Wild Horses

He walked down the hall and saw that the office doors that had been open before were now closed. He tried the first one. Unlocked, it swung open easily.

Adam hesitated a moment, staring into the room. He wrestled with his conscience. His conscience lost. He stepped inside, not only an intruder, but a spy.

He told himself that he must do it, he had to learn as much about these people as he could. He needed to know their strengths. And even more, their weaknesses.

Once they knew who he really was, they could become his enemies—any or all of them—in a heartbeat.

BRIDGET BLUM, the cook and housekeeper at the Circle T, was one of seven children of an Irish mother and a German father. Her father, Dolph Blum had been the chief wrangler at the Double J, the old Kendell spread.

Dolph was a large man with a square jaw, a pug nose and a ready grin. His wife, Maeve, was tiny, as slender as a wand, but it was she who’d kept those seven children in order. Her voice could crack like a whip.

Bridget took after her father. She was almost six feet tall, and she had big hands, a big smile and a big heart. At forty-five she had never been married, and if she missed having a husband, she never let it show.

She seemed happy and busy with her own family: three married sisters, three married brothers and a whopping total of thirty-one nieces and nephews. Maeve had died four years ago, and Dolph was frail. Bridget, the eldest daughter, had become surrogate mother of the clan.

She had, as well, her adoptive family: Carolyn and Vern and the people of the Circle T. Yes, Bridget had plenty of people to care for and love; she did not know what an empty day felt like.

Because Carolyn and Vern were like kin, her heart filled with empathy for them over the ailing baby. But because, unlike either of them, she came from a large family, she was not as frightened as they were. In Bridget’s sprawling brood, someone was always falling off a bicycle or crashing out of a tree or tumbling down the stairs.

So when a true emergency arose, Bridget did what she always did: she went to church, lit candles and said prayers. That’s what she’d done today.

Just as she drove through the gates of the Circle T, her cell phone rang. This startled her, for she wasn’t yet used to the contraption—it still seemed supernatural to her. She prayed its ringing didn’t signal bad news about the baby.

She pulled over to the side of the drive, parked and rummaged through her purse for the chirping phone. “Hello?” she said breathlessly. “Hello?”

“Bridget, it’s Mick. I called to tell you that the Duran man got here from the Caribbean. I need to get to town before the bank closes, and I’m on my way. I had to leave him alone at the house. Are you close to home?”

Bridget glanced down the lane. The house was just around the curve. “I’m good as there right now. I’m nearly to the gates.”

“Good.” Relief eased Mickey’s voice. “I didn’t like the idea of giving a stranger the run of the place. And I wanted to warn you he was there.”

Bridget’s heart skipped guiltily. “Tarnation! I truly meant to get straight back. I stopped in the parking lot to help Mary Gibson with a flat tire. I swear I forgot about what’s his face—who?”

“Adam Duran. It’s all right. I’d forgotten about him, too. Anyway I’ve only been gone ten minutes.”

“Ah,” said Bridget, relieved, “and I’ll be there in two. What trouble could the man get up to in twelve minutes, I ask you?”

IF A MAN is determined and observant, he can discover a great deal in twelve minutes. Adam was determined, observant and quick to learn.

He was looking over Mickey Nightingale’s office when he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. The housekeeper—she must be back. I need to get out of here.

He turned from the pictures arranged on Mickey’s bookshelf. Her office was neat, almost Spartan, but like Carolyn, she enjoyed having framed snapshots about her while she worked. Adam had studied those snapshots with interest. Mickey’s choice of pictures was revealing—and mystifying.

But he had no time to ponder the significance of the photographs. He slipped out of her office, shut the door and made his way to the den. He sat down in an armchair and snatched up a copy of Western Horseman. He swept his legs up onto the ottoman and opened the magazine just as he heard the front door swing open.

He waited, giving the woman time to enter. Tentative footsteps sounded on the tiles of the foyer. A female voice called out, “Yoo-hoo. Mister Duran? It’s me, Bridget Blum. Mickey just phoned to tell me you were here. Mister Duran?”

Then she appeared, framed in the doorway, a tall woman, sturdy rather than plump. Adam sprang to his feet, holding the magazine in his left hand. He tried to seem friendly, comfortable and confident—as if he had every right to be sitting in the Trents’ family room, as if he himself were like the Trents—someone of note and power.

He approached Bridget, stretching his right hand to her. “Hi. I’m Adam Duran. Miss Nightingale said it was okay to use this room.”

The woman gripped his hand and shook it with surprising strength. But she had the same look of disbelief on her face that Mickey Nightingale had when she’d met him.

For the second time that day, he wished he’d sprung for new jeans, a more respectable shirt. But if his shabbiness caught her off guard, she quickly recovered.

She pumped his hand more vigorously, and friendly words began to spill from her as if she were a very cornucopia of hospitality.

“Welcome, Mr. Duran. I’m sorry you got left here rattling around alone. Everything is at sixes and sevens today. I don’t know if Mickey told you, but we’ve had such sad news, well, I hope it doesn’t stay sad, and that the ending is happy. Mrs. Trent’s grandbaby came early. She’s not well, poor tyke.”

Adam nodded. Her warmth disarmed him in a way Mickey’s chill could not. “She told me,” he said, troubled anew at his mission here. “I’m sorry. I came at a bad time. I’ll try to stay out of your way.”

“You’re not in my way at all.” She dropped his hand but gave his shoulder a motherly squeeze. “Are you hungry? Why, I hear they hardly give you any food at all these days on an airplane. You’re lucky if they toss you a pretzel. Did you have lunch?”

“No,” he admitted. “But it’s okay. I—”

The big woman seemed shocked. “Didn’t Mick feed you anything?”

“No,” he repeated, almost shyly. “But it’s okay, really—”

“It’s not okay,” Bridget said firmly. “I made some cheese bread for you special. You come into the kitchen and have a little snack while I start whipping up supper. If Mickey didn’t get some food into you—well, she’s upset, is all. Carolyn Trent is as dear as a mother to her.”

Before Adam could protest, she had him in the kitchen, seated at a round oak table. He watched as she bustled, plugging in the coffeemaker, putting the cheese bread into the oven to warm.

She was an attractive woman in her large-scale way. She had a broad, fair face with pink cheeks, a small nose and a generous jaw. Her dark red hair was so curly it was almost crinkly.

She asked all the polite questions about his flight, and he answered, but he didn’t want to talk about himself. He guided the conversation in a different direction. “Have you worked for Mrs. Trent long?”

She set down a coffee mug, a plate and a fork before him. “Nine years,” she said. “My aunt Consuela used to have this job. But she quit after the tornado, when the barn fell on Mr. Trent. ‘No deseo más de este tiempo de Tejas,’ she said. ‘No more of this Texas weather for me.’ And she made my uncle Emil take a job in British Columbia. Well, maybe she had a point. Because, at least, she missed that accursed flood last fall.”

Adam looked up, his interest piqued. “Tornado?” he said. “Flood?”

“Indeed.” Bridget shook her head with feeling. “It’s never dull around here. Now the tornado was an act of God, but that flood, it was another matter entirely….”

She took the conversational bit between her teeth, and she was off and running.

MICKEY STRETCHED out her trip to town. She went to the library, and Violet, the head librarian, had already heard about Beverly and the baby. News traveled fast in Crystal Creek.

“Bridget’s sister told me,” Violet said with a sad shake of her head. She led Mickey straight to the medical section and handed her the latest book about children with heart conditions. “It’s a good book,” she said. “Last winter, Dr. Purdy recommended it to Betsy Hutchinson when her little boy was diagnosed with a heart murmur. Betsy said it was a great comfort.”

She patted Mickey’s arm, and Mickey thanked her, touched by her concern.

Mickey went to the Long Horn Coffee Shop. Kasey, the manager, came right over and filled her a coffee cup. She nodded at the book on the red-and-white checkered tablecloth. “I heard about what happened. Nora Slattery was in here earlier. She was mighty upset.”

Mickey nodded sadly. Nora was the wife of J.T.’s foreman and had lived on J.T.’s ranch for years. She had known Beverly since childhood.

Kasey said, “My cousin’s baby had the same problem, Mick. She came through with flying colors. You’d look at her and never guess. I hope it’s the same for this little gal. But Carolyn’s devastated at this point, I imagine.”

“More than devastated,” Mickey said. “I—don’t think I can talk about it.” She didn’t want to cry again.

“I understand, hon. Tell her hello, and that we’re all pulling for her and the whole family. I’ll leave you be. Read your book. Maybe you’ll feel better.”

She surprised Mickey by giving her a brisk kiss on the cheek. Then she vanished into the kitchen. It was an hour before the supper rush would begin, and Mickey was the lone customer. She nursed her coffee and tried to read, but the words danced senselessly before her eyes.

She finished her coffee and knew she couldn’t put off returning to the Circle T forever. Reluctantly she drove home. Just as she pulled into the carport, Leon Vanek appeared. He stood at the carport’s edge, shifting his weight, clenching and unclenching his big hands.

His expression was far from happy. She wondered uneasily what he wanted. She got out of the car and faced him. “Yes, Leon? Did you want to see me about something?”

He stared at the gravel in the drive, pulling his hat down farther over his face. “Mr. and Mrs. Trent are in Denver. Because that child is sick.”

I know that all too well, Mickey thought. “Yes. We’re all concerned.”

Leon said, “You should have notified me. I’m the foreman here. You should tell me these things. I heard it from Werner. Him a common hand, and he knew before I did.”

Mickey knew Leon was a proud man and that his pride had been hurt. But she resented his accusatory tone. “I’m sorry. I just had a lot on my mind. We all did.”

Leon didn’t look placated. “I saw a man come today after they left. Come to the house.”

Mickey stared at him in puzzlement. “Yes? It’s the man Carolyn was expecting. He’s come about the lease land.”

Leon frowned. “Well, she isn’t here. And neither’s Mr. Trent.”

“Right now their place is with Beverly and Sonny.”

“You didn’t have time to tell me Mrs. Trent’s gone. That puts a lot of responsibility on my shoulders. But you had time to take him in and make him feel right at home.”

“That’s part of my responsibility,” she shot back. “It’s what Carolyn would want.”

“That man isn’t staying, is he?” Leon scowled and kicked the gravel.

“Carolyn invited him to stay. She couldn’t know this would happen.”

Leon raised his face, which was red with displeasure. “I saw him. He doesn’t look respectable. He looks like one of those hippies.”

Mickey almost smiled at the quaintness of the word “hippies,” but Leon’s disapproval seemed real. When she didn’t answer, he frowned harder. “It’s not fitting, a man like that to stay alone in the house with you. If you want me to ask him to leave, I will.”

“I’m not alone with him. Bridget’s with us. And if I wanted him to go, I’m capable of telling him myself.”

He looked more aggravated than before. “I’m concerned about your reputation. It doesn’t look good. Bridget or no. That’s all I got to say.”

“Thank you,” she said coolly, “but I can watch out for my own reputation. Good day, Leon.”

She started toward the house, but he put his hand on her wrist. It was a possessive move, and her resentment flared more hotly. He said, “I’ll watch out for you. If he bothers you, you let me know. I’ll take care of him.”

She snatched her hand away. “I said good day.” She turned her back on him and walked away in anger.

MICKEY FACED fresh exasperation when she found Bridget covering the dining room table with a white linen cloth. “Bridget, I want us to eat in the kitchen tonight. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you did not,” Bridget said righteously. “And this is what Carolyn would want. I aim to do it to the way she’d have it done herself. She’d snatch me bald, giving him supper in the kitchen.”

Mickey rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t exactly seemed the type for formal dining. The way he dresses, he’d probably be more comfortable on the back porch, eating beans out of a can.”

“Humph.” Bridget put her hand on her hip. “You sound high-and-mighty all of a sudden. It’s not like you, Mick. He’s a very nice young man. He has a nice way about him. Not up-pity at all. And he’s handsome, to boot. Lord, like a movie star. But he acts like he doesn’t even know it.”

Mickey gazed at her suspiciously. “Have you been talking to him?”

“I fed him—which you forgot to do. We chatted a wee bit. It seemed the polite thing to do, that’s all.”

Bridget would not hear another word about eating in the kitchen.

So Mickey, as Carolyn had intended, sat across the dining room table from Adam Duran, but she sat alone with him.

The good silver and china were set on the best linen. There were flowers—and candlelight. Carolyn was a great lover of flowers and candlelight.

From the kitchen came the succulent scents of Bridget’s sauerbraten and dumplings. One of Carolyn’s favorite albums played softly on the sound system, The Ballad of the Irish Horse.

Bridget had succeeded all too well; the atmosphere was pleasant, touched with elegance, even intimacy. Drat, thought Mickey, who didn’t want to think of intimacy with this disturbing man. Drat and double drat and triple drat.

She hadn’t dressed for supper. Neither had Adam. She wore the same denim slacks and high-necked white blouse. He wore the same washed-out jeans and faded work shirt.

He and she both bent, without speaking, over their salads. The music swelled, faded, then built again. The candlelight gleamed on the gold streaks in Adam’s hair. It flashed from their silver forks and the crystal glasses.

On the way home, Mickey had mentally listed enough neutral subjects to get through the ordeal of supper. She would save her more pointed questions for dessert, when he might be warmed enough by wine and good food to be candid.

She trotted out her first innocuous remark. “I hope you got to enjoy the wildflowers on your drive here. It’s a particularly nice spring.”

He was supposed to say, Yes, the drive was nice, the weather was nice, and the flowers were nice. Then she’d ask, Is it spring in the Caribbean, too? What’s the weather like there? Is it already hot?

But he instantly booby-trapped her plans. “I hear you had a fall that wasn’t so fine last year. That some developer caused a helluva flash flood. Mrs. Trent was in a lawsuit against him. She and the other ranchers.”

Mickey almost choked on her lettuce. She stole a quick sip of water. “Oh,” she said, flustered. “That. Thank God it wasn’t worse than it was.”

“Which wasn’t worse? The flood? Or the lawsuit?” Shadows played on the planes of his face, but even in the muted light she thought she saw a glint of challenge in his eyes.

“Neither. The flood didn’t do any major damage, here at least.”

“Really? I heard it wiped out a housing development.”

He said it calmly, but his words hit a nerve, rousing her wariness.

“A would-be development,” she corrected. “There were only five houses. None was finished. The developer put up this stupid dam—”

“—and the dam didn’t hold,” he finished for her. “So the developer pulled out. His name was Fabian, wasn’t it?”

He was right, and two suspicions struck Mickey at once. He and Bridget must have had more than a wee chat. Bridget seemed taken with Adam. Had he charmed her into spilling out information the whole time Mickey was away?

But the more ominous one was the same fear that had haunted Caro when Fabian started buying up local land.

Mickey threw discretion to the wind. She said, “You seem to know a lot. Fabian wanted all the land he could get. Enoch Randolph had plenty of it. Did Fabian offer to buy it?”

Adam tilted his wineglass so the candlelight reflected in its red depths and studied it. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “He offered.”

Mickey held her breath. “Well?” she challenged.

Adam tipped the glass to another angle, watching the changing refraction. “Enoch wouldn’t sell. Some fancy lawyer came to the Bahamas to try to talk him into it. Enoch laughed in his face.”

Relief swept through her. “Caro always said Enoch was his own man.”

Adam’s gaze shifted to her eyes again. “He turned down a hell of a lot of money.”

“So did Carolyn. So did most of the ranchers. It takes character to hold out against greed.”

“Does it?” There was mockery in his voice. “With Enoch, all it took was cussedness.”

Mickey looked at him questioningly.

“He knew he was dying,” Adam said. “He said, ‘This sonuvva bitch says I’ll be rich. What good’s money gonna do me? Buy me a gold coffin? Screw it.’”

The humor was dark, but Mickey smiled dutifully. “Good for him. Some men might find it tempting, to be rich for even a little while.”

Adam shook his head. “He didn’t like anything about the scheme.”

“We didn’t either. We’ve got a way of life here. Fabian threatened it.”

“You’re in favor of preservation?” Adam raised an eyebrow as if doubtful. “Protecting nature?”

“Yes, and so is Carolyn,” she insisted. “She and the others worked hard for it. She’ll be grateful to know Enoch helped.”

“Grateful?” he echoed. “He didn’t do it to help. He did it because he felt like doing it.”

Bridget swept in, carrying plates of sauerbraten, dumplings and homemade applesauce. “Save room for dessert,” she said cheerfully to Adam. “I made my special German chocolate cake.”

He smiled at her, and Bridget beamed at him as indulgently as a fond aunt. Mickey shot Bridget a warning look that said You and I are going to have a serious talk. But Bridget didn’t notice.

Gamely, Mickey raised her glass in a toast. “Here’s to Enoch, for helping to protect the Hill Country, whatever his reasons.”

“I’ll drink to Enoch,” he said, clicking his glass against hers. He did not mention the Hill Country.

They each sipped. He said, “You’re very…close to Carolyn and Vern.”

Good Lord, had Bridget talked about that, too? “Yes. I guess I am.”

“Especially Carolyn.”

Mickey felt unsettled by this turn in the conversation. “Well, it’s Carolyn I work for,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Vern stays busy at the courthouse?”

“Very busy. He’s the only justice of the peace in the county.”

Adam gave a wry smile. He had a good smile, too good. It did odd, tickly things to the pit of her stomach. “I thought a justice of the peace was just a guy who could marry people.”

Mickey fought to ignore the tickle. “No. He handles civil and criminal cases and small-claims court. And works with juveniles. He’s got a lot of duties.”

“So Carolyn runs the ranch.”

“Yes.” Mickey pushed at the applesauce with her spoon. “But let’s talk about you. How did you come to know Enoch?”

“Let’s save that for later,” he said. “I’m staying in Carolyn’s house, enjoying her hospitality. I’d like to know more about her. She’s run this place a long time?”

Mickey’s guard went up. “Yes,” she said, not elaborating.

“How long?” he persisted.

“She inherited it from her mother. Almost twenty years ago.”

“She’s lived her whole life here?”

“Yes,” was all Mickey would say.

But Adam wasn’t put off by short answers. He pressed on. “Carolyn had a sister. She married a neighbor, J. T. McKinney. But she’s been dead for years, hasn’t she?”

“Yes.” Mickey didn’t know where these questions were leading, but they made her nervous.

“What happened to Carolyn’s father?”

Mickey’s body tensed. “He—deserted his family. The marriage was never very stable. One day he just disappeared. I don’t feel comfortable talking about it.”

Adam took another drink of wine. “It’s not easy for a man to disappear completely. Does she even know if he’s alive?”

Mickey squared her shoulders combatively. “She got word five years ago that he’d died in Canada. Now let’s drop the subject. Please.”

“Fine,” he said with a shrug. “We’ll talk about you. How long have you worked here?”

“Nine years,” she said. “I sort of ‘interned’ here for two years while I finished high school. I started right after Beverly went to Denver.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Beverly’s an only child. You must have become a sort of substitute daughter.”

Mickey blinked in displeasure. “I’m an employee, that’s all.”

This was not the truth, but Mickey would be damned before she told him any more. Mickey and Carolyn had filled painful emotional gaps in each other’s lives, and there was more than affection between them. There was love and the truest friendship Mickey had ever known.

“I didn’t mean you replaced her daughter.” Adam shrugged. “It just seems you’re more like one of the family. What about your own family? Where are they?”

“I have no family.” She said it sharply.

Suddenly his expression, so unreadable before, became sympathetic. “I’m sorry. Your parents are dead?”

“My mother died when I was sixteen.” Mickey said it with such acrimony that she hoped it would stop his questions.

But he nodded, almost sadly. He had an unexpected gift for seeming concerned. “That’s a hard age to lose a parent. And your father?”

She should lie. She should tell him none of this was his business. But if he wanted the ugly truth, she would give it to him. “My father divorced my mother when I was seven. He moved to California and married another woman. He never communicated with us again. He made it clear he didn’t want to.”

He set down his fork. He whistled softly. He put his elbow on the table and his chin on his fist. He stared at her. “So you were sixteen years old, without parents? What did you do?”

“I became a ward of the court. Nobody wanted me for a foster child. So Vern and Carolyn became my guardians. They took me in.”

He gazed at her with disconcerting steadiness. “Bridget said Carolyn put you through business school.”

I’m going to kill Bridget, Mickey thought. I’m going to put my hands around her neck and strangle her dead.

“Can we please talk about something else? What about your family?”

He shook his head. “I see why you’re close to Carolyn. You both had the same experience. The runaway father, the abandonment. She must seem like a second mother to you.”

No. She feels like my only mother; the one who really counted, the one I could depend on, who never shamed me or scared me or made me feel bad about myself.

But Mickey didn’t want to think about her real mother, a deeply troubled woman. Her appetite had fled, and she pushed her plate away. She struggled against the urge to excuse herself from the table and leave Adam sitting alone.

She must have looked as unhappy as she felt. He said, “I’m sorry. It’s just that your relationship is unusual. I—glanced into your office. You have all these photographs. Of you and her and her family. None of you and anyone else.”