Titans (33 page)

“The midwife was acting on her own, with no affiliation with a doctor?”

“Couldn't say.”

With an exasperated sigh, Trevor took a quick sip of his drink. “You certainly didn't take much interest in the credentials of the woman who delivered Nathan, did you? I find that hard to believe.”

“Up to you.”

Trevor got to his feet and held out his hand. “Well, thanks for meeting me, Mr. Holloway. Hope I didn't take you from your supper.”

“You did,” Leon said, unwinding his legs, “but I'd had enough.” He knocked the ashes from his pipe, stowed it in his shirt pocket with the bowl peeping out, and accepted Trevor's hand. “Glad to oblige. Safe trip home.” He slapped on his cloth hat and turned to go when he asked suddenly, “Don't you have a daughter, Mr. Waverling?”

It was as if a match had struck behind Trevor Waverling's disappointed scowl, but from surprise, not joy. “Why, yes.”

“Name's Rebecca, right? Nathan told us. He's quite taken with her, his half sister. Pretty as a peach, he says.”

The implication was clear:
You have one daughter. Be satisfied with that blessing.
Leon shuffled off, lifting his hand in a little wave of farewell over his shoulder. “Tell Nathan hello for us and to keep the letters comin',” he said.

For the first seconds, Sloan, Billie June, and Daniel Lane remained frozen in a staring standoff. Billie June was the first to thaw. “Now, Sloan, it's not what you think,” she said, her hands raised in surrender. “Daniel has kindly been taking me around to appropriate places for lodging while I go to music school.”

“What's he doing in Dallas?” Sloan demanded.

“I work here,” Daniel said.

Sloan ignored him. “What are both of you doing in this hotel?”

Daniel answered. “She's booking a room for the night. Or would you rather she bunk with me?”

Sloan took a step toward Daniel, who did not budge. At that moment, Billie June pointed toward the staircase. “Why, there's Samantha! What's
she
doing here?”

“Talk about the pot calling the kettle black,” Daniel said out of the side of his mouth, eye level with Sloan.

Sloan turned to his sister. “We're in town for the horse auction.”

“Uh-huh. And I'm a fiddler's monkey,” Daniel said.

Samantha, having spotted them from the stairs, hurried the distance to where they were clustered, smile flickering like a lamp with a faulty connection. “Hello everybody,” she said. “Billie June, what a nice surprise. So good to see you. You, too, Mr. Lane. How are you liking your new position?”

“Very well, Miss Gordon. Thanks for asking. It suits me to the ground.”

“That's lovely to hear. Billie June, whatever are you in town for?”

“To find lodging for the semester I'm attending the Sarah B. Morrison Academy to study music. Daniel has been driving me around in answer to the rent ads.” She tossed a defiant glance at Sloan. “I just may like Dallas so much, I'll move here permanently when you and Sloan marry.”

“We'll discuss that privately, Billie June,” Sloan said through tightly clenched teeth.

Samantha hurriedly interposed, “We were just going in for supper. Why don't you join us if you don't find the conversation boring. Sloan and I are going to compare notes of the auction.”

Eyeball to eyeball, tight jaw to tight jaw, Sloan said to Daniel, “That invitation is extended to Billie June only, Lane.”

Returning Sloan's glare without a flinch, Daniel said, “Mr. Singleton, could we step aside so that I might have a word with you privately?”

“You have nothing to say to me.”

“Oh, but I do. Trust me.”

“Please, Sloan,” Billie June begged.

With grim-faced reluctance, Sloan followed Daniel to an enclosure of palm trees. “What is it?”

“I know about the skull.”

“What?”

“That fossil you stole from your fiancée's dinosaur site to eliminate proof of her claim.
That
one, Mr. High-and-Mighty Big Britches. Billie June saw you take it up to your room, but she has no idea of its significance, at least I don't think she does, and you better hope she never finds out.”

“What are you getting at, Lane?”

“Oh, I think you know.”

“Relieve me of my ignorance.”

“I know why you took the skull.”

“You know nothing.”

“Oh, well now, yes I do. So will Miss Gordon if I should tell her. The pieces won't take long to fit into place. You and Todd Baker colluded to destroy evidence that would prevent her daddy from drilling on land Todd is convinced is over a gusher. You take the skull. Todd destroys Miss Gordon's Kodak.” Daniel snapped his fingers. “Just like that all obstacles to drilling are removed. Then you dump Miss Rutherford to propose to Miss Gordon. I don't blame you for not waiting to put a ring on her finger until after the oil comes in. That would have been
too
obvious.” When Sloan kept his stony silence, Daniel said, wide-eyed, “What? No denial?”

Sloan's jaw clenched tighter. “What do you want, Lane?”

“I'm not sure yet, but for the time being, I want you to remember that I can destroy you with Miss Gordon, her father, and your sisters. It doesn't matter that Old Man Gordon changed his mind about drilling out of respect for his daughter's wishes. That may make the skull and photographs inconsequential, but not your part in the matter. That's what I want from you—for you to remember. Also, I want you to stay out of your sister's business. She's a grown woman with every right to step out with any man she damn well pleases without interference from her little brother.”

“Her money is in a trust fund of which I'm the trustee and have the power to suspend at my discretion,” Sloan said. “The ranch is entirely in my name, and my sisters have no title to so much as a blade of grass on it. So, mister, if your game is to marry Billie June and pick up a share of the Triple S, you better look elsewhere for your bread and butter.”

Daniel's eyes narrowed to pin points. “I see your opinion of me hasn't changed. That's good. Makes my pursuit a whole lot easier with no regrets.”

“What pursuit? What are you talking about?”

“What I've determined is now my life's mission.” Daniel smiled smoothly. “Now, shall we go join the ladies?”

O
n Las Tres Lomas and the Triple S, all talk of any other subject but the August fourth nuptials of Samantha and Sloan was put aside in the rush to finalize details. Though never involved in the folderol, Neal quietly removed himself from the frenetic activity to work out a plan to set up an oil rig on Las Tres Lomas without involving Waverling Tools now that Samantha had sadly but graciously withdrawn her opposition to drilling. He believed he'd found a solution that would preserve the “integrity” of the ranch, as his daughter would voice it, while accessing the untold wealth that might lie under its grasslands. His new peace of mind allowed him to savor the vanquish of a longtime worry. His daughter was to be wed to a man of their breed from a family that was like an extension of his own. No competition there. She would produce heirs. Finally he could apprise Estelle of what had been going on these past months—selectively, of course. Meanwhile, her patience had grown thin and her temper sharp in preparing for a wedding “so memorable” that it would leave a lasting impression on Fort Worth society.

As events turned out, Estelle's prophecy would come true, and the extravagant ceremony provide Fort Worth residents relief from the usual summer talk of the dire heat, cattle prices, and the heated presidential campaign in which three political parties were running candidates hoping to unseat the Republican incumbent, William McKinley.

The anticipated soaring temperatures of August had dictated that the Gordon-Singleton nuptials should take place midmorning when guests, packed into the pews of the First Methodist Church of Fort Worth, could still breathe normally and the white amaryllis remain perky above their stately stems. A lobster salad and champagne luncheon would follow in the ballroom of the Worth Hotel. To thwart the effects of the heat, Estelle had recruited a slew of elementary school students to line the walls of the church and wave large white feather fans over the assemblage. “It will be a courtesy unprecedented, original, and elegant,” she declared, on pins and needles that the box of feathered fans, ordered from a specialty shop in Florida, would not arrive in time. She had led practice sessions with the children to make sure the fans were waved in unison and endured long, tact-straining meetings with their mothers to assure uniformity of their offsprings' dress and grooming.

It all seemed the height of lunacy to Samantha and Mildred. Why not provide each guest with a fan decorated in the green-and-white wedding colors? the housekeeper suggested, and Samantha agreed. Because, sillywonkins, Estelle chastised them irritably with her fond name for fools, all that waving in the pews would distract from the ceremony. Also, as crowded as they'd be, somebody could get poked in the eye.

Thus it was that the guests arrived, the women in large, flower-bedecked hats, the men in suits with shirt collars starched stiff, to find a regiment of ten-year-olds hugging the walls in their pressed white shirts, black pants, and polished shoes, feather fans at the ready to await the signal to spring into action.

When it came, particles of the white plumes, loosened during practice sessions, descended over the guests like floating snowflakes, eliciting a number of sneezes and not a few giggles, the sounds of which drifted with the feathers down to Estelle seated in the front row. As the ceremony wore on, small arms grew tired and faltered, losing their rhythm, and finally, one by one, the fans came to rest like weary birds by the sides of their young custodians. Out from the ladies' handbags came the waving fans the mother of the bride had meant to avoid. Estelle was mortified. At the altar, Samantha and Sloan exchanged marriage vows unaware of the cause for embarrassment, eyes and ears only for each other.

In the receiving line at the luncheon, Estelle saw her hope to leave Fort Worth with a lasting memory of her daughter's wedding further assured by the entrance of Anne Rutherford. She was the last to arrive, and all guests, flutes of champagne already in hand, turned at her appearance. An audible murmur of awed surprise and admiration went up, and members of the small orchestra dropped a bar or two of music. Invited for the sake of decorum, the one-time love interest of Sloan Singleton had been expected to decline for the same reason. Anne's parents had been invited as well, but they had sent regrets. Stunning in a dress of sapphire blue that intensified the color of her remarkable eyes, Anne glided toward the bride and groom, hand outstretched, smile dazzling.

“Sloan, I can't tell you how happy I am to congratulate you on your marriage to Samantha and to wish you, Samantha, dear,
every
marital blessing. It thrills my heart to have the occasion to say it.”

“Believe me, it thrills our hearts for you to have the occasion to say it,” Millie May said, her smile glinting like the tip of a hat pin.

“Thank you for sharing in the joy of our day,” Samantha said, pressing a satin-shod foot upon the black patent toe of her older sister-in-law, but the bride's thunder had been stolen. For the rest of the celebration, except for the groom's wedding toast in tribute to his bride, guests' eyes were mainly on Anne. It was as if the event had been arranged exclusively to pay her homage. The men gathered around, exuding compliments, making a fuss over who would have the privilege of getting her a glass of champagne, whose table she would grace, whose invitation she would accept to take her home. There were whispers praising her for harboring no ill will toward the man to whom she had every reason to feel it, but that was Anne for you—a girl with a heart as big as a dance floor, so went the consensus around the room.

Estelle was furious.

Throughout it all, Neal Gordon's feet barely touched the ground. Estelle resented his chirpy mood, especially after Samantha and Sloan departed on their honeymoon to Galveston to cool off in the waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Weary, disappointed, still smarting from the blights on her daughter's perfect wedding, she was also feeling the maternal emptiness inherent to the occasion of her only child marrying and leaving the family nest. Feeling lonely, she moved back to Las Tres Lomas to await the newlyweds' return, welcoming the breezes that blew in from the tributaries and the more comfortable temperature the ranch house's thick walls provided.

“Trevor, what's come over you?” Mavis asked. “You haven't been yourself lately. Is business bad?”

“No, no, Mother,” Trevor protested rigorously to reassure her. “Business has never been better. As a matter of fact, I'm looking at a new location to extend our plant facilities. I've hired some extra people, and we've got a large shipment of steel coming in without office or storage space for either one.”

“Then what is it, son? And don't tell me it's nothing. I always know when something is going on with you,” Mavis said.

Really? Trevor thought. It was Sunday afternoon, the day after nuptials were exchanged between Samantha Gordon and Sloan Singleton. Nathan had taken Rebecca and Zak for a walk down by the river.

“Are you worried about Rebecca?” Mavis asked, waving her fan before her moist face. She and Trevor sat under the shade of a maple tree in her backyard to catch a breeze from the Trinity, a table between them set with glasses and a pitcher of cold lemonade. “I am, too,” she admitted. “I know Nathan and Zak will look after her, but it's so difficult to keep her safe. Rebecca has such an obsession for the river, not so strange since she inherited it from her uncle. That ditty she keeps repeating… ‘I must go down to the seas again…' That was a favorite of Jordan's.”

Trevor swirled the ice cubes in his lemonade. “Yes, I know, and yes, I've got my daughter on my mind,” he said, thinking of Samantha Gordon.

“I've never seen Rebecca happier, however, and we should be glad of that. Nathan and that dog of his have made all the difference in her life.”

“Indeed they have,” Trevor said absently.

“Then whatever is wrong, Trevor?” His mother's voice rose insistently. “You look sad when you should be happy.”

Trevor poured another glass of lemonade. “Don't read too much into my expression, Mother. I don't take the heat as well as I used to, and it was late when I got in last night. I didn't get much sleep.”

“Poppycock!” Mavis said. “You're used to foundry heat twice as hot, and you can go days without sleep after spending nights with your harlots. So what's wrong? I can't believe it all has to do with Rebecca. I'm your mother. You must tell me.”

Trevor took a sip of lemonade. “I love someone who will never be mine,” he said.

“Oh, Trevor, not again! She's married, I suppose.”

“Yes, she is.”

“Then you must forget her, son. Haven't you learned your lesson by now?”

“Yes, I have. That's why I'm going to let her go.”

Oh, God
, Nathan moaned to himself as he saw Charlotte Weatherspoon step from a carriage before a house he and Rebecca and Zak must pass on the way home. He had forgotten that she lived on this street, or rather, didn't wish to remember the fact. He was returning to his grandmother's town house the long way around with hope the heat would partially dry Rebecca's skirt and his pants by the time they arrived. His stepsister had waded too far into the river before he could snag her. Nathan was fairly certain his grandmother would not have approved his allowing her to take off her socks and shoes to dip her toes into the water, abetted by Nathan removing his and rolling up his pants legs to accompany her. The cautionary measure had made little difference, because by the time he'd pulled Rebecca back to the bank, his trousers were soaked. Zak was wet, too.

Charlotte halted abruptly at the sight of them, eyes enlarging and expressive eyebrows rising beneath the wide brim of her hat. “Nathan, is that you?” she called from the shade of her parasol.

“None other,” Nathan said, surprised she remembered his name. He thought her breathtaking but bossy and snobby as hell. Like an imbedded thorn too deep to cut out, he'd not been able to get her out of his mind, and he could make no sense of it. She was not the type of girl he could go for at all, even if she'd thought him her sort, which she'd made clear he wasn't. In her eyes he was the bastard son of Trevor Waverling, no matter the eminence of the family name. His grandmother had misjudged the probability of anything developing between them. Nathan intended to wish Charlotte good day and step by her without pausing for further conversation.

He tipped his hat and made to move by the obstruction of the parasol, but Charlotte said, “Rebecca! Is that you, darling? I haven't seen you in ages! My goodness, you've grown so. Remember me? I'm Charlotte.”

Rebecca looked blank, clearly not remembering, but politely extended her hand. “Charlotte… Like Charlotte Brontë?”

“The very same,” Charlotte said with a laugh. “Is this your dog?”

“My brother's,” Rebecca said. “His name is Zak. My brother's name is Nathan.”

“We've met,” Nathan said. “Let's go, Rebecca. Good day, Miss Weatherspoon.”

As if she were a sentry and the parasol a weapon to bar illicit passage, Charlotte lowered its tip to Nathan's waistcoat. “Just a moment.” Her gaze dropped to Nathan's wet pants, then to the hem of Rebecca's dress. “You can't go home and meet Mavis looking like that. I think you'd best come inside and dry off.” She smiled down at Rebecca and offered the little girl her hand to take. “And I'll bet we can rustle up some lemonade, too.”

Rustle up? thought Nathan. Did she really say that? It was one of Leon's favorite folksy expressions. He followed, finding himself powerless to disobey.