Rawhide and Lace Page 2

  “There are some things of his in the drawers, too.” Sam gestured aimlessly, then sat down again. “I keep looking for him, you know,” he murmured absently. “I keep thinking, any minute he’ll open the door and walk in.”

  “If you’ll pack his things, when you get a chance,” Ty said quietly, “I’ll send for them.”

  “Sure, I’ll be glad to. I’d like to come to the funeral,” he added.

  Ty nodded. “You can serve as a pallbearer if you like,” he said. “It’ll be at the First Presbyterian Church, day after tomorrow. There aren’t any living relatives, except me.”

  “God, I’m sorry,” Sam repeated hollowly.

  Ty hesitated, then shrugged his broad shoulders. “So am I. Good night.”

  Just like that. He walked out, clutching the box of letters in his hands, more apprehensive than he’d ever been in his life. Part of him was afraid of what might be in them.

  Two hours later, he was sitting in his pine-paneled den at Staghorn with a half-empty bottle of whiskey in one hand and a much used glass in the other. His eyes were cold and bitter, and he was numb with the pain of discovery.

  The letters Bruce had written to Erin were full of unrequited love, brimming with passion and proposals of marriage and plans that all included her. Each was more ardent than the one before. And in every one was at least one sentence about Ty and how much he hated her.

  Those were bad enough. But the letter Erin had sent to Bruce tore at his heart.

  “Dearest Bruce,” she’d written in a fine, delicate, hand, “I am returning all your letters, in hopes that they will make you realize that I can’t give you what you want from me. You’re a fine man, and any woman would be lucky to marry you. But I can’t love you, Bruce. I never have, and I never can. Even if things were different between us, any sort of relationship would be impossible because of your brother.” His heart leaped and then froze as he read on: “Even though the fault was partially mine, I can’t forget or forgive what’s happened to me. I’ve been through two surgeries now, one to put a steel rod in my crushed pelvis, the other to remove it. I walk with a cane, and I’m scarred. Perhaps the emotional scars are even worse, since I lost the baby in the wreck, too….”

  The baby! Ty’s eyes closed and his body shook with anguish. He couldn’t finish the letter. She’d left Staghorn hell-bent for leather, and she’d wrecked the car. Her pelvis had been crushed. She’d lost the baby she was carrying, she’d been hospitalized, she’d even lost her career. All because of him. Because Bruce had told him a lie, and he’d believed it. And now Bruce was dead, and Erin was crippled and bitter, hating him. Blaming him. And he blamed himself, too. He hurt as he’d never hurt in his life.

  And now he knew why she’d come to see him. She’d been carrying his child. She was going to tell him. But he hadn’t let her. He’d humiliated her into leaving. And because of him, she’d lost everything.

  The baby would haunt him all his life, he knew. He’d never had anyone of his own, anything to love or protect or take care of. Except Bruce. And Bruce had been too old for that kind of babying. Ty had wanted someone to spoil, someone to give things to and look after. And he’d tried to make Bruce into the child he himself would never have. But there had been a child. And obviously Erin had planned to keep it. His child. He remembered now, too late, the hopeful look in her eyes, the softness of her expression when she’d said, “I have something to tell you….”

  His hand opened, letting the letter drop to the floor. He poured out another measure of whiskey and downed some of it quickly, feeling a tightness in his chest that would not, he knew, be eased by liquor.

  He stared helplessly at the whiskey bottle for a long time. Then he got slowly to his feet, still staring at it, his face contorted with grief and rage. And he flung it at the fireplace with the full strength of his long, muscular arm, watched as it shattered against the bricks, watched the flames hit the alcohol and shoot up into the blackened chimney.

  “Erin,” he whispered brokenly. “Oh, God, Erin, forgive me!”

  The sudden opening of the door startled him. He didn’t turn, mindful of the glaze over his eyes, the fixed rigidity of his face.

  “Yes?” he demanded coldly.

  “Señor Ty, are you all right?” Conchita asked gently.

  His shoulders shifted. “Yes.”

  “Can I bring you something to eat?”

  He shook his head. “Tell José I need five pallbearers,” he said. “Bruce’s roommate asked to be one already.”

  “Si, señor. You have talked with the minister?”

  “I did that when I came home.”

  “Are you sure that I cannot bring you something?” the middle-aged Spanish woman asked softly.

  “Absolution,” he said, his voice ghostly, haunted. “Only that.”

  * * *

  It was three days before Ty began to surface from his emotional torment. The funeral was held in the cold rain, with only the men and Bruce’s roommate to mourn him. Ty had thought about contacting Erin, but if she’d just been released from the hospital, she wouldn’t be in any condition to come to a funeral. He wanted to call her, to talk with her. But he didn’t want to hurt her anymore. His voice would bring back too many memories, open too many wounds. She’d never believe how much he regretted what he’d done. She probably wouldn’t even listen. So what was the use of upsetting her?

  He went into town after the funeral to see Ed Johnson, the family’s attorney. With the strain between himself and his brother, Ty expected that Bruce had tried to keep him from inheriting his share of Staghorn—an assumption that proved to be all too true.

  Ed was pushing fifty and balding, with a warm personality and a keen wit. He rose as Ty entered his office and held out his hand.

  “I saw you at the funeral,” he said solemnly, “but I didn’t want to intrude. I figured you’d be in to see me.”

  Ty took off his cream-colored Stetson and sat down, crossing his long legs. He looked elegant in his blue pinstriped suit, every inch the cattle king. His silver eyes pinned the attorney as he waited silently for the older man to speak.

  “Bruce has changed his will three times in the past year,” Ed began. “Once, he tried to borrow money on the estate for some get-rich-quick scheme. He was so changeable. And after last week, I feared for his sanity.”

  Last week. Just after he’d received Erin’s letter. Poor boy, Ty thought. He closed his eyes and sighed. “He cut me out of his will, obviously,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Got it in one,” Ed replied. “He left everything he had to a woman with a New York address. I think it’s that model he was dating a few months back,” he mumbled, missing Ty’s shocked expression. “Yes, here it is. Miss Erin Scott. His entire holdings. With the provision,” he added, lifting his eyes to Ty’s white face, “that she come and live on the ranch. If she doesn’t meet that condition, every penny of his holdings goes to Ward Jessup.”

  Ward Jessup! Ty’s breath caught in his throat. He and Ward Jessup were long-standing enemies. Jessup’s ranch, which adjoined Staghorn, was littered with oil rigs, and the man made no secret of the fact that he wanted to extend his oil search to the portion of Staghorn closest to his land. Although Ty had been adamant about not selling, Jessup had made several attempts to persuade Bruce to sell to him. And now, if Erin refused to come, he’d have his way—he’d have half of Staghorn. What a priceless piece of revenge, Ty thought absently. Because Bruce knew how much Erin hated Ty—that she’d rather die than share a roof with Tyson Wade—he’d made sure big brother would never inherit.

  “That’s the end of it, I guess,” Ty said gently.

  “I don’t understand.” Ed stared at him over his glasses.

  “Bruce had a letter from her last week,” the younger man said, his voice level, quiet. “She was in a wreck some time ago. She’s been crippled, and she lost the child she was carrying. I’m responsible.”

  “Was it Bruce’s child?”

  Ty me
t the curious stare levelly. “No. It was mine.”

  Ed cleared his throat. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

  “Not half as sorry as I am,” he said, and got up. “Thanks for your time, Ed.”

  “Wait a minute,” the attorney said. “You aren’t just giving up half your ranch, for God’s sake? Not after you’ve worked most of your life to build it into what it is?”

  Ty stared at him. “Erin hates me. I can’t imagine that she’d be charitable enough to want to help me, not after the way I’ve treated her. She has more reason than Bruce to want revenge. And I don’t have much heart for a fight, not even to save Staghorn. One way or another, it’s been a hell of a week.” He jammed his Stetson down over his hair, his eyes lifeless. “If she wants to cut my throat, I’m going to let her. My God, that’s the least I owe her!”

  Ed watched him leave, frowning. That didn’t sound like the Tyson Wade he knew. Something had changed him, perhaps losing his brother. The old Ty would have fought with his last breath to save the homestead. Ed shook his head and picked up the phone.

  “Jennie, get me Erin Scott in New York,” he told his secretary, and gave her the number. Seconds later a pleasant, ladylike voice came on the line.

  “Yes?”

  “Miss Scott?” he asked.

  “I’m Erin Scott.”

  “I’m Edward Johnson in Ravine, Texas…the attorney for the Wade family,” he clarified.

  “I haven’t asked for restitution—”

  “It’s about a totally different matter, Miss Scott,” he interrupted. “You knew my client, Bruce Wade?”

  There was a long pause. “Bruce…has something happened to him?”

  “He was in an automobile accident three days ago, Miss Scott. I’m sorry to have to tell you that it was fatal.”

  “Oh.” She sighed. “Oh. I’m very sorry, Mr….?”

  “Johnson. Ed Johnson. I’m calling to inform you that he named you his beneficiary.”

  “Beneficiary?”

  She sounded stunned. He supposed she was. “Miss Scott, you inherit a substantial amount of cash in the bequest, as well as part ownership of the Staghorn ranch.”

  “I can’t believe he did that,” she murmured. “I can’t believe it! What about his brother?”

  “I don’t quite understand the situation, I admit, but the will is ironclad. You inherit. With a small proviso, that is,” he added reluctantly.

  “What proviso?”

  “That you live on the ranch.”

  “Never!” she spat.

  So Ty was right. He leaned back in his chair. “I expected that reaction,” he told her. “But you’d better hear the rest of it…. Miss Scott?”

  “I’m still here.” Her voice was shaking.

  “If you don’t meet that provision,” he said, his voice steady, even a little impatient, “your half of the ranch will go to Ward Jessup.”

  There was a long silence. “That’s Ty’s…Mr. Wade’s…neighbor,” she recalled.

  “That’s right. And, I might add, something of an adversary. He only wants the oil rights to Staghorn, you know. He’d sell off the stock. The ranch couldn’t survive with what would be left. There are several families whose sole support is Staghorn—a blacksmith, several cowhands, a veterinarian, a storekeeper, a mechanic—”

  “I…know how big the place is,” Erin said quietly. “Some of those people have worked for the Wades for three generations.”

  “That’s correct.” He was amazed that she knew so much about Staghorn.

  “I need time to think,” she said after a pause. “I’ve just come out of the hospital, Mr. Johnson. It’s very difficult for me to walk at all. A trip of that kind would be extremely hard on me.”

  “Mr. Wade has a private plane,” he reminded her.

  “I don’t know…”

  “The terms of the will are very explicit,” he said. “And they require immediate action. I’m sorry. I need an answer today.”

  There was another long pause. “Tell Mr. Wade…I’ll come.”

  Ed had to force himself not to grin.

  “There’s just one thing,” she said hesitantly. “How long must I stay there?”

  “No particular length of time was specified,” he told her. “That leaves it to the interpretation of the people involved. And believe me, Mr. Jessup will interpret it to mean until you die.”

  “I’ve heard that he’s quite ruthless.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I can be ready tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Johnson.”

  She sounded tired, and in pain. He felt guilty for pressing her, but he knew it couldn’t have waited.

  “I’ll pass that information along. Meanwhile, Miss Scott, I’ll get the necessary paperwork done. You’re quite a wealthy young woman now.”

  “Quite wealthy,” she repeated dully, and hung up.

  She was sitting on a sofa that swayed almost to the floor, in a ground-floor apartment in Queens. The water was mostly cold, the heating worked only occasionally. She was wrapped in a thick old coat to keep warm, and no one who’d known her six months ago would recognize her.

  Why had she agreed to go? she wondered miserably. She was in pain already, and all she’d done today was go back and forth to the bathroom. Her leg was giving her hell. They’d showed her the exercises, stressing that she must do them twice a day, religiously, or she’d never lose her limp. A limping model was not exactly employable, she reminded herself. But there seemed so little point in it all now. She’d lost everything. She had no future to look forward to, nothing to live for. Nothing except revenge. And even that left a bad taste in her mouth.

  She couldn’t see those people out of work, she thought. Not in winter, which November practically was. She couldn’t stand by and leave them homeless and jobless because of her.

  She stretched out her leg, grimacing as the muscles protested. Exercises indeed! It was hard enough to walk, let alone do lifts and such. Her eyes were drawn to the window. Outside, it was raining. She wondered if it was raining in Ravine, Texas, and what Tyson Wade was doing right now. Would he be cursing her for all he was worth? Probably. He’d been sure that she’d never set foot on Staghorn again, after the things he’d said to her. He wouldn’t know about the accident, of course, or the baby. She felt her eyes go cold. If only she could hurt him as badly as he’d hurt her. If only!

  She could stay here, of course. She could change her mind, refuse the conditions of the inheritance. Sure. And she could fly, too. All those people, some of them with children, all out in the cold…

  She lay back down on the sofa and closed her eyes. There would be time enough to worry about it later. Now, she only wanted to sleep and forget.

  * * *

  Ty. She was running toward him, her arms outstretched, and he was laughing, waiting for her. He lifted her up against him and kissed her with aching tenderness. He stared down at her, his eyes filled with love. She was pregnant, very pregnant, and he was touching the mound of her belly, his hands possessive, his eyes adoring….

  She awoke with tears in her eyes. Always it was the same dream, with the same ending. Always she woke crying. She got up and washed her face, looking at the clock. Bedtime already. She’d slept for hours. She pulled on a cotton gown and went to bed, taking a sleeping pill before she lay down. Perhaps this time, she wouldn’t dream.

  By early the next afternoon, she was packed and waiting for whomever Tyson sent to get her. Her once elegant suitcase was sitting by the door, filled with her meager wardrobe. She was wearing a simple beige knit suit that would have fit her six months ago. Now it hung on her, making her look almost skeletal. Her lusterless hair was tied in a bun, her face devoid of makeup. In her right hand was a heavy cane, dangling beside the leg that still refused to support her.

  At two o’clock precisely, there came a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called from the sofa, only vaguely curious about which poor soul Ty would have sacrificed to come and fly her down to Texas.

&nbs
p; She got the shock of her life when the door opened to admit Tyson Wade himself.

  He stopped dead in the doorway and stared at her as she got unsteadily to her feet, leaning heavily on the cane. The impact of his handiwork was damning.

  He remembered a laughing young girl. Here was an old, tired woman with green eyes that held no life at all, no gaiety…only a resigned kind of pain. She was pitifully thin, and her face was pale and drawn. She stared at him as if he were a stranger, and perhaps he was. Perhaps he always had been, because he’d never really let her get close enough to know him in any way but one.

  “Hello, Erin,” he said quietly.

  She inclined her head. “Hello, Tyson,” she said.

  He looked around him with obvious distaste, his silver eyes reflecting his feelings about her surroundings.

  “I haven’t been able to work for several months,” she informed him. “I’ve been drawing a disability pension and eating thanks to food stamps.”

  His eyes closed briefly; when they opened, they were vaguely haunted. “You won’t have to live on food stamps now,” he said, his voice rough.

  “Obviously not, according to your family attorney.” She smiled faintly. “I imagined you screaming at the top of your lungs for an hour, trying to find a way to break the will.”

  He studied her wan, sad little face. “Are you ready to go?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “Lead on. You’ll have to allow for my leg. I don’t move so quickly these days.”

  He watched her come toward him, every movement careful and obviously painful.

  “Oh, my God,” he said tightly.

  Her eyes flared at him. “Don’t pity me,” she hissed. “Don’t you dare!”

  His chin lifted as he took a long, slow breath. “How bad is it?” he asked.

  She stopped just in front of him. “I’ll make it,” she said coldly.

  He only nodded. He turned to open the door, holding it as she brushed against him. She smelled of roses, and as he caught the scent in his nostrils, he struggled to suppress memories that were scarcely bearable.

  “Erin,” he said huskily as she went past him.

  But she didn’t answer him, she didn’t look at him. She moved painfully down the hall and out the open door to the street. She didn’t even look back.