Heiress (17 page)

"Indeed you can."

"It's staggering. I always knew Dean was wealthy, but I never dreamed I would ever have that much money. I'm not even sure what to do with it."

"What have you always wanted to do? No, seriously," Lane encouraged, observing her show of reluctance. "What's something you've always dreamed about having or doing if you had the money?"

Glancing down, she fingered her blouse. "I've always wanted to have a closet full of beautiful clothes—and a real home. But my dream. . ." She hesitated, glancing sideways at him, her self-consciousness returning. "This is going to sound silly and childish to you, Mr. Canfield."

"I'll only answer that if you call me Lane."

"Lane. Practically all my life, I've dreamed of owning an Arabian horse farm. Simoon—the filly Dean gave me—she was going to be my start. I've been saving money for the stud fee so I could breed her next year. Then I could sell the foal and use that money to buy me another broodmare, and slowly build a herd that way. I've been trying to find some land I could buy or lease, but it's all so expensive in California I can't afford it on my salary. And I never could bring myself to ask Dean to help me. He already had a farm, and, even though he never said so, I know he would have been uncomfortable if I got into the Arabian horse business, too. He knows all the top breeders everywhere in the world. How would he have explained me? And, of course, there was his family."

"You don't have to worry about any of that now. Money can't alter the past or make you happy, but it can help you to realize your wildest dreams. So go ahead and dream, Rachel. That's what it's for."

"It is, isn't it?" she mused. "Back in my apartment in L.A., I have the barn all designed for my dream farm. I mean, it's complete right down to the dimensions of the foaling stalls, the veterinary lab, the video equipment, everything—even the materials to be used in the construction."

Lane listened to her dream and remembered the way he had talked, back in the beginning when he was getting started. Those were the good days, when he'd had time to rejoice in his successes and savor the sweetness of them. Now, he was too busy. Watching her, he realized how much he missed the excitement of dreaming. He envied her the feeling.

"Have you given any thought to where you would like to build this?"

"I always assumed it would have to be California. Which is fine. Most of the major breeders are located in either California or Arizona. But where would I like to build it?" She paused, a slight ruefulness twisting her mouth. "Dean always talked so much about Texas."

"You will have to spend quite a bit of time here—at least initially. There's going to be a considerable amount of paperwork involved in transferring the funds into your name. Naturally you're going to need someone you can trust to advise you on the best way to invest a sum that size. I'm sure there are qualified people in California who can help you, but I think your father would have wanted me to assist you in making such decisions. You don't put over two million dollars in a savings account to draw interest. You can, but it isn't wise."

"I can't even comprehend that amount," Rachel admitted. "And I would like you to advise me. I know how much Dean trusted you. And how could I be sure I'd find someone else like you? But I hate the thought of bothering you—"

"Rachel, I would be happy to do it. I would never have volunteered myself otherwise. Have we got that settled?"

"Yes." She smiled and Lane felt warmed by it.

"Now, back to your dream farm. Tell me how you would go about accomplishing it." He encouraged Rachel to expound on her plans, enjoying the animation in her face, the free play of expression, and the total absence of the air of reserve behind which she'd hidden her feelings earlier.

"To start with, I'd like to find three or four really good mares," she began. "Ideally, I'd buy older broodmares—twelve or thirteen years old probably—proven producers. That way I could have better quality mares for a lower price. Even though their most productive years would be over, I could still hope to get three, maybe more good foals from them. If I could be lucky enough to buy broodmares already in foal, I'd have the choice the following year of selling the foals as weanlings to start generating an income or keeping the really good ones to build my own herd."

She continued to talk, telling him all her plans, her breeding theories, and her ambitions. Occasionally Lane would insert a comment or question, but mostly he just listened. For one so young, in his eyes, she had impressive knowledge of horses and various bloodlines. Then he remembered the way Abbie had talked, and decided that maybe it wasn't so surprising after all. Like father, like daughter.

"Look at the fountains." Rachel halted in surprise to stare at the molten-gold cascading water. "Have we talked that long?"

"We must have." Lane was surprised that he'd so completely lost track of time, as well. Appointments usually made him a prisoner of the clock. Yet he hadn't glanced at his watch once since he'd been with Rachel. He realized it was a good thing he'd told Frank to clear his calendar of all appointments this afternoon.

Rachel hastily stood up, smoothing the front of her skirt and withdrawing behind her wall of reserve again. "I'm sorry for boring you like that."

"My dear, you could never bore me." Lane straightened, reluctant to part from her. Rachel had awakened desires in him that he'd forgotten he'd ever felt. They were more than mere sexual urges, easily gratified. Their makeup was more complex, evoking a longing to arouse and please, to cherish and protect, to give and delight in the giving. Sobering feelings—all of them.

"It's kind of you to say that, Lane, but I know I did." Her lips curved faintly in a smile of regret, then she glanced down the street. "I left my car parked at the hotel."

"I'll walk you there." He swung his suit jacket over his shoulder again and curved his arm around the back of her waist, trying to keep the contact casual, as they set out of the park. "What are your immediate plans?"

"I've. . . made reservations to fly back to Los Angeles tomorrow morning." But she seemed to question whether she should cancel her plans.

"I'm sure there are plenty of things you need to take care of there as well as here. All the document signing and paperwork for the trust account can wait until next week. It isn't going to vanish between now and then."

"That's true. I could fly back here the first of the week."

"If you're short of funds, I'll be happy to advance you some money."

"No, I. . . I can use my savings. There's no reason not to now, is there?" She still seemed a little dazed by the news. "It's hard to think of myself as being rich, an heiress to a fortune."

"That's exactly what you are. Let me know what day you'll be coming back. We'll have dinner. I still haven't shown you that painting of your mother's I mentioned at lunch."

"I'd forgotten all about that."

"I hadn't." Any more than he'd forgotten what it had been like to hold her in his arms and kiss her as he'd done a little while ago. "Would you have dinner with me next week?"

"I'd like to, yes, but—"

Lane didn't want to hear another self-effacing comment about taking up his busy time. He cut in to stop her: "Then let's consider it a date," realizing that he meant it in the strictest old-fashioned sense.

"All right." She nodded in agreement, smiling faintly as if pleased, yet afraid something would happen to change it. Lane wondered how many times Dean had made a promise to her that he hadn't been able to keep. He didn't like the impression he had that Rachel was preparing herself to be disappointed. No one should be that insecure. He vowed to change that.

Chapter 10

The sound of Abbie's footsteps on the stairs disturbed the stillness that enveloped the house. There'd always been an empty feeling to it whenever her father was gone. Now that feeling would be permanent. Abbie paused near the bottom of the staircase and glanced at the closed doors to the library. They had always been kept shut when he was away.

Not needing such a reminder, Abbie ran down the last three steps and crossed the foyer to slide the doors open, then paused to stare at the neat, tidy top of his desk, not at all the way he'd left it.

This past week she'd gone through the room, cleaned out his desks—both here and at his office in the stables—and sent what few pertinent documents she'd found to Lane Canfield. But there hadn't been any letters, photographs, or mementos that pertained to his mistress and child in California. If there were any, Abbie suspected that he'd probably kept them at his law office. That was Mary Jo Anderson's province.

There had been many things to do this past week, things her mother hadn't been up to doing: notifying the accountant to send her father's records to Lane, forwarding the bills to him, cleaning out her father's drawers and closet, throwing out his old clothes and packing the rest into boxes for distribution to local charitable and religious organizations, sorting through personal articles such as jewelry and toiletries and deciding which ones to save and which ones to discard. It hadn't been easy to remove the physical traces of him from the house.

Even though they were gone now, he still haunted it. Somewhere a clock ticked, marking time against the low hum of the central air-conditioning and echoing the feeling of expectancy that permeated the house, as if any second he was going to walk through the front door. But he wasn't. . . not now, not ever!

Abbie pivoted sharply and strode across the foyer to the living room arch, letting the heels of her riding boots strike the polished boards of the heart-pine floor as hard as they wished in an attempt to chase away the ghosts—and the nagging fears.

From her chair near the bay window, her mother looked up from the stack of sympathy cards that surrounded her. "Is something wrong, Abbie?" Babs frowned quizzically.

She resisted the impulse to say yes. How could she tell her mother that, despite the fact that Rachel hadn't been mentioned in the will, and despite the fact that Lane had informed her that Dean had made separate provisions for Rachel and it was extremely unlikely she would contest the will, she still felt uneasy about it? Until the estate was actually settled, the possibility remained. And she couldn't ignore it.

"Nothing at all," she lied. "I just wanted to let you know I'm headed for the stables. I thought I might work River Breeze a little.”

"The way you came marching in here, it sounded like we were being invaded by the whole Russian army or something."

"Sorry. I'll be outside if you need me."

"Don't forget: the Richardsons are coming for dinner tonight at seven."

"I won't."

Abbie turned and left the room, more quietly than she'd entered it. Outside, the summer sun had begun its downward slide and the oak trees in the front yard cast long shadows across the lawn. Abbie paused in the shade of the wide veranda and turned her face toward the cool breeze that came whispering through the trees, letting its freshness calm her nerves.

A battered old pickup truck was parked in front of the stables. Abbie recognized it instantly. No other truck was in such sorry shape in the entire county. Her father used to joke that rust was the only thing holding it together. It belonged to Dobie Hix, who owned the neighboring farm to the west of them. Abbie smiled wryly, guessing that his brand-new pickup was probably parked in his garage. He rarely drove it, except to town. He didn't want to get it all beaten up bouncing over the rutted lanes to his fields, so he drove the old one most of the time.

Ever since Abbie could remember, he'd always been like that: buying something new, then never using it until it was old. It didn't matter that he could probably afford ten new trucks. Between the land he owned and the acreage he leased, he farmed close to fifteen hundred acres. More than once Abbie had heard her mother insist that Dobie was tighter than the bark on a tree with his money. His tightfisted hold on a dollar had become almost a standing joke in the area. Abbie had laughed about it once or twice herself, but never in front of him.

She wondered what he was doing here at River Bend. He sold them the hay they used to feed the horses, but the hay shed was practically full. Her curiosity aroused, Abbie headed over to the stables.

As she neared the breezeway, she saw Ben standing in its shade, talking with Dobie. "I am certain you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Hix."

"I figured that." Dobie nodded his head in agreement, the rolled brim of his straw cowboy hat bobbing up and down with the motion. As usual, he was dressed in an old pair of faded Levi's, a plaid shirt, and a leather belt with his name stamped in fancy letters across the back of it. "I've always known Lawson was good for it. It's just—" He spied Abbie and halted in midsentence. "Hello, Abbie." Quickly he swept off his hat and self-consciously ran his fingers through his fine strawberry-blond hair, trying to comb it into some kind of order.

"Hello, Dobie." She glanced at the sprinkling of freckles that gave him such a boyish look despite the fact that he had to be, at least, thirty-five. "What's the problem?"

"No problem," he insisted, smiling. "Leastwise, nothing that you need to worry your pretty head about." Then he ducked his head as if regretting the compliment he'd paid her.

More than once since her divorce, Abbie had gotten the impression that, with the least little encouragement from her, Dobie would renew the suit he'd pressed throughout almost her entire senior year of high school, particularly at the Gay Nineties debut party held here at River Bend, the Victorian mansion providing the theme and backdrop. It had been an elaborate bash thrown by her parents. All the invitations, bearing a tintype photograph of Abbie dressed as a Gibson Girl, had been hand-delivered by uniformed messengers wearing flannel trousers, bow ties, and straw skimmers, and riding a bicycle built for two. A carnival had been setup on the grounds, transforming it into Coney Island, complete with a midway—and a kissing booth. Dobie Hix had been very free with his money that day, Abbie recalled, buying up all the tickets when she was selling kisses. Her mother had insisted that they couldn't leave him off the invitation list, when he was their closest neighbor. Truthfully, Abbie hadn't objected—until she had to endure the embarrassment of his monopoly on her kisses, and later his broad hints about their lands adjoining and the advantages of combining them.