The Runaway Pastor's Wife (7 page)

“Now just a minute!”

“Hear me out.” Elliot raised his hands to halt
Michael’s outburst. “There’s no sense whatsoever in trying to fight me on this.
You’ve been very foolish, Michael. And I must say, you’ve surprised me. Oh, not
that I’m surprised at your infidelities so much. Only disappointed to think you
really thought you could get away with it. Son, surely you know me well enough
by now—you can run but you can’t hide from Elliot Thomas. Don’t ever forget
that.”

Elliot’s steely gray eyes pierced through
Michael. He felt like a caged animal. The implication of losing his company
made his blood run cold. Although he had carefully protected his business
through the proper legal channels, it suddenly occurred to him that Elliot
Thomas wouldn’t necessarily attack through those same channels. Just as Elliot
had used certain connections to pave the way for the company, he would no doubt
use similar connections to yank it out from under Michael.

His mind raced, searching for answers. He
exhaled slowly, attempting to calm himself. “Elliot, you’re absolutely right.
There’s no reason we can’t discuss this like two civilized men. Marriages fall
apart everyday. That’s just part of life.”

Elliot slammed his fist on the table. “Not when
it’s
my
daughter’s marriage!”

Michael jumped to his feet, holding up his hands
in defense. “I would simply ask that you give me a chance to explain my side of
the matter.” He began pacing. “No reason we can’t handle this as gentlemen. You
said so yourself.” The cold, stony stare of Elliot Thomas dared him.

Think, Michael, think!

He walked back and forth behind his chair, his
footsteps hushed on the deep carpet beneath him. He was thoughtful and pensive,
much more in control. Or so he hoped it would appear. He strolled casually over
to the open bar and poured himself a drink.

“Elliot, you must surely know that this marriage
has been in trouble a long time now. It’s obvious that Amelia is anything but
happy. Her moods change constantly. I never know what I’ll find at home—a
raving lunatic or a sleeping beauty that can’t get out of bed. I mean, she’s on
so many antidepressants I hardly know her anymore! She blames everything on me
because she can’t get pregnant, but she refuses to see any more doctors. All we
ever do is fight, and I’ve just had enough of it. I’m through.”

Elliot remained silent. Michael continued,
heading back to his seat. “I have no intention of making this any harder on
Amelia than it has to be. I plan to make a clean break. Make this as amicable
as possible. There’s no sense in dragging all this through the mud. It would
only hurt her.”

“Perhaps you should have considered Amelia’s
feelings
before
all your sordid affairs, Michael. I find it a little
difficult to buy into this compassionate husband act of yours.”

“You make it sound like I’ve bedded half the
women in
Houston
! I admit I’ve seen a couple of women over
the last few months. But it’s like I told you—things haven’t been good between
Amelia and me for a long time. In fact, it’s been miserable.”

Elliot stood up and walked confidently toward
the bar. He opened a bottle of Perrier and poured it into a glass. “And somehow
you thought that spending time with other women would help you work out your
problems with Amelia. Interesting logic.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t go out looking
for someone. It just happened, that’s all. You have to believe that! You know
how it is—you start talking to someone, you have a couple of laughs. You start
to remember what it’s like to have a good time again. And the next thing you
know you’re looking for excuses to make a phone call or stop by—”

“Now let’s see, which one are we talking about
here,” Elliot interrupted, dropping a wedge of lemon into his glass. “Would
this be a Ms. Anderson or—”

“How
dare
you!”

“—or would it be a Ms. Lindsey?” Elliot was back
in his seat once again searching through a file he had withdrawn from his
briefcase. “Let’s see, I believe that’s her name. Ah yes,
Mrs.
Lindsay.
She would be the married lady whose husband travels internationally. Rather
convenient, I suppose.”

Michael forced himself to bridle his temper
before responding. “Look, Elliot. I’m not proud of any of this. But I’m not
gonna sit here while you parade through a list of women you suspect me of
having affairs with! It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m going to
divorce Amelia. It’s just over between us! And that’s all there is to it. It’s
time to move on. But I’m warning you—stay away from Cathy and Rachel. I mean
it, Elliot. Back off.”

“Well, we’ll just see about that,” Elliot
responded dryly. “I don’t see how you’re in any position to be asking favors of
me, son. No, I believe I’ll be the one calling the shots on this one.”

Michael sat down opposite his father-in-law at
the long conference table. He threw back the shot of bourbon and felt it burn
down his throat. He had to remain calm—that much he knew. And with each
accusation, he felt his stomach knot tighter. The heat of the alcohol was
coursing through his veins now, relaxing the grip of fear that had strangled
him for the duration of Elliot’s interrogation. Just as he was about to speak,
Elliot turned his chair to face Michael and leaned back heavily.

“Michael, I think it’s about time we got to the
nuts and bolts of all this. You want to divorce my daughter. I will not have
it. That puts us in quite a quandary. Now, the way I see it, you can either
comply with my wishes or we’ll have to discuss other considerably unpleasant
alternatives.”

Michael rubbed his face then suddenly stood up
and headed back to the bar. He quickly downed another shot of bourbon then
slammed down the glass. His head was beginning to relax, easing his mind into
position for battle.

He slowly turned to face Elliot. “I’m getting
real
tired of all this,” he said in a forced whisper, his words measured. “I will
never
again ‘comply’ with any of your wishes, congressman, so deal with it. If you're
going to threaten me, then do it. I’m sick to death of your stupid little
games.”

“Have it your way,” Elliot answered. “But never
forget I gave you the choice to handle this with diplomacy. If you insist on
taking this path, I assure you—you will most certainly regret it. I’m a very
powerful man, and I have no problem whatsoever doing whatever it takes to get
my way. And that certainly includes removing you from The Sports Page.
Unfortunately, you don’t seem to comprehend the fire you’re playing with here,
boy. It’s clear to see you don’t take me very seriously. That’s a real shame,
as I’m sure you’ll soon discover.”

“Spare me the speeches, Elliot. Just spit it
out!”

Elliot inhaled deeply. “Fine. You will either
drop these divorce proceedings first thing tomorrow morning, or I will take
full ownership of The Sports Page immediately. And never mind the protests. I
can do it in a heartbeat. You may hold forty percent of the stock, but what you
failed to recognize was the fact that I control all of your remaining
stockholders.”

Elliot stretched his neck again, emerging with a
mischievous grin. “Son, how stupid can you get? You were so all-fire sure that
this little business was all yours by making sure I never got too big a chunk
of the pie. Thought you had me, didn't you? But if you'd ever done your
homework instead of chasing golf balls and fast women, you might have noted a
couple of very important facts.

“Oh, you are absolutely right. I only hold
fifteen percent of your precious little company. But I hand-picked the
remaining members of your stockholders myself and they all answer to
me!
”
Elliot burst into laughter.

Michael froze. “That’s impossible!”

“Not hardly. Why, eighty percent of
Texas
resides in my back pocket, in case you haven’t noticed. I can buy anyone and
anything I choose. I have so many folks beholdin’ to me—they practically stand
in line to do favors for Elliot Thomas.” He chortled once again. “Oh,
me . . . this time it’s been a real pleasure calling in those
markers. As soon as I got wind of this divorce nonsense of yours, I made a few
quick phone calls. Made sure all my ducks were still in a row.” He rubbed his
hands together, clearly enjoying the bomb he was dropping.

“Listen, you little punk, you’ve played your
last card.” Then, as if the clever thought just popped into his mind, he
continued, “This is your last inning and the game’s over!” He croaked his
self-absorbed laughter. “And guess what? You’re out!”

Michael’s mind spun out of control. As Elliot
laughed himself into a fit of wheezing coughs, Michael desperately groped for
anything
to stop this nightmare. He could see The Sports Page—his whole
life—vaporizing before his eyes.

And then he remembered.

Suddenly the fog cleared and the answer broke
through.
How could I have forgotten?

While Elliot finally caught his breath and took
another sip of his drink, Michael nonchalantly wandered back to his seat. He
sat down slowly, giving his mind ample time to devise a plan of action. It had
been a long, long time since his thoughts had traveled down this secret
passageway, but he was relieved by its mere existence.

Not to worry.

A resurgent smile stretched across Michael’s
face. His confidence restored, he spoke slowly, his words calculated. “Elliot,
you’re an egotistical fool. Think you have all the answers, don’t you? Think
you can control everybody you meet by just snapping your pudgy little fingers.
Well, I’m afraid you’ve pathetically miscalculated this time.

“You see, I still have one card left to play.”

CHAPTER 4

Weber Creek
,
Colorado

The carefully lettered wooden sign over the door
read
Williamson’s.
The long front porch adorned with several old wooden
rockers welcomed customers who stopped by. Stepping inside the old country
store was like stepping back in time. The Ingalls family should be browsing
these aisles. At the back of the spacious store, a stone fireplace boasted a
bright, crackling fire from a fireplace tucked beneath an extended mantle
sporting every imaginable gadget for the winter home. Four more rustic rockers
sat ready and waiting for weary customers, a worn and colorfully braided rug
resting beneath them. The long wooden store counter stretched along the entire
length of the wall to the left, overshadowed by shelves reaching all the way to
the ceiling. Each was packed with everything from Band-Aids to Borax to bubble
gum.

The hardwood floors creaked melodically under
the tread of all who entered. Four short aisles offered an array of necessities
and a few luxuries here and there. Along the opposite wall to the right, a
refrigerated case installed back in the 70s held dairy products and assorted
chilled beverages. Overhead, an umbrella of baskets and dried flowers cascaded
from broad beams of sturdy oak.

But it was the unique blend of aromas which
first welcomed customers to Williamson’s. Freshly ground coffees and homemade
pastries beckoned the clientele into the heart of the store. A pot of
complimentary coffee enticed regulars to pause for a moment of small town
gossip; the comforting fragrance of the logs burning in the fireplace, at times
intoxicating. Even an occasional whiff of moth balls or liniment only added to
the homespun ambience of this country store.

Owners Bob and Mary Jean Williamson inherited
their family store from Bob’s dad, now deceased, who had passed it along before
retiring. None of the locals could remember Weber Creek without Williamson’s.
The colorful products stocked on the shelves may have changed through the
years, but the hospitality and courtesy remained the same.

Mary Jean sliced a fresh pan of Scottish
shortbread into long perfect pieces. “Bob, I want you to run that kettle of
soup over to Emma before it gets cold. That way she can have a bowl of it with
her cornbread for supper.”

“Supper?” Bob snapped. “It’s only
3:00
in the
afternoon. Nobody eats supper at
3:00
in the
afternoon.”

“Stop being so ornery and just do as I ask.
That’s when she likes it and who are you to tell her any different?” Mary Jean
placed the sandy rectangles of shortbread on an antique platter.

“Whoever heard of supper at
3:00
,” Bob
grumbled. “Why, I’d have to have a whole ’nother meal by seven or eight or
listen to a growling stomach half the night.”

The front door opened with its familiar squeak
as the verbal sparing continued. “Bob, just gather up the basket and get on
over to Emma’s. Stop all your jabbering! The good Lord knows I’ve endured
enough of your mindless arguments over the last fifty years, and I don’t want
to hear another word of it today. I’m just plum sick of it.”

“Who’s sick? Is somebody sick? Should we call a
doctor?” a voice piped in from the front of the store. The kindly face of Dr.
George Wilkins lit up with a subtle twinkle in his eyes. “Are you two
pretending to fight again or is someone really sick?”