mildred had collected rope and pegs and a blanket to cover and secure the skull's location. To her disappointment, Sloan refused, looking uneasy. “I have to get back, Sam,” he said, leaning over to kiss her before getting down from the riding board to untie his horse. They had ridden back together in her wagon, Sloan's Thoroughbred hitched to its rear frame. Samantha supposed she understood, but it was Sunday, a day of rest. Once, out of friendly curiosity, she would have questioned why the hurry to return to the Triple S, but now… With a little thrill she thought it was not her place to ask for such explanations until they were married.

“If you hear shouts drift your way, they'll only be from Millie May and Billie June hollering with joy,” Sloan said. “Finally, their little brother has done something to please them.”

“I can hardly wait for Daddy to get home to tell him,” Samantha said. “He should be coming in from La Paloma this next week.”

Sloan set his foot in the stirrup. “Send somebody to let me know and I'll come over and formally ask for your hand in marriage. One day soon, we won't have to part like this. You can come home with me, or I can go home with you. The sooner, the better for me.”

Samantha, sighing, said, “I wish it were right now.” They'd decided to announce their engagement at Sloan's birthday party two weeks away and to marry the first week of August.

“Me, too,” Sloan said, and leaned down from the saddle to kiss her again. “Sam,” he added, drawing away, “you know that I would never make a decision, do anything, that wasn't in your best interests, don't you?”

“Of course I do,” she said, surprised. “Why would you ask that?”

“Just for reassurance that you understand I'd never do anything intentionally to hurt you.”

“I know that,” Samantha said.

“I love you, Samantha Gordon.”

“I know that, too, Sloan Singleton.”

Samantha thought of Sloan's parting words, the miracle of them, as the wagon rattled along. Only yesterday she'd heard them in her imagination. Today they'd been spoken in reality. She wished her father knew of Sloan's marriage proposal. Her mother had been so happy, she'd grabbed Mildred's hands and led her in a dance of ring-around-the-rosy in her parlor. Wayne and Silbia and especially Grizzly—that interfering old bear—would be thrilled, but no one was at the ranch right now that she could lead in a jig. Wayne was at his girlfriend's in town, Silbia had the day off on Sundays, and Grizzly was serving at the Masonic Widows and Orphans Home. Samantha laughed. She guessed she could tell Saved her good news.

A while later, she spotted the steer's red horn tips in the area of Todd's fall, but before she'd stopped the wagon, she spied another sight. The depression of sand where her suspected sauropod relic should have been was empty.

The goal of his mission led Neal like the beam of a lighthouse as within the last few days he had left the level terrain and gentle slopes of his native territory and passed the rolling, loamy grasslands of the Blackland Prairies. He'd found the creeks running high and the grass thick and green. On he'd pushed past the sandy land called Eastern Cross Timbers, a region of blackjack and post oak, pecan and white ash, sycamore, cottonwood, hackberry, elm, and willow trees that jutted down from Oklahoma to the central part of Denton County. There were short periods when his route took him alongside the Missouri-Kansas-Texas Railroad, the train that Samantha and Mildred had taken from Fort Worth to Gainesville. Some passengers waved at him, and he waved back. At night he bedded down by a creek, cooking beans and bacon over a campfire, his horse tethered close by. Lying on his back in his bedroll, an M1900 Browning pistol and Winchester rifle by his side, he looked at the stars winking at him, all knowing and inscrutable, preferring their celestial twinkle to the lights of a town. He found a semblance of peace in their infinite vastness, the soft gurgle of water nearby, the sounds of nature at night.

On the third day, arriving in Gainesville in the early afternoon, Neal asked a postman on his rounds if he knew the location of the Barrows farm. Sure do, the man said, and gave him directions. Neal considered stopping to make discreet inquiries about the Holloways at the general store he passed near the edge of town, one the family most likely would patronize for its convenience. He'd experienced that people couldn't resist an opportunity to gossip about their neighbors, and sometimes spilling their opinions to a stranger made it easier. From people who'd probably known them all their lives, Neal would learn soon enough what sort of folks the Holloways were and get an answer to the question of whether Leon Holloway was still alive.

But he preferred to draw his own conclusion of what to make of people, so he rode on by the general store, following the postman's directions until he came upon a threshing crew at work in a wheat field, and steered his paint to the fence. In the windblown chaff dust, a man who looked to be in charge saw him, lifted his cap, and took out a handkerchief the size of a tea towel to wipe his brow before starting toward him. A farmer, true as rain, Neal opined. It wasn't only the cloth cap and overalls that distinguished him from a rancher, but the bent of his body and particular gait that marked him a man who worked with hoe and plow rather than horse and rope.

“Excuse me,” Neal called, raising his voice to be heard over the noisy whir of the threshing machine. “I don't mean to interfere with your labor, but I'm looking for the Barrows farm.”

“You're lookin' at it, stranger,” the man said, elevating his voice above the din as well, “but if you were lookin' to buy the place, you've made a trip for nothin'. The farm sold back in April.”

“That quick?” Neal said, his note of disappointment implying that the purchase of the farm was exactly why he'd come.

The man neared the fence and nodded. “ 'Fraid so.”

“And the people who owned it… I suppose they're gone, too?”

“Moved the first of June.”

“Mind telling me where?”

“Well, now, I'd have to ask who's askin'.”

“Neal Gordon. I ranch about five miles from Fort Worth.” Neal removed his hat to wipe his brow as well. The day had grown warm. “You the new owner?”

The man stepped close to the fence, scrutinizing Neal with the gaze of a man who thought they may have met before. “I'm the seller, or rather, my wife is. I'm finishin' up the last of our harvest. Name's Leon Holloway.”

Neal hoped he'd caught his expression before it gave away his shock.
God have mercy!
He was staring into the eyes of Samantha's father! He put his hat back on. “That so?” he said lamely, unprepared for what to do or say next. “Pleased to meet you.”

Leon acknowledged the introduction with a nod and a squint at Neal. “I believe I met your daughter a while back. She came on behalf of her father in answer to the
FOR SALE
ad my wife put in a Fort Worth paper. She and my wife made an appointment to meet, but somehow they missed each other. Samantha, she said her name was. She rode out here with her maid and spoke to me when she and Millicent failed to hook up. I was working in the field.”

Neal passed his tongue quickly over lips that felt dry as day-old toast. For a second the oxygen left his head. Samantha had almost met her mother. “Yes, that was my daughter. Did… you introduce yourself?”

“Can't say as I did. I believe she took me for a hired hand. What made you come inquire about the place again, Mr. Gordon?”

Neal improvised quickly. “It was a long shot, but I thought maybe the sale might have fallen through and your farm still be on the market. I own the La Paloma cattle camp south of here and was interested in buying your land as a thoroughfare to the river. No harm in checking to see if it might still be available, since I was coming this way anyhow, I thought, and the editor of the paper gave me the name of your wife.”

“No harm sure enough,” Leon said. He took off his hat and scratched his head. “Well now, since you've come this far—from Fort Worth, is it?—you're welcome to come by the house and sit a spell.” Leon pointed to a group of rooftops in the distance that Neal could see through the yellow haze. “The well water's cold and the peaches ripe. The new owners haven't moved in yet, and there are a couple of porch chairs left that my wife reckoned not fit for our new house. Pick up the road at the end of the fence, and it'll lead you right to it. I'll meet you there.”

Neal wanted to say no. He was a savvy judge of men, and even from their short acquaintance, he could tell Leon Holloway was a good and decent man. An honest, open face, a friendly, sincere manner—how could they hide the heart of a father who would willingly part with his newborn daughter unless forced to do so? Did Neal really want to “sit a spell” with a man who might take from him the joy of his life?

But this was the reason he'd come. With a feeling of impending doom, Neal said, “That's awfully good of you. That well water and peach sound mighty nice.”