A Woman of Fortune (11 page)

11

C
laire leaned back against a stack of pillows on her bed and stared mindlessly at a program on the History Channel. Both the Bwa and the Buna people of Burkina Faso wore masks during their colorful wedding ceremonies, hiding their true identities until well into the marriage.

Apparently, as Claire had recently learned, the custom was not limited to Africa.

“Are you going to talk to me?” Tuck unbuttoned his shirt.

She glanced at the bedside table. The clock read nearly midnight, far too late for any more drama. Reluctantly, she shrugged away the hurt and turned to him. “I am talking to you.”

Tuck unhooked his belt and slid it from his pants. “Claire, you know what I mean.”

Claire sighed and returned her eyes to the television. The people on the screen danced wildly around a campfire, ducking and darting to a loud beat.

She wasn't normally mean-spirited, but she had a strange need to counter her own misery by inflicting pain back on Tuck. Besides, did he think he could wreck their lives and come home to a smile on her face?

Tuck grabbed the remote from her hand, his face flushed. He
clicked off the television. “Claire, we'll never make it through this if we don't—”

Claire threw back the covers, stood, and grabbed her robe from the end of the bed. “Okay, let's talk, Tuck. Why don't you begin by telling me what we're going to do now?”

“Baby—”

“Don't ‘baby' me. Tuck, did you even stop to think about the consequences here?” She shot her husband a strained look. “Who is going to tell Margarita that after working for our family for nearly fifteen years, she no longer has a job? Where will she go?” She took a deep breath. “All three of our children might as well wear scarlet Ms on their foreheads. They'll go through life carrying the shame you thrust upon them. And Lainie? It's a no-brainer Reece Sandell will move as far away from our daughter as possible. You pulled her dreams right out from under her feet.”

Tuck buried his head in his hands. “I never meant to hurt my family. Claire, you have to believe me.”

“And me.” Claire's voice broke. “Did you think about me? What am I supposed to do after they cart you off and take all our things?”

Tuck reached for her. She yanked her arm away, anger now starting to push its way to the surface as she counted the cost of her husband's choices. “Maybe Jana Rae and Clark will take me in. Except you stole
their
money too.” She swung around and planted her feet. “In the end, maybe Mother was right. Maybe you are just a football jock who scores by mowing people down on the field.”

Claire winced, seeing in Tuck's eyes the wound her words had sliced open. Her shoulders slumped, and she sat on the end of the bed and stared at the dark television screen. Her voice dropped to nearly a whisper. “In the end, you knew this was going down. Yet you kept letting people—innocent people—invest, knowing they would never get any money back.” She lifted her head and looked at Tuck. “How could you do that and sleep at night?”

“Do you have any idea the kind of pressure I've been under all these years?”

Claire turned. “Pressure?”

“Yes, pressure.” Tuck's chin jutted. “Pressure to overcome your mother's disdain, to be somebody my kids could admire, pressure to keep up in the circles you were used to running in.” He shook his head. “And in these last years, pressure to provide profits to a bunch of greedy investors who couldn't begin to count the millions already in their bank accounts.”

“You're saying it's our fault?” Claire looked at him in disbelief. “Are you that out of touch? Most of your investors were people trying to build retirement funds or trying to—”

“Trying to get rich quick off some scheme cooked up to pad their bank accounts without them working for it,” he said, finishing her sentence. “Besides, do you really believe people aren't suspicious of those kinds of returns? Don't you think they watch the news and see how Bernie Madoff and the Enron bunch pulled together wealth? Secretly they consider the possibility of a sham—but their desire for wealth pushes them to take the risk, hoping they won't be the ones caught when everything tumbles.”

“I can't believe you are pushing the blame onto others for what you did.”

“I'm not pushing blame onto anyone. I'm simply saying I'm not the only one wearing black here.”

“Really?” Claire scowled. “And what color am I wearing now that everything has tumbled?”

His silence angered her. “How am I to blame for any of this?” she asked.

“I'm not saying you
are
to blame exactly.”

She stood and faced Tuck. “Then what are you saying?”

“Each year, those parties at the ranch grew bigger. The vacations we took more exotic. The clothes you and Princess wore more costly.”

Fury invaded every cell of Claire's body. “You're kidding, right? I passed up Princeton for UTA. I didn't plan to be an attorney or some other prestigious profession. I studied culinary arts because cooking feeds my soul.”

“You didn't have to. You were taught to marry well. And when you settled for me, I spent the next twenty years trying not to be your father.”

In a flash, Claire raised her hand and slapped Tuck.

He grabbed her wrist, pressing it down to the bed. Her body had no choice but to give in to the pressure. She folded and lay looking up at her husband's contorted face. She tried to wiggle free, but Tuck's strength—and the naked look in his eyes—held her pinned.

He sank next to her on the bed and drew her to him, burying his face into her neck. His musky scent filled her nostrils, and her tangled emotions—fear, sorrow, and anger—all knotted together to spark unexpected longing.

Tuck tugged at her nightgown, his mouth claiming hers before he pulled back to reveal in his face a need that reflected her own.

Over the next minutes, their bodies communicated what words never could.

The last twenty-eight hours had torn their souls asunder, yet the two had long ago become one. For better or worse, they were connected at their core. Claire could no more separate herself from this man than she could sever her arm.

Later, when she lay against her slumbering husband, she tried not to think about the future. Instead, she let her mind drift back to that four-poster bed in Jefferson, Texas, where she and Tuck had started their journey nestled beneath a quilt.

The memory strengthened her resolve. Somehow she and Tuck would get through this—together.

Claire ran her foot down Tuck's leg, across the familiar landscape of skin covered with hair. Suddenly her toes caught on something cold and hard.

The monitoring bracelet.

12

L
ainie stepped from the harsh Texas sunlight into the shadowed interior stables with concrete floors. For several seconds she stood in the comforting darkness, breathing familiar leather- and liniment-scented air before her fingers instinctively moved to the panel to the right of the door. She pulled the lever and light flooded the tack room.

After knotting her hair and securing the clip a bit tighter, her hands drew a blue bandana from her back jeans pocket and tied it at her neck. She made her way through the wash bay and headed for the stalls.

Overhead, a speaker crackled. “Miss Massey, do you need some help?”

Lainie glanced up at the security camera and nodded her head. “Thanks,” she hollered loud enough so the intercom could pick up her voice. “I'm going to take Pride out.”

“Sure thing, Miss Massey. I'll get her ready.”

Minutes later, Lainie's boots slipped into the stirrups and she pulled herself into the saddle. As if by magic, her shoulders relaxed. Normally, she didn't let circumstances get her down, but she was feeling the strain of the past couple of days. Who wouldn't?

Lainie's philosophy was fairly simple. “You have to create the life
you want to wear,” she often told herself. Unfortunately, that notion neglected how easily things could unravel, leaving your soul bare.

She leaned forward and stroked the sorrel mare's silky mane. The horse nickered softly in response.

Both Max and her mother had accused her of not embracing the reality of this whole situation with their father. Frankly, Lainie found that idea frustrating. What, did they expect her to stack up on self-help books and sit in front of the
Dr. Phil
show in tears just because life got difficult?

Lainie wasn't one to cry. She was stronger than that. Even in this.

She pressed her heels into Pride's side, urging the horse forward and into the open arena. With a click of her tongue, Lainie drove the horse into a soft lope. Around and around she circled the wrought-iron panels bordering the soft footing, letting the motion carry her mind back to a better time.

Lainie was thirteen the summer she spotted a pickup hauling a horse trailer down the lane. Elated, she'd jumped from her canopy bed and raced outside.

Daddy climbed out from his pickup. “Hey, Princess,” he said as she ran up and met him. He grinned. “What do you suppose we have here?”

“My horse!” Lainie clasped her arms around her daddy's waist, barely able to contain her excitement until the trailer slowed to a stop and she climbed the wheel well to peek inside. “Oh, Daddy. She's beautiful.”

The champion-sired horse came from the King Ranch of South Texas, known worldwide for their cutting horse stock. Pride and Prejudice, named after her favorite book, became Lainie's closest—and perhaps only real—friend.

Over the years, Lainie had confided in her four-legged buddy, telling Pride private thoughts she'd never dare share with any human. “You know, I'm not like everybody else, especially not the girls at school.”

Pride's ears had perked as if she understood.

Lainie grabbed the curry brush. “It's just, well—I think Daddy's right. I'm special.” She pulled the curry over Pride's front haunch, working the stiff bristles over her coat. Lainie paused her strokes. “You know what I'm saying?”

The horse swished her tail. Lainie tossed the brush on the shelf, then turned and stroked Pride's side with long, tender sweeps of her hand. “You wait and see, Pride.” A self-satisfied grin emerged. “Alaina Claire Massey is going to be really important someday.”

That whispered dream was the first of many secrets buried in cedar shavings and sweet-smelling hay, nestled in the corner of the last stall on the east aisle. No one else could begin to understand but Pride—the only living, breathing soul she trusted now with the smoldering truth about how it felt to watch her aspirations crumble.

After several laps in the arena, Lainie pulled at the reins and guided Pride out of the massive structure with its high steel-beamed ceiling and into the open air, pointing her mare in the direction of the small rise that barely concealed the river from view.

By the time Pride's hooves crested the rock cropping west of the large oak, sweat trickled down Lainie's spine and she wondered why she'd slipped her dad's old flannel shirt over her tank top.

From this vantage point, the steel-gray river drew a sharp contrast against the purple-hued bluebonnet patches leading to the water's edge. Daddy had nicknamed the small river running through their ranch Little Brazos, after the longest and most known river in Texas. Early Spanish settlers had called the winding water that meandered through nearly the entire state
Rio de dos Brazos de Dios
, meaning “the River of the Arms of God.”

Lainie didn't understand why exactly, but God's arms never seemed to stretch long enough. Especially in times like this.

Reece had not called back. Not answered her texts.

No doubt he'd followed the same news reports she'd watched all morning. Federal agents had investigated her father's business activities for months. A grand jury had found sufficient evidence
to issue an indictment, and US marshals had shown up at Legacy Ranch and seized business records from the offices.

Worse, her father admitted he'd done those awful things.

Investors clamored for answers. And far too often, photos of Reece and Lainie flashed on the screen with anchors pondering what effect the debacle would have on the Sandell campaign.

It didn't take a genius to conclude savvy campaign advisors were advising Reece to distance himself from this sticky situation.

Lainie bent forward and stroked Pride's side, then straightened. “Let's go, girl.”

Pride flung her head back and whinnied. Given rein, the mare lunged forward and her ears pricked, her hooves cutting into alluvial soil lining the bank.

Lainie released her hair clip, letting the blonde length flow in the wind. She leaned into Pride's gait, sensing the growing movement of the horse's muscles. They rounded a bend, raced past massive oaks and scrubs.

Lainie's legs tightened their grip. She felt Pride's withers tense and release.

Why had he done it? Why had Daddy put her in this situation?

The horse charged faster and rounded a bend, cutting a bit too closely to the edge. Lainie winced as a honey locust branch tore into her leg.

Did Daddy realize what he'd done? He'd stolen more than money. He'd robbed her of her chance to be a senator's wife.

Following a trick she'd learned as a barrel racer, Lainie whipped the reins into her mouth and gripped the leather with her teeth. She leaned tight against Pride to maintain balance, the saddle horn competing for residence with the knot in her gut.

With her hands free, she struggled to pull her father's flannel shirt first from one arm, then the next, fighting to rid herself of the garment.

She urged the horse on, matching her breathing to the sound of the hooves hitting the earth. Pride clipped down an embankment,
causing Lainie to nearly slide from the saddle. She braced. Pride lunged, clearing a patch of saltbush. The horse raced forward.

News clips played in her mind as hot wind brushed her face. Lainie wadded her father's shirt.

In a stunning development . . .

Candidate disgraced when . . .

A consent order
will still require prison term . . .

Lainie pressed the horse to go faster, harder—in an attempt to outrun the loss.

Finally, she reached out and tossed the shirt into the murky brown water swirling below.

And for the first time in years, Lainie cried.