Chapter Four
Snowflakes, fat and lazy, drifted toward the
ground, making a white landscape out of the Triple C headquarters
and the surrounding plains. The outside temperature was a good ten
degrees below the freezing mark, but there was no wind to swirl the
flakes or blow the fallen snow into drifts.
On this snowy Sunday morning in
December, all was quiet on the ranch. Smoke curled from one of The
Homestead’s brick chimneys, the gray of it quickly lost against the
backdrop of an equally gray sky, thickly speckled with
snow.
The steady hum of an approaching
vehicle penetrated the snowfall’s hushed silence. Soon the dark
Suburban became visible through the white screen of flakes as it
traveled along the ranch’s forty-mile-long driveway to the Triple C
headquarters.
With tires crunching over the heavy wet
snow, the vehicle rolled to a stop in front of The Homestead. The
wipers ceased their rhythmic sweep of the windshield and the engine
died. The passenger doors opened, both front and back.
Five-year-old Quint Echohawk hopped out
of one side, his slender body made plump by the heavy parka and
snow pants he wore, but on his head, he wore his favorite cowboy
hat. With barely disguised impatience, he waited for the others to
join him.
After stepping out of the front
passenger side into the snow, Cathleen Calder Echohawk,
affectionately known by everyone on the Triple C as Cat, handed her
son the smaller of the two wrapped gifts she had in her
arms.
“Will you carry this one,
Quint?”
“Okay.” Taking it, he tucked the
present under his arm.
On the driver’s side, Logan Echohawk
held the rear door open and offered an assisting hand to Sally
Brogan as she climbed out of the back seat. Like Cat, she also
carried two presents, but hers were on the large and cumbersome
side.
“Let me carry those for you?” Logan
relieved Sally of them.
“Mom.” Quint looked at Cat with earnest
eyes, the same shade of gray as his father’s. “Can I hold one of
the babies? I’d be extra careful.”
“I know you would, but you’ll have to
ask Aunt Jessy.”
“Couldn’t I ask Uncle Ty instead? I
think he’d let me.”
“Oh, you do, do you?” Cat struggled to
hide a smile. Logan paused beside her. “Have we got everything out
of the truck?” he asked. “What about the camera?”
“It’s in my pocket.” She patted the
bulge it made.
Together the four of them trooped up
the steps and paused by the front door to stomp the snow from their
boots. Cat didn’t bother to caution her young son to be quiet in
case the babies were sleeping. It wasn’t in her son’s nature to be
loud and rambunctious.
“We’re here,” Cat announced
unnecessarily when Logan closed the front door behind
them.
“I’m in here,” Ty’s voice came from the
living room that opened off the large entry hall.
Before all four managed to shed their
heavy outer garments, hang them on the utilitarian coat rack, and
deposit their wet snow boots in the large box placed by the front
door specifically for that purpose, an angry wail shattered the
stillness, originating from the living room as well.
Obeying, by now, her well-honed
mother’s instincts, Cat moved quickly toward the sound. Sally
Brogan followed right behind her. There sat Ty on the large leather
sofa, one whimpering, blanket-wrapped infant nestled in the crook
of his arm. The second, squawling baby was strapped in an infant
seat on the cushion beside him.
With a none-too-deft left hand, Ty
attempted to slip a pacifier into the open mouth of the crying
baby. But one suckle and the baby spit it out with an even louder
wail.
“Where’s Jessy?” Cat wasted little time
in coming to the rescue of both her brother and the
baby.
“In the kitchen warming their bottles.”
His voice had a frazzled edge to it, a tone most new fathers would
recognize. Then it took on a dry quality. “Meet your new niece and
nephew.”
“Come to Aunty Cat.” With the strap
unfastened, Cat lifted the angry, red-faced infant from the
carrier. Instead of being soothed and comforted by the contact, the
baby unleashed an even louder wail of rage. “My, but we have a
temper.”
“You can say that again.” Ty willingly
surrendered the other baby into Sally’s reaching arms. “She has
made it plain from the first day that when she wants something, she
wants it now.”
“It doesn’t work that way, sweetheart,”
Cat murmured and cupped a hand over the back of the baby’s head,
pressing a kiss on the downy soft cap of hair, the palest shade of
gold.
Quint tugged at her pant leg. In
response, Cat sank onto the sofa’s leather cushion to give him a
closer look at the baby. “Meet your cousin Laura,
Quint.”
“Why’s she crying?” he wanted to
know.
“Because she’s hungry.”
Quint thought about that a minute, then
stated, “She’s awfully loud.”
“She certainly is,” Sally Brogan
agreed. “But not this little guy.” Gently she steered the baby’s
flailing fist closer to its mouth, allowing him to gnaw on it
between hungry whimpers. “Just look at all the hair you’ve got.”
She stroked a finger over his thick shock of hair, as dark as his
sister’s was fair. “What did you name him again?”
“Chase Benteen Calder the Third,” Ty
replied. “And the demanding one is Laura Marie
Calder.”
“Chase and Laura,” Sally repeated in
approval as Jessy entered the living room, carrying the bottles of
warmed formula.
Despite the warm light of motherhood in
her eyes, Jessy had the telltale weary and harried look of a new
mother. She offered only token resistance when the two women
insisted on feeding the pair. She sat down next to Ty and watched,
not quite able to completely relax.
Sally glanced up from the nursing baby
in her arms and looked around. “Where’s Chase?”
“He’s in the kitchen, adding the
finishing touches to dinner,” Jessy answered, then added with a
hint of guilt, “He keeps saying that he doesn’t mind, that it
reminds him of his bachelor days when he did a lot of his own
cooking.”
Cat sent Jessy a questioning glance.
“Where’s Audrey?” Audrey Simpson had taken over much of the
housekeeping and cooking duties from Ruth Haskell years
ago.
“Cat, I’m sorry,” Ty said with quick
regret. “In all the confusion of bringing the twins home, I forgot
to let you know that Bob Simpson was rushed to the hospital in
Miles City yesterday morning. He’s suffered a stroke.”
Cat breathed in sharply then murmured,
“How bad is it?”
“Severe. He can’t talk, and the doctors
are still trying to determine the extent of his
paralysis.”
“Poor Audrey,” Cat murmured in
sympathy.
“Let’s hope it isn’t true that bad news
comes in threes.” Logan stood by the large stone fireplace, where a
cheery fire blazed.
“Why?” Chase joined the group in the
living room.
“The word reached Blue Moon yesterday
that E.J. Dyson had passed away. He had a massive heart attack and
died within seconds.”
His announcement was met by a heavy
silence. It was Cat who finally broke it. “I can’t help thinking
what a terrible blow this has to be to Tara. You know how extremely
close she was to her father, Ty.”
“I know.” It had been a source of
contention during his marriage to Tara. But this did not seem like
the time to recall that. “I suppose it would be appropriate to send
flowers.”
“I don’t know why not,” Cat retorted,
flashing her father a look that dared him to dispute it. “The
funeral services will be held on Wednesday. Weather permitting, I
plan to fly to Fort Worth on Tuesday and attend the services on
behalf of the family.”
Ty doubted that his father liked the
idea any better than he did. But it was useless to argue with Cat
when she had her mind set on something. Her decision didn’t really
surprise Ty. Right or wrong, Cat had always thought a lot of Tara.
More than that, she wasn’t asking permission from either of
them.
“I imagine Tara would appreciate your
being there,” Ty remarked instead. Although, knowing Tara, he
wasn’t sure whether she would care or not. But it was important to
Cat to make this gesture.
“I think she will.” There was almost a
defensive tilt to her head as if Cat knew what he was
thinking.
For several long seconds, no one said
anything. Then Sally spoke into the silence, “Not all the news has
been bad. I have some good news.”
Jessy was quick to pick up on her
statement, eager to turn the conversation away from the Dysons.
“What’s that?”
“I accepted an offer for the restaurant
on Friday.”
No one was more stunned than Chase.
“You did what? From whom?”
“The buyers are a retired couple, Harry
and Agnes Weldon. They’ll take possession on the first.” After she
had related the essential bits of information to the group, Sally’s
glance finally strayed to Chase, a hint of uncertainty for the
first time clouding the glow of pleasure that had been in her
eyes.
“What are you going to do after you
sell it?” Jessy held her breath, half hoping.
“I don’t know,” Sally admitted. “But
I’ll have to think of something soon, won’t I?”
Jessy didn’t hesitate. Their need was
too great. “What are the chances that we could talk you into coming
to work for us? It would be an answer to our prayers with Audrey
gone and no idea when she can come back— assuming that Bob gets
well enough so that she can return to work at all.”
“Work here?” Sally’s face lit up for a
second. Then she hesitated, glancing at Chase. “Are you sure?” As
usual, his expression provided little insight into the privacy of
his thoughts.
The line of his mouth softened into
something close to a smile. “I can’t think of a better candidate
for the position. And I’ve eaten enough of your cooking over the
years to know you’re a better cook than I am. As far as I’m
concerned, the job is yours if you want it.”
“Want it? There’s nowhere else I’d
rather be.” Tears shone in her eyes, and she released a short laugh
to cover them. “After the restaurant, can you imagine how easy it
will seem here cooking for one family, keeping house and helping
Jessy look after these two little treasures.” Sally glanced down at
the baby boy hungrily sucking on his bottle. “Whether Jessy wants
to admit it or not, she’s going to need help with you two for a
while.”
“Oh, I admit it,” Jessy readily agreed.
“It’s taken only one day for me to realize that—especially when it
comes to this little gal.” She ran a caressing finger over the pale
hair of the baby in Cat’s arm.
“With that hair of hers, it’s obvious
she is going to take after you, Jessy.” It seemed fitting to Sally
that little Laura would favor her mother.
“And it’s just as obvious,” Chase
inserted with a nod toward the baby Sally held, “that this little
trey-spot is a Calder.”
“The dark hair definitely marks him as
a Calder,” Sally acknowledged. “Just the same, I’m glad one of the
twins is a girl. The outfits they have for little girls these days
are absolutely precious.”
“If little Laura takes after her
mother, precious will not be one of the
adjectives used to describe her.” Ty cast an affectionate smile at
his wife. “Strong and beautiful, maybe. But definitely not
precious.”
His comment drew amused looks from
everyone, including Jessy. But the intruding ring of the telephone
prevented anyone from responding. Chase was closest to the
phone.
“I’ll get it,” he said and picked up
the living room extension. “Triple C.” A fraction of a second
later, he shot a glance at Ty, all expression vanishing. “Yes, he’s
here.” After another brief pause, he said, “Just a minute.” He
extended the receiver in Ty’s direction. “It’s for you. It’s
Tara.”
Without a word, Ty rose from the sofa
and walked over to take the phone from his father. The instant he
identified himself, Tara’s emotion-choked voice rushed through the
line to him.
“Ty. Thank God, you’re there. Have you
heard about Daddy?” Her voice quivered with the effort to hold back
a sob.
“Just a few minutes ago. Cat is already
making arrangements to fly down for the funeral.”
“You’re coming, too, aren’t you?” There
was a desperation to her question that bordered on hysteria. “Ty,
you must. Please.” Her voice broke on a sob. “You don’t know what
it’s like here. They’re hovering around like vultures. I don’t have
anybody I can trust. Not a single one, Ty. I thought it would be
enough just to hear your voice, but it isn’t. I need to see you. I
need to know someone is here for me.”
The emotion in her voice, the needy
words were like a snare, trapping him into something he didn’t
want—just like in the old days. “Tara,” he began in
resistance.
“Ty, you have to come,” Tara rushed in
a trembling voice that ripped at him. “If I ever meant anything to
you at all, you’ll do this. I need you.” She broke down and began
to weep in delicate, but wrenching sobs. In between each one, he
could hear her little murmurs of “Please, please, please.” It
aroused all of his protective instincts.
The Tara he knew had never pleaded for
anything in her life. Schemed and manipulated, yes. Sweet-talked
and cajoled, yes. But she didn’t beg.
Still Ty hesitated a moment longer
before he finally said, “I’ll see what I can arrange, Tara.” His
statement was met by barely coherent sobs of gratitude. He said his
goodbyes and hung up.
Even before he turned to the group,
Jessy felt a cold chill of foreboding run down her spine. She
mentally braced herself for what was to come.
“She wants me to come to the funeral.”
It was more or less a general announcement, but Jessy knew it was
her reaction he was seeking.
“You’re going, of course.” She said it
matter-of-factly, without betraying the sick feeling in her
stomach.
His mouth slanted in a crooked smile
that was so full of warmth it was like a caress. “I knew you would
understand.”
“Of course.” Jessy suspected that she
understood better than he did. Even though his marriage to Tara had
ended years ago, he still felt a lingering sense of responsibility
toward her—a husband’s responsibility, if not to Tara, then to his
dream of Tara. And it was his dream image of Tara that was the most
dangerous thing.
Ty shifted his attention to Chase.
“Ballard gave me a list of places with on-premise sale barns. A
couple of them are in Texas. I planned on checking out a few of
them after the holidays, but I might as well look them over while
I’m down there for the funeral. Before we can decide whether we
want to go the private auction route, we’ll need to know the type
of facility it would require, plus the cost of
construction.”
Chase concurred.
On the day of the funeral, one of
Texas’s infamous blue northers blew in, shrouding the sky with
heavy gray clouds. The outside temperature plummeted to near the
freezing mark.
But it was warm inside the hushed
church. Almost too warm. Ty sat next to Cat, his topcoat draped
across his lap and his dress black Stetson resting atop it. The
place was full to capacity with mourners, many notables among them
as befitted someone with the status and wealth of E.J.
Dyson.
Baskets of elaborate floral
arrangements crowded the sanctuary, their cloying fragrance
permeating the already stifling air. When the minister at last
asked the gathering to bow their heads in prayer, drawing the
service to a close, Ty breathed out in relief, even though it
brought nearer the moment he dreaded.
Having flown into Fort Worth only that
morning, he had yet to catch more than a glimpse of Tara before the
memorial service had begun. There was a part of him that still
wasn’t sure why he was there, or what he would say to her when they
did meet. But he already felt the awkwardness of it.
He stood in silence while the
pallbearers brought the ornate pewter-gray casket up the main
aisle. Tara followed it, leaning heavily on the arm of an older
gentleman. Dramatic in black, she wore an elegant Chanel suit,
unadorned with any trimmings. On her head was a small and simple
black hat with a half-veil attached, creating a sheer shadow over
the upper half of her face. Her only concession to jewelry was the
black opal ring on her finger.
As Tara came up the aisle, she kept her
gaze fixed on a point somewhere ahead of her, glancing neither to
the right nor the left. There was a woodenness to her movements
that was completely unnatural, and a pallor to her grief-numbed
face that couldn’t be faked.
“Oh, Ty,” Cat murmured when she saw
Tara. “Look at her. Have you ever seen so much pain?” she asked in
a voice husky with empathy.
“I know,” he murmured in
return.
“I remember the way I felt at Mother’s
funeral.” Cat paused and brushed away a tear that slipped off her
lashes. “It hurt so very much.”
In reply, Ty curved an arm around her
and rubbed a hand over her shoulder, remembering his own pain that
day. In this, he had no difficulty empathizing with the loss Tara
felt.
Together, he and Cat joined the long
receiving line as the mourners filed by to extend their sympathies.
To each, Tara responded with a faint nod that was almost
robot-like, her gaze barely focusing on any of them.
Then it was their turn. Cat stepped up,
Ty at her side. The first glimmer of recognition registered in
Tara’s dark eyes. “Cat.” The word was almost a sob as Tara reached
out with needing hands. “Where’s—” A slight turn of her head and
she saw him.
“Tara,” Ty began, but Tara’s knees had
already buckled as she sank in a dead faint.
Ty caught Tara before she fell and
scooped her into his arms amid a rush of concerned gasps and
alarmed murmurs. As others pressed in to offer aid, one of the
funeral directors intervened and quickly ushered Ty to an
out-of-the-way anteroom, complete with a small cushioned
sofa.
With Cat at his heels, Ty crossed to
the sofa and laid Tara on it while Cat hurriedly pushed a pair of
throw pillows behind her, propping Tara in a reclining position.
After closing the door, the funeral director joined them, taking a
vial of ammonia from his pocket and uncapping it. He waved it
briefly under Tara’s nose.
There was a protesting movement of her
head as she surfaced groggily. “She’ll be fine,” the director
announced. He was about to add more when he was interrupted by a
sharp knock at the door.
After a disoriented second, Tara
focused her eyes, black with grief, on Ty. “You came.” Her cry was
almost a whimper as she reached out both arms to him. “Oh, God,
hold me, Ty. Hold me.”
With that one simple gesture, she
eliminated all need for words. Sitting on the edge of a cushion, Ty
gathered her close. Tara wound both arms around his neck, buried
her face in his suit jacket, and wept brokenly. “I needed you so
much. So very, very much.”
A corner of her hat snagged on his
jacket, knocking the hat askew. Ty slipped off the small hat with
its attached veil, passed it to Cat, then stroked a smoothing hand
over Tara’s silken black hair.
“It’s all right,” he murmured in
comfort. “I’m here now.”
A second man appeared at Ty’s elbow,
impeccably dressed in a dark suit and tie, a pair of steel-rimmed
glasses precisely matching the sprinkling of gray in his neatly
trimmed hair. “I’m Dr. Davis Parker,” he identified himself, his
fingers already reaching to seek the pulse in Tara’s wrist. “I’ve
been attending Tara since her father’s death.”
“No,” Tara moaned in protest and pulled
her arm away from his searching fingers, then pressed even more
tightly against Ty. “Make them go away, Ty. Please.”
“She’s distraught.” The doctor took a
small, brown prescription bottle from his pocket and glanced at the
hovering funeral director. “Could we have a glass of
water?”
“I have one right here.” He handed a
foam cup to the doctor.
“Tara, take one of these.” The doctor
shook out a pill and offered it to her. “It will make you feel
better.”
She shook her head then lifted her
tear-wet face to Ty. “Make him leave me alone. Make them all leave
me alone,” she insisted in a sobbing voice. “I don’t want all these
people around me anymore. Make them go.”
“But, Mrs. Calder,” the funeral
director interposed in his most soothing voice, “we still have the
graveside services. You know your father would want—”
“My father is dead!” Tara practically
screamed the words. “He won’t care whether I’m there or not. How
could he? He’s dead.” She abruptly began to laugh and sob
uncontrollably at the same time.
“She’s hysterical,” the doctor
announced grimly. “I think it would be best if we took her home,
where I can safely sedate her.”
“Is there a side exit?” Ty directed the
question at the funeral director.
“There is.” The man nodded. “I’ll
arrange for a car to be brought around at once.”
“Do that,” Ty said, then attempted to
make Tara understand. “We’re going to take you home.
Okay?”
But instead of being comforted, his
statement seemed to throw her into a frenzy. “Don’t leave me, Ty.
Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me.” The words came in panicked sobs
that clutched at him as frantically as her hands.
“We aren’t going anywhere, Tara,” Cat
assured her. “We’ll stay with you as long as you
want.”
Ty stiffened in silent opposition to
his sister’s unqualified promise. As broken and pitiful as Tara was
at this moment, he was still very much aware of the familiar shape
and warmth of the woman pressed so tightly against him. The heady,
signature scent of Tara’s perfume swirled around him, evoking
memories of the fire and passion they had once shared.
But for the time being, Ty said nothing
to contradict Cat’s claim. That discussion could wait until later,
when Tara was home and sedated. He concentrated instead on
comforting the weeping woman in his arms.
The funeral director returned within
minutes, accompanied by two assistants. With Ty carrying Tara and
the others forming a phalanx around her, they whisked her out a
side entrance to a waiting stretch limousine.
The minute Ty attempted to deposit Tara
on the rear passenger seat, her clutching hands tightened their
grip in panic. “Don’t leave me, Ty. Don’t leave me,” she whimpered
in a sobbing, little-girl voice.
“I’m not,” he assured her. “We’re just
getting in the car so we can go home.”
With reluctance, Tara relinquished her
hold on him long enough for Ty to climb into the limo, but she was
back in his arms the instant he was seated. The doctor held the
door open for Cat while she scrambled into the rear seat next to
them.
“I’ll meet you at the house,” the
doctor told them and closed the door, slapping the roof of the limo
twice, signaling the chauffeur to move out.
In the unnatural silence of the
limousine, they glided along the streets, skirting the
silver-skinned towers of downtown Fort Worth. Even the brick-topped
Camp Bowie Boulevard was reduced to a nonintrusive
purr.
Turning off the boulevard, they wound
their way into the exclusive River Crest area, long favored by the
Forth Worth elite. The chauffeur traveled a road that snaked along
the hills that rose above the Trinity River, and eventually pulled
up to a pair of iron gates. After the smallest of pauses, the gates
swung open, admitting them to the private grounds of the Dyson
residence.
After following the driveway’s looping
curve, the limo rolled to a silent stop in front of the Dysons’
twenty-thousand-square-feet, Italianate mansion. Before the engine
was switched off, a handful of servants spilled from the house,
clearly anticipating their arrival.
With Tara cradled in his arms like a
baby, Ty climbed out of the vehicle and found himself face to face
with the ever-efficient head of the household staff, a balding man
with the improbable name of Brownsmith. Of indeterminate age, the
man no doubt looked fifty when he was twenty, and would still look
like fifty at the age of eighty. He disdained the term “butler”,
preferring the title of “houseman” to the Dysons.
His recognition of Ty was instant. “Mr.
Calder. I regret that we should meet again under such tragic
circumstances.” Despite his constant attempt to adopt the clipped,
precise speech of his English counterparts, his voice had never
lost its distinctive Texas drawl. To eliminate any need for a
response from Ty, Brownsmith added quickly, as he pivoted with a
gesturing sweep of his hand, “If you’ll bring Miss Tara this
way.”
With the houseman in the lead, Ty
carried Tara into the house, across a marbled foyer, styled to
resemble an interior courtyard, up a palatial grand staircase, and
along a wide corridor to a suite of rooms. All the while Brownsmith
directed a flurry of scurrying servants.
Two maids waited to guide Ty through
the sitting room to the bedroom, decorated in a daring but deft mix
of scarlet and gold, softened with delicate touches of
pink.
Again Tara protested the separation
when Ty attempted to lay her on the bed. “No. Don’t
go.”
“I’m not going anywhere. But you can’t
get in bed with your shoes on,” he chided, which apparently made
sense to Tara because she sank onto the satin coverlet, lying
quietly while he slipped off her black pumps. A maid was there to
take them from him before he could drop them on the
floor.
“Dr. Parker should be here directly. He
had to stop at his clinic to pick up some medication for Miss
Tara,” the houseman explained, then lifted his head sharply,
catching some sound that escaped Ty’s hearing. He stepped to the
window, parting the sheers to look out. “Here he is now. I’ll bring
him right up.” He moved away from the window, issuing orders to the
maids as he went. “Close the draperies, and see that Mr. Calder has
a chair by the bed so that he can sit with Miss Tara.” On his way
into the sitting room, Brownsmith met Cat in the connecting
doorway. He immediately intercepted her. “Forgive me but these are
Miss Tara’s private quarters.”
Turning, Ty saw Cat. “That’s my sister,
Brownsmith.”
The houseman recovered quickly. “Miss
Cathleen,” he said, making use of his instant recall to address her
by her full given name. “You have grown into a lovely young woman.
Forgive me for failing to recognize you.”
“Of course,” Cat replied as he waved
her into the room, then disappeared himself into the sitting room.
“How could he remember me when I barely remember him?”
Ty nodded in agreement. “You couldn’t
have met more than once or twice.” Then Tara was reaching for him,
on the verge of panic again.
Even after the doctor administered the
sedative, Tara clung to him, locking his hand in a death grip and
refusing to let go. With the doctor’s departure, the maids
withdrew, leaving Ty and Cat alone in the darkened room with Tara.
They spoke little and then in hushed voices.
Late in the afternoon, it started to
rain. Ty sat by the bed and listened to the sound of the
wind-whipped rain pelting the windowpanes. It was a lonely sound,
made more so by the dim light and the thick silence.
It was along about early evening when
Brownsmith returned to the room and informed them that a light
supper was waiting for them in the sitting room.
Cat shook her head when Ty suggested
she eat first. “She seems to be sleeping soundly. I’ll sit with
her. It’s time you had a break.”
Ty didn’t argue with that. Instead, he
untangled his hand from Tara’s fingers and walked quietly into the
sitting room. A tall lamp cast a pool of light over the table set
for two by the window. He cast one glance at the table then crossed
to the telephone extension on a gilded table next to an easy chair,
upholstered in a scarlet and pink plaid silk. He picked up the
receiver and dialed the ranch. Jessy answered on the second ring.
In the background, he could hear a baby crying.
“Sounds like I called at a bad
time.”
“It’s just Laura, wanting her diaper
changed. I take it you’re back at the hotel. How was the
funeral?”
Ty hesitated. “Actually I’m at
Tara’s.”
“Oh.” Pain cut through her, sharp and
swift, caused as much by the small pause as by his reply. Jessy
felt the old flare of anger and resentment, but kept it out of her
voice. “How is she?”
“She collapsed at the church. The
doctor gave her a sedative after we brought her back to the house.
Cat’s sitting with her now.”
There wasn’t any comment Jessy could
make that wouldn’t sound trite or false. So she said instead, “Then
you haven’t had time to make any calls to set up appointments to
look over the sale facilities.”
“No. Not yet. If I get back to the
hotel early enough tonight, I’ll call and see what I can
arrange.”
Which told Jessy that he didn’t plan to
leave Tara’s anytime soon. Maybe it was simple jealousy she felt;
Jessy wasn’t sure, but she didn’t trust Tara, not completely. And
she never would.