The Cowboy (37 page)

“You’re so beautiful, Callie. So lovely.”

She let herself be loved. And she gave love in return. Trace was right. Things were different. She was no longer Callie Creed Monroe. Now she was a Blackthorne, too.

T
RACE ARRIVED AT THE LIBRARY DOOR PRE
cisely at seven o’clock, but the room—which smelled of hundred-year-old leather-bound books and his father’s expensive Cuban cigars—was empty. He wondered if the meeting had been moved somewhere else and had turned back to search the rest of the house, when his father crossed the threshold.

“Where is everybody?” Blackjack asked.

“I thought maybe the meeting had been moved,” Trace said. “Guess I was just the first one here.”

“What’s this all about?” Blackjack asked.

Trace frowned. “You mean Owen didn’t tell you?”

“He said he had something important to discuss with the family and that your mother and I needed to be here at seven o’clock. He said it wasn’t something he could talk about over the phone.”

“Where is Mom?” Trace asked.

“She had a meeting of the hospital board at six. She said she’d be here as soon as she could.”

“I don’t believe this,” Trace muttered.

“Do you know why Owen called this meeting?”
Blackjack asked, as he crossed to his desk and retrieved a cigar from the humidor.

“I do, but I think it might be better if Owen tells you.”

“Does it have anything to do with Russell Handy being arrested for the murder of Jesse Creed?” Blackjack asked, as he clipped his cigar. He picked up a lighter Trace knew was a gift from a former Texas governor and lit the Monte Cristo.

“It does.” Trace refused to sit in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. They were purposely lower than the desk, leaving whoever was sitting there feeling smaller and less powerful than the person behind the desk. He crossed instead to the stone fireplace and perched on the arm of a nearby wing chair.

Trace waited for Blackjack to quiz him about what he knew or to profess his innocence. He did neither, simply sat back in the brass-studded swivel chair, put his boot-heels up on the desk, and puffed on his cigar.

Trace stared at the door, wondering where everyone else was, wishing his father would say something, and resisting the urge to ask if he was guilty of having Jesse Creed murdered.

“How are you and Callie Monroe getting along?” his father asked.

Trace debated whether to admit the truth, then decided he had to tell his father about his marriage sooner or later, and this seemed to be the night for confessions. “Callie and I got married in Mexico a couple of days ago.”

Blackjack’s feet came down and he sat up straight in his chair, his palms flat on the desk. “Why the hell didn’t you let me know? This is great news!”

“You’re not going to be getting your hands on Three
Oaks through me and Callie, Dad. I signed a prenuptial agreement that prevents me from ever—”

“Without seeing my lawyer?”

“I have my own lawyer,” Trace said.

Blackjack snorted in disgust. “You never did learn to go for the jugular. When I married your mother—”

“Don’t talk about her. Don’t talk about your marriage.”

Blackjack raised a brow in surprise. “What’s your problem?”

Trace wasn’t going to discuss the subject. He was going to let Owen ask the questions. “I’m leaving after Christmas, Dad. I’m going back to Australia.”

“To work as a cowboy on some other man’s spread?” Blackjack said in disgust. “Don’t think I haven’t known where you’ve been these past seven years. I hired someone to track you down. It took him a while to find you, but he did.”

Trace flushed. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“I figured you’d come home sooner or later.”

“I’m leaving after Christmas, Dad. And I’m not coming back.”

“You say that now—”

“When he died, Alex Blackthorne left me his cattle station. I don’t want Bitter Creek, Dad. It’s yours.”

His father stared at him in disbelief. “I can’t manage this place by myself anymore. My heart—”

“Your heart’s just fine. I’ve done some investigating of my own, Dad. After the bypass surgery you had, your heart’s as good as new. It’ll stay that way so long as you don’t smoke and you eat right and you take it easy on the liquor.”

“Hmmph. Doctors don’t know everything.”

“Summer would love to help you out with the ranch,” Trace said.

“I’ve got a husband picked out for her. She’ll be leaving to go live with him.”

“Does Summer know about that?”

“He knows about Summer. That’s enough for now. I’ll tell her when the time is right.”

“I’m leaving, Dad,” Trace repeated. “Bitter Creek is yours, not mine.”

“I’m an old man—”

Trace laughed. “Fifty-four isn’t old. Although …” Trace hesitated, then decided he might as well get everything out in the open. “You are a grandfather.”

“What?”

“Eli Monroe is my son. Your grandson.”

His father choked on cigar smoke.

Trace crossed and pounded him on the back. “Are you all right?”

Blackjack straightened and shifted away from Trace. “I think so. This is a surprise. A shock, I should say.”

“For me, too,” Trace admitted as he crossed back to the fireplace and laid an arm on the mantel.

“You didn’t know about the boy, then, when you took off?”

“No, I didn’t,” Trace said.

“Well, well. This puts a new face on things. Did that prenuptial agreement you signed say anything about whether your son gets a piece of Three Oaks?”

Trace shook his head in disgust at his father’s one-track mind. “Eli’s going with me to Australia, Dad.”

“Callie, too?”

Trace realized he was skating on thin ice. “That hasn’t been decided.”

“Who hasn’t made up their mind? You? Or her?”

“I’ve asked her to come with me. After what’s happened, I don’t have a clue what she’s going to decide.”

“You mean, after Russell Handy admitted that he hired someone to kill Jesse,” Blackjack said.

“Yeah.” Trace glanced at the door, wishing Owen would arrive, wondering what was keeping him. It was Summer he found standing on the threshold.

“Is this a private party, or can anyone join in?” Summer asked as she crossed and sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk. Or rather, sat across one of the two chairs. Her booted feet hung over one arm.

“What’s up?” she asked Trace.

At that moment, Owen arrived and said, “I just got a call from Clay. He’s got a meeting with the governor, and he can’t fly down. We’ll have to manage without him.”

“What is it you wanted to discuss?” Blackjack asked.

“Where’s Mom?” Owen said. “I’d rather wait for her.”

“She’ll be along soon,” Blackjack said. “Why don’t we get started?”

“All right,” Owen said. “I suppose there’s some business we can take care of before she arrives.”

Trace felt the adrenaline shoot through his veins. It was starting. Soon, he’d know which of his parents was a murderer.

Owen closed the library door, then turned to face Blackjack and asked, “Was Russell Handy acting on your orders when he arranged to have Jesse Creed shot?”

Summer jumped to her feet and put herself nose to
nose with Owen. “How can you accuse Daddy of something like that? You should be ashamed of yourself!”

“Sit down, Summer,” Trace said.

“But, Trace—”

“You’re here because Owen said you were old enough to handle the truth. Don’t prove him wrong.”

Summer’s eyes were wide and frightened as her gaze shifted from Trace to Owen and back again, before they finally rested on Blackjack.

Blackjack’s narrowed gaze remained fixed on Owen. A muscle jerked in his cheek.

“Daddy?” Summer said in a halting voice. “Tell him you had nothing to do with Jesse Creed’s death.”

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Owen said.

“I’d never have ordered someone else to shoot Jesse Creed,” Blackjack said angrily. “I’d have reserved that pleasure for myself.”

Trace let out the breath he’d been holding. He did it more quietly than Summer, who blew out a puff of air and then plopped back into one of the chairs in front of the desk.

“Well,” she said. “Thank goodness that’s settled. For a minute there I was a little anxious.”

“We’re not done yet,” Owen said.

“What now?” Summer demanded.

“Now we wait for Mom.”

“What does your mother have to do with this?” Blackjack asked.

Trace exchanged a look with Owen. Surely his brother wasn’t going to tell Blackjack about their mother’s affair with Russell Handy. Not after keeping it a secret all these years.

Before Owen could reply, Trace said, “Were you aware that Mom is jealous of Lauren Creed?”

“That’s ridiculous. Your mother has nothing to be jealous of.”

Trace barely managed to avoid laughing in his father’s face. “Excuse me, Dad, but you’ve made it pretty plain—to all of us—how you feel about Mrs. Creed.”

“What do feelings have to do with anything? I’ve never been unfaithful to your mother with the woman.”

Maybe not physically, Trace thought. But in every other way that counted, his father had betrayed his marriage vows to his mother.

“There’s never been a night in thirty-three years that I haven’t slept beside your mother,” Blackjack said.

Trace was surprised by the admission. He couldn’t help wondering whether they still had marital relations. Well, of course they must still have intercourse. As he’d pointed out himself, at fifty-four, his father was still a young and virile man. Especially if his father had been, as he’d said, faithful to his mother.

But what if his father was merely sleeping with his mother? What if that was the extent of what they did together in bed? Maybe his mother blamed the lack of conjugal relations on Lauren Creed, and had finally decided to do something to solve the problem.

His thoughts were cut off as the library door opened, and his mother walked in.

She was dressed in a plum-colored suit from her favorite designer—Trace couldn’t remember the name. It was elegant without being ostentatious. She smiled at Trace and Summer—and ignored Owen—as she crossed to
stand beside Blackjack, where he sat at the desk, and slid her arm around his shoulder.

“To what do we owe this gathering of our children?” she said.

“It seems Owen had the bright idea that I arranged to have Jesse Creed killed,” Blackjack said.

“But, Jackson, of course you didn’t do any such tiling!” his mother said.

“That’s what Daddy told him,” Summer confirmed.

“How about you, Mother?” Owen said. “Are you responsible for Jesse Creed’s murder?”

Trace was watching his mother, and for the flicker of an eyelash, he thought he saw fury in her eyes. Then she looked into the distance, her eyes almost dreamy, and said, “What an unnatural son you are, Owen, to accuse your mother of such a thing.”

“I call them as I see them,” Owen said bluntly.

“What possible reason could I have for wanting Jesse Creed dead?” she asked.

“It wasn’t Jesse you wanted dead. It was Ren.”

Trace saw his father visibly stiffen.

“Explain yourself, boy,” Blackjack said to Owen.

Owen’s eyes never left their mother as he spoke. “Do you want to tell him about you and Handy? Or do you want me to do it?”

She stared back at Owen as though he weren’t there.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Blackjack demanded.

“I’m talking about Mom’s love affair with Russell Handy,” Owen said.

Summer gasped.

Blackjack rose and started toward Owen. “Why you—”

“Stop right there, Dad,” Trace said, stepping in front of his father. “And listen to what Owen has to say.”

“I don’t believe that bullshit you’re spouting for an instant,” Blackjack said to Owen.

“Just listen, Dad,” Trace said. “Hear him out.”

Blackjack took a step back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m listening.”

“We know Russell Handy hired the man who shot Jesse Creed,” Owen began. “Handy works for you, so the logical conclusion would be that you ordered Handy to have Jesse shot.”

“But I did no such thing,” Blackjack said.

“Right. So if you didn’t order Jesse Creed shot, who did?”

“Maybe Handy did it on his own,” Summer said.

“For what reason?” Owen challenged. He turned to Blackjack and said, “Do you know of any personal grievance Handy had against Jesse Creed? Any reason he would want Jesse dead?”

“None,” Blackjack conceded.

“Then who else could Handy have been working for?” Owen asked.

Trace saw his father was perplexed. He saw the moment his gaze shifted to his mother, then watched it move back to Owen.

“How do you know your mother had an affair with Handy?”

“I saw them together in the barn,” Owen said.

Trace watched his father’s mouth thin, saw his eyes narrow as he turned back to his wife.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Eve?”

“At least he loves me, Jackson. Which is more than you can say.”

Trace watched as his father worked to conceal the shock and humiliation of such an admission. His hands balled into fists, and his jaw was clamped so tight, a muscle jerked in his cheek. Trace waited for him to speak, but his lips thinned, and he remained silent. His tenuous control of the burning rage that lit his eyes was more frightening to behold than an eruption of fury.