Wild Horses. Bethany CampbellЧитать онлайн книгу.
years for this baby. The baby was a girl and she would arrive in three weeks by C-section. She would be named for Carolyn and called Carrie.
As the due date neared, Carolyn’s excitement had quickened into intoxication. She and Vern were to fly to Denver to welcome the baby like the little princess she was. The trip was eclipsing almost everything else at the ranch.
Mickey was certain where Carolyn would be—in the spare bedroom she was transforming into a nursery for the baby’s visits. Mickey followed the scent of fresh paint down the hall.
She found Carolyn humming as she coated a window frame a rosier shade of pink. She was so intent on her work that she barely glanced up. “What do you think, Mick? Looks better than that pale pastel, doesn’t it? Cheerier?”
It’s the third time you’ve switched the color, Mickey wanted to tease. Carolyn had changed her mind about the wallpaper four times, the curtains three times, and the crib twice.
But the news of Enoch Randolph hung like a dark cloud over Mickey, so she could make no joke. “Carolyn,” she said uneasily. “You got a letter from Nassau this morning. I think you’d better read it.”
Carolyn kept painting, a small, puzzled smile crossing her face. “I don’t know anybody in Nassau.” Then suddenly her smile died, and her brush went still. “Wait. Uncle Enoch—he could be there. Is it about him?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Carolyn saw it then, the envelope in Mickey’s grip. She set the brush aside, her face wary. She knows, Mickey thought. She’s guessed.
Carolyn turned from the window frame, her face pale. “I don’t think I want to read it here.”
Mickey didn’t blame her. The nursery was meant to be a happy room, a place to celebrate life, not think about death.
She took Carolyn’s arm. “Maybe we should go into the den.”
Carolyn nodded, her lips pressed together. Mickey led the way, and when Carolyn sat on the leather couch Mickey settled beside her and handed her the envelope.
For a moment Carolyn only gazed down at it. She smoothed her blond hair, a nervous gesture. “He’s gone, isn’t he?” She kept her face severely controlled. “He’s dead.”
“I’m sorry.” Mickey felt the illogical guilt of the bearer of bad news.
Carolyn squared her shoulders, withdrew the letter and read it. Tears sprang to her eyes. She wiped them away. Mickey suspected they would be the only tears shed in the whole state of Texas for the old man, perhaps the only ones in the world.
“I’m glad he didn’t suffer,” Carolyn said in a shaky voice. “I’m glad it was peaceful.”
Mickey nodded.
“He had a long life,” Carolyn said in the same tone. “And he lived it the way he wanted. But I wish that this—this Duran man had phoned when it happened. This is so impersonal. Enoch and I didn’t have much of a relationship. Oh, hell, to tell the truth, he didn’t really even like me. But he was family.”
Mickey put her arm around Carolyn’s shoulder. “You always treated him well. You never forgot his birthday. You remembered him at Christmas. Whenever there was news about the land, you wrote him.”
“And he never answered.” Carolyn’s sigh was rueful. “My God, it’s the end of an era. He’s the last of my father’s generation of that family. And now I’m the last of my generation—the oldest living one. It gives me a shiver. Like a goose walking over my grave.”
She waved the letter unhappily. “But this really is cold. Hard-hearted, almost.” She frowned and reread it. “Who is this man?”
Mickey shrugged. “Nobody uses a typewriter like that anymore. He must be an old man, sticking to old ways.”
“Why is he the executor? And why does he have to come here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe your uncle wanted him to hand over the deed in person. That was the agreement, wasn’t it? The lease land’s yours now.”
Carolyn stared at the dates, frowning harder still. “Yes…but he’s coming tomorrow? Good God—tomorrow?”
“He wrote the letter more than a week ago,” Mickey said, pointing to its date. “It must have got misrouted.”
“Great. Just peachy. He doesn’t sound like Mr. Charm, does he? But I should invite him to stay with us. Especially since he’s coming all this way.”
Inwardly Mickey flinched. Things were frantic enough without an unbidden houseguest, and a stranger at that. Carolyn was trying to be gracious, but Mickey could tell it cost her effort.
“Do you want me to phone him for you? I’ll be glad to.”
Carolyn grimaced. “I’d love you to. But no, it’s something I should do myself. He’s probably wondering why I haven’t answered.”
She folded the letter, stood and handed it to Mickey. “Put it on my desk, will you, sweetie? I’ll call him later. First I’m going into town. To the florist. Maybe Enoch didn’t want any ceremony, but I can’t stand not to do something. I’ll order some flowers for the Sunday church service.”
“But if he didn’t want any ceremony—”
“They’re not for him. They’re for me,” Carolyn said. “I won’t even mention his name. I just need to do—something. Closure. A way to say goodbye. The Randolph men. Dead. All three.”
Mickey knew Carolyn’s heart churned with complex emotions. The old man had been eccentric, unfriendly and a loner. He had never married, he was basically shiftless, but he’d stuck to the bargain he’d made so long ago.
Carolyn had always been prompt with her checks, and over the years had raised her payments without being asked. She always saw that he got a fair price for the use of the land. And the money let him live as he chose, a free man.
Enoch had made the original agreement with Carolyn’s mother. He didn’t give a damn about his Texas land, which he’d won in a poker game. He’d gone to the Caribbean and bought a houseboat in the Bahamas, at Little Exuma. He’d never worked another day in his life.
Now Carolyn gazed down at her fingernails, speckled with rosy paint. “I’d better clean up to go to town.” Her face was pensive.
But she was, after all, Carolyn Trent, and half an hour later, when she walked out the door, she held herself royally straight, and she looked like a million dollars. With pride, Mickey watched her go.
LEON VANEK, the new foreman, also watched as Carolyn left. He stood in the shadows just inside the stable door.
At fifty-six, Carolyn Trent was still glamorous. She came from a long line of strong and beautiful women who seemed born to rule. Her domain was the Circle T, twenty-one thousand acres of prime Hill Country.
It was Carolyn who had run the Circle T since the death of her first husband. Her second husband, Vern, was an affable fellow, kindly and intelligent, but no cattleman. He was the county J.P., not a rancher.
Vern presided over justice court, small claims court and administrative hearings, and Carolyn presided over the cattle business. She did it with a firm and expert hand. Generously, she claimed she couldn’t handle the job without Mickey Nightingale.
Leon Vanek was new to his job, but he had long studied the Trents because they fascinated him. He was also interested in Mickey, for more than one reason. First, he liked the Circle T. It was the best job he’d ever had.
He’d been raised five counties away, and had worked his way up to assistant foreman at the old MacWhorter Ranch. Earl MacWhorter was a tightfisted old fogy, and both he and his ranch were in decay.
When Earl died, Leon forged glowing references for himself and snagged a series of jobs in Wyoming and Oklahoma. He was an abnormally