Titans (9 page)

W
aiting in the circular courtyard before the town house were the same coach and pair of Thoroughbreds that had called upon the Holloways at their farm. At the reins was the circus clown. The Irishman hopped nimbly down and opened the coach door, his expression enlarging with recognition at Nathan's appearance.

“Benjy, this is Nathan,” Trevor introduced him. “You didn't formally meet last time.”

Benjy bobbed his head. “How do ye do? And the last name, sir?”

Trevor hesitated, and Nathan answered, “Holloway.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, I'm sure,” Benjy said, lifting his stovepipe hat.

An awkward silence settled in the coach to the sumptuous squeak of leather as Trevor and Nathan took their seats facing each other. Nathan had never been in such a conveyance but would not give his father the satisfaction of noting the fact by even a glance to admire the fine woodwork and velvet trappings. As they pulled away, Trevor said, “I gather you prefer to go by Holloway for now.”

“I gather you prefer it,” Nathan said.

“For your sake, I believe we should take things slowly. I don't want to push you into a family, business, or social situation you do not wish to be a part of.”

“Or think I'm suited for,” Nathan said.

“I'm merely remembering our conversation when we first met, Nathan, in which you made it clear that you were happy where you were and had no wish to enlarge your estate in life or assume an acquaintance with me.”

Nathan nodded. “True enough,” he said, feeling a little abashed.

“You've given me every reason to believe you're as reluctant to tell the world I'm your father as you believe I am to inform it you're my son, so do not attribute my consideration for your feelings to snobbery,” Trevor said.

Nathan was tempted to apologize but personal judgment told him snobbery was exactly the reason Trevor Waverling was of yet no mind to make their family relationship known. All the luck to him keeping their connection under his hat, he thought. Other similarities aside, a stranger had only to look at their eyes to know they were related. Nathan allowed the reproach to go unchallenged and said, “So for the time being, I'm merely Nathan and you're… Mr. Waverling?”

“That will do,” Trevor said. “We can spring the surprise later if all goes well, and you're amenable to becoming a part of the family and Waverling Tools.” Trevor fixed him with an earnest stare. “I hope you will be, Nathan. I mean that.”

“I haven't heard my grandfather mentioned. Is he dead?”

“He died five years ago, leaving my late brother, Jordan, in charge of Waverling Tools. Jordan drowned a couple of years later, and the business was left in my hands to run.”

“But not to own, is that right?”

Trevor went still, and in the few seconds of his motionless silence, Nathan suddenly understood his need of an heir. His father had no children other than him and Rebecca, and Nathan assumed his brother, Jordan, had died childless. But why now and why him? “Who told you that?” Trevor asked.

“Your mother. She said everything belongs to her. I
gather
that means the business, too, huh?” Nathan leaned forward, vaguely aware of the fine brick streets over which the coach rumbled, the impressive buildings they passed, the congestion of vehicles, among them the phenomenon of several gleaming horseless carriages, the all-around commercial energy of this bustling city of Dallas. “Don't you think you ought to put your cards on the table and tell me why I'm here, Mr. Waverling? I'd just as soon believe you can get milk from a rock as think it's from a desire to unite with your son.”

A tinge of color appeared above the wolfish hollows of Trevor's cheeks, then just as suddenly he laughed. “By God, Nathan, you're quite a boy. Little seems to get by you.”

“I'd like you to spread your cards, Mr. Waverling,” Nathan said, unamused. “Otherwise, I'm getting out of this carriage right now, walking back to your house, picking up my knapsack, and getting on my way.”

“I so hope it will not come to that,” Trevor said. “Your grandmother has taken a liking to your knapsack.” A leap of respect shone in his sea-green eyes. “All right, Nathan, but not here. Let's get to the office where we can talk comfortably, and then you can decide whether to stay or go. Deal?”

“Deal,” Nathan said.

Waverling Tools was located in a manufacturing district with direct access to the Southern Pacific Railroad. The belch of smokestacks and the odiferous smells from livery stables added to the industrial ugliness of loading docks and warehouses, foundries and storage buildings spread out close to the rail lines. That morning, Nathan had read a newspaper article describing Dallas as becoming an industrialized city, leading the Southwest in the manufacture of tools, building equipment, and machinery. Nathan had wondered to what extent Waverling Tools contributed to the production statistics. A lot, he thought, judging by the impressive two-story building before which the coach-and-pair reined to a stop. The masonry structure had been erected apart from its wood-framed neighbors and stuck out in appearance from the other manufacturing establishments like little Lord Fauntleroy in a band of guttersnipes. Attention to aesthetics had gone into first impressions of Waverling Tools. A tall wrought-iron fence protected a water fountain, a canna-bordered brick walk, and an immaculate patch of green grass from wagon wheels and horses' hooves and the scraps of paper littering the dirt grounds of the other properties around it. Over the handsomely crafted doorway,
WAVERLING TOOLS
was announced in gold letters against a dark blue background, in contrast to the crude wooden signs nailed to posts or stuck into the ground of its neighbors.

“Is this the plant?” Nathan asked.

“The office,” Trevor answered. “The plant is behind it.” He pulled at a tulip-shaped instrument attached to a cord and spoke into its mouth. “Benjy, take us round to the back, please.”

Nathan tried hard not to look impressed. What an amazing contraption, he thought. The idea of being able to speak to your coachman through a tube without having to leave your seat in the cab. What a world he had entered in Dallas, Texas. Something new, grand, and big on every corner.

He and his father had exchanged little conversation on the ride, but at one point, Nathan asked, “What was my grandfather like? What was his name?”

Trevor seemed pleased that he'd asked. His mouth softened. “My father? His name was Edwin. You remind me of him. I thought so the minute I laid eyes on you. Something about your”—he twirled a hand as if the word he desired could be spun from the air—“quiet but strong demeanor made me think of him. He was hard but fair, not an easy man to know. Most everybody feared him, including his sons, not out of fright but respect. Everything ran deep in him. Hardly anything ever rose to the surface, only the love he had for my mother.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Nathan said. “She's a lovely woman. There was no picture of him in her parlor.”

“That's because he didn't sit for many. He was not a vain man. The few taken of him are in her bedroom.”

Nathan felt a surprising flush of pleasure to learn that the origin of some of his traits came from his paternal grandfather. He, too, was one to keep his feelings to himself,
down deep where the still waters flow
, so Lily called it, and he never sought notice for himself. Nathan would have liked to know if Trevor Waverling had loved his father. That would tell him a lot about the man who sat across from him.

Trevor had volunteered no more about the family, and they had jostled along in silence, broken only when he made some comment about the city or pointed out a landmark or milestone of progress, all offered with pride. “Dallas is the most populous city in Texas,” he informed Nathan, “and someday it will be a metropolis to rival the great cities of the East. You mark my words.”

They alighted in back of the building. Benjy opened the door, his droll look at Nathan curious, speculative, and Nathan wondered just how long the short-legged Irishman had been in his father's employ, the secrets to which he was privy. Somehow he had the sense the two of them were like pocket to pant, if not out of loyalty to each other, by virtue of the impression that Benjy knew where the bodies were buried.

N
athan heard the click of a typewriter as they entered the back passageway leading to offices beyond. The coachman was staying with the Concord. “How are you going to explain me?” Nathan asked.

“I'm the boss. I don't have to explain,” Trevor said, “but I'll say simply that you're someone I've taken under my wing.”

“A country bumpkin like myself? For a city man like yourself, that seems unlikely. For what purpose, will you say?”

“I won't. My people will figure it out soon enough from your looks if you stay. And if you stay, you won't look like a country bumpkin.”

“This… job I assume you have in mind for me if I accept it… won't I be a thorn in the side of someone else you were priming for it?”

Trevor stopped and stared at him. “My God, but you're quick. Yes, there are a couple of employees vying for the position I'd like you to take eventually, but here's the difference. They're not blood kin. You are. The one and only who qualifies as an heir and might one day take over the throne after me.”

They had arrived at a set of double doors, having passed a small office next to it with
SECRETARY
printed on the door. It was open, and a young woman glanced up from her work with a flash of surprise at Nathan. Another set of slightly larger offices appeared to be farther up the corridor, leading to a room that looked to be a reception area.

“I get that having no heir may be a problem for your company, but how is it you think I'm the answer to it? You've known of my existence all along. Why now am I all of a sudden in demand as your successor?”

Trevor sighed. “That's what I want to discuss with you. It's the reason I've asked you to come.” He pushed open the doors. “Make yourself at home. I'll tell my secretary to bring us some coffee.”

He was gone long enough for Nathan to take in the plush environment of his father's workplace. Rich woods, supple leather, thick carpets, velvet draperies, the telephone on his desk spoke of a prominent and prosperous company. Why would Trevor Waverling want to share it with a son he didn't know nor probably care to, a son who came with a
BASTARD
sign hanging about his neck? There was still time for him to beget and groom a legitimate heir. Nathan was standing at the large window admiring the fine view of the Trinity River framed by weeping willows and shady cypresses when his father walked in.

“I go fishing down there sometimes,” Trevor said. “There's a small dock hidden by the trees.”

Nathan turned, keeping his face impassive. “Nice place,” he said. “Why am I here?”

Trevor gestured toward a chair before his desk and took his seat behind it. “You asked me to spread my cards on the table, Nathan, and I will. I'll hold nothing back.”

I'll be the judge of that, Nathan thought. He suspected his father was a good one for holding things back. “I'm all ears,” he said.

Trevor tapped a finger to his lips as if trying to decide where to begin. “I suppose I should start at a time when no clouds darkened the horizon of Waverling Tools,” he said finally. “My brother and I worked for our father, who had us learn everything from A to Z about the company. Originally, we manufactured digging machinery, farm implements mostly, then we expanded to drilling equipment like cable tool bits and rigs to drill for water and salt. Profits were good. Work was steady, especially after the T&P came to town. The Waverling men were all on deck to move the ship forward into new waters in a city that was leading Texas into the new century. And then my father died unexpectedly. One night at supper he choked on a chicken bone and died before our eyes. There hasn't been a chicken served in the house since.”

A knock on the door announced his secretary bringing in a coffee tray. “Put it there, Jeanne,” Trevor said. “I'll pour for us.”

Nathan caught the surreptitious glance of the young woman before she deposited the tray and left. He had the feeling the yokel Mr. Waverling had invited into his office would be a topic of discussion over the girl's noontime sandwich with her bookkeeper co-worker who occupied the office across the hall. Her door had been open as well. Trevor took the time to pour them each a cup of coffee, and when Nathan shook his head to sugar and cream, he continued.

“My father was one never to leave anything to chance. He was assiduous about dotting every
i
, crossing every
t
. He made sure the firm's contracts were legally flawless and that his business papers were always in perfect order.” Trevor paused and a shadow crossed his face. “Except the one document that mattered the most upon his death.”

Nathan had just taken a swallow of coffee. He gulped it down in surprise. “Oh, no, don't tell me. His will!”

Trevor nodded, his tight expression suggesting he still found it hard to believe. “His will. He had one, but in it, he left everything to my mother—the house, money, business, everything. It had been drawn up when they were first married before the children came. Edwin Waverling had never gotten around to revising it.”

“So your mother controls the purse strings,” Nathan said, thinking how similar Trevor Waverling's financial trap was to his stepfather's.

“That's right.”

Puzzled, Nathan shook his head. “What does this family tale have to do with me? How does it explain why you asked me to come?”

“I'm getting to that, Nathan. Be patient. You wanted to see all my cards, remember?”

Nathan settled back in his chair with his coffee, and Trevor continued. “My brother and I were disappointed, but nothing particularly changed. Mother put Jordan in control of the company, but he and I had always seen eye to eye on most everything—”

Nathan held up a hand, interrupting him. “Wait a minute! Why? Why did your mother put your brother in charge over you? Why didn't she let you share the reins?”

Trevor contemplated his son over the arrested rim of his coffee cup, well-groomed fingers around the bowl. “I declare, Nathan, but you're a sharp one,” he said, setting the cup in its saucer without drinking. “I'm going to have to watch myself around you.”

“All I ask is that you tell me the truth,” Nathan said. “I've lived with enough lies to last a lifetime.”

“Yes, yes, you have,” Trevor agreed. “So here's the truth, Nathan. At the time of my father's death, I'd fallen in disfavor with my mother. Jordan had always been her favorite anyway, not that she would have let that get in the way of fair play, but I'd definitely strained her maternal devotion. I'd been through a couple of scandalous divorces from women she didn't approve of from the start, and then there was Rebecca…” Trevor frowned. “I admit I'm not the father she thinks I should be to my daughter…”

Nathan watched him carefully. That last hadn't been easy to admit, and he could see regret in the man's grimace. “And then Jordan and I came to near blows over the direction of the company,” Trevor said. “He wanted to stick with drilling water wells and salt mines, and I wanted to drill for oil. I foresaw the company converting its resources to that aim, and he was sorely against it. Said we couldn't afford it, and it was too risky. The horseless carriage would never replace equine power. Mother backed him up. And then he got engaged to a much younger woman, and I could see her popping heirs every nine months, and I would be nudged out of the picture. Mother was set on leaving the company in the hands of an heir who could beget heirs.”

“Why couldn't that be you?” Nathan asked.

“Because I was divorced at the time with no intention of marrying again—not anytime soon, anyway. I was forty-three. By the time I deluded myself into thinking there was another woman out there who would win my heart forever—”

“In other words, a woman you could stay faithful to,” Nathan said.

“If you prefer to put it that way,” Trevor yielded the point wryly. “Anyway, by the time I fathered another child, it would have been too late…”

Trevor's voice faded away. Some of the vitality drained from his eyes. Nathan judged his father had come to a part of the story painful to talk about, but uncomfortable or no, he would hear it. He gave him a push. “So did Jordan marry and his wife pop out heirs?”

“No. He drowned a week before the wedding.”

Shocked, Nathan suddenly understood why he'd been asked to come. “And that left you in charge of Waverling Tools but without an heir,” he said.

Trevor met his stare levelly. “And that's where you come in,” he said. “My mother discovered the private investigator's report of your existence. At that time she was thoroughly disenchanted with me and was threatening to sell the company. Only my father's affection for me dissuaded her. When she learned she had a grandson, she sent me to find you with the stipulation that if I did not encourage you to come here and give the company and the family a try, I could kiss my position as heir apparent to Waverling Tools good-bye.”

He'd asked for the truth straight and gotten it. Nathan was surprised only by the depth of hurt he felt. It settled among the others he'd known recently. “So you
did
know of my existence, and the only reason you showed yourself and asked me to come was to secure your inheritance.”

“Not just an inheritance, Nathan, but the
company
my father—your grandfather—built and loved and would twist in his grave if it were ever sold, especially when he would have agreed to the heights I intend to take it. I want you to go with me, Nathan.
He
would want you to go with me. Believe what you like. I wouldn't blame you for despising me, but I honestly didn't think I had the right to claim you when I learned of your birth. Reports indicated you were happy, but then my mother gave me her ultimatum, and I had no choice but to seek you out and declare myself. Whatever you think of me and my motives, you are my son, and someday this place could be yours.”

Nathan wanted to tell him he could cook in the stew of his own making, but he thought of the fragile woman and spindly little girl in the house on Turtle Creek and the strange but tender connection he felt to them. His grandmother had seemed genuinely glad he'd come.

“I can't believe your mother would deny you your rightful inheritance and go against what her husband would have wanted for you,” Nathan said. “Why would she do that?”

Trevor pushed back from his desk, as if his next confession required space and distance should Nathan decide to lunge at him. He laced his manicured but strong hands together and rested them on his formidable chest. “Because she thinks I'm responsible for her other son's death,” he said.