Heiress (11 page)

She was so vulnerable, so childlike, constantly needing assurance. How had he forgotten that? "Yes."

"I need you so much now." She clutched at his hand, a wondrous smile breaking through the tears. "Darling. . . we're going to have a baby."

Babs's pregnancy was a complicated one, and toxemia had kept her bedridden for the last few months of her term. Dean managed to squeeze in two short trips to Los Angeles in the next few months to see Caroline and assure himself that all was healthy and normal for her. He didn't like the garage apartment she had rented, but Caroline insisted it was adequate for her needs and flatly refused to move into a five-room house he found. But as Babs grew closer to term, Dean was too concerned about her health to leave her, trusting that healthy and self-sufficient Caroline would somehow manage, as she claimed.

Two weeks before Babs's due date, her doctor decided to take the baby by caesarian section. Dean sat out the operation in a private waiting room with R.D.

The doctor walked into the waiting room, still clad in his surgical gown and cap. "It's a girl, Mr. Lawson. Five pounds ten ounces and bawling her head off."

Dean came to his feet as R.D. stopped pacing. "Babs—how is she?"

"She's going to be fine," the doctor assured him. "They have taken her to Recovery. She should be coming out of the anesthesia fairly soon.

"I'd like to see her."

"Of course. Come with me," the doctor said.

"Here." R.D. reached inside his jacket. "Have a cigar."

Dean was there when Babs came to. She was groggy and a little silly, but for Babs, that was normal. Relieved, Dean joined his father at the nursery window.

"There she is." R.D. pointed to a red-faced, squalling infant wildly waving her little fists. A downy mass of black hair covered her head. "Strong little tyke, isn't she? And a Lawson through and through. Look at her yellin' her head off, lettin' the world know she's here. And those eyes, too, they're Lawson blue."

"All babies have blue eyes when they're born, R.D." But Dean smiled at the obvious pride his father took in the child. He felt it, too.

"Not blue like that. Are you still going to name her after your grandma?"

It had been Babs's suggestion to name the baby after the woman who had raised both himself and R.D. if it was a girl. Dean had agreed, knowing how much it would please R.D. "You're looking at Abigail Louise Lawson."

"I like that." R.D. nodded approvingly, a softness entering his expression before it slowly turned thoughtful. "When's the other one due?"

Dean was surprised by the reference to Caroline. R.D. had rarely mentioned her since that day last August when Dean had informed him Caroline was going to have his baby. R.D. hadn't said much except to remind him that a father had as much responsibility as a mother to see that a child was properly brought up, provided for, and educated. But the lecture had been unnecessary. Dean knew he could never abandon Caroline or the child born of their love.

"Soon," was all he said in reply.

At the Lawson Company headquarters the next morning, Dean waded through a gauntlet of backslapping congratulations on the birth of his daughter before he reached the haven of Mary Jo Anderson's outer office. "Sorry." He held his suit jacket open to show the emptiness of his inner pockets. "I'm fresh out of cigars. Those guys out there got them all. At this rate, I'm going to have to buy them by the case."

"I don't mind. R.D. would probably have a heart attack if he walked in here and saw me smoking a cigar anyway. Congratulations, just the same." But she didn't seem as enthusiastic as everyone else. Dean wondered if it was because she knew about Caroline. He'd had to confide in her. As his private secretary, Mary Jo screened all his mail and phone calls, and handled a lot of his personal bills. In an emergency, Caroline had to be able to reach him. Where else was safer than here at the office? And someone had to know where to reach him when he went to California, especially when Babs had been so ill during her pregnancy.

"She's a beautiful baby, Mary Jo. We decided to name her Abigail Louise after my grandmother, but we're going to call her Abbie." Feeling self-conscious about the way he was carrying on, Dean walked over to her desk and picked up the previous day's messages. "Have a dozen yellow roses sent to Babs at the hospital, will you?"

"Of course." She paused a moment then said, "You had a phone call yesterday that's not with your messages."

Tense with anticipation, Dean looked up from the now unimportant pieces of paper. "Caroline?"

"Yes. She had a baby girl yesterday morning. Rachel Ann."

Yesterday. The same day that Abbie was born. Stunned by the coincidence, the terrible irony, Dean was speechless.

Chapter 6

The bay stallion snorted restlessly and tried to elude her hand, but Abbie continued to hold him there and rub his cheek. She needed this excuse to avoid looking at Lane. She didn't want him to see the tears that smarted in her eyes.

"I remember stopping by his office one day," Lane said, continuing with his story. "You would have been. . . probably four or five years old at the time. Dean was sitting behind his desk, reading a letter. There was a color snapshot on his desk of a little girl with big blue eyes and long dark hair. . . pulled in a ponytail, I think. She had on a swimsuit, and there was sand in the background. The little girl stood there smiling shyly at the camera. I thought it was you and said something to that effect to Dean. He corrected me.

"That isn't a picture of Abbie,' he said. 'It's Rachel. It's amazing, isn't it, how much they look alike?' I must have picked up the photograph, because I remember Dean took it from me and stared at it. 'And both born on the same day, too,' he said. 'Every time I look at Abbie, I see Rachel. It's almost like having both of them with me all the time. When I go places and do things with Abbie, I can almost believe that Rachel is there, too.'"

When Lane paused, Abbie sensed he was looking at her, probably seeing the striking resemblance again. She hoped he didn't expect her to say anything, because she couldn't. The muscles in her throat were so achingly tight, she couldn't even swallow.

As the silence threatened to lengthen, Abbie realized Lane was leaving it up to her to break it. "And Momma—when did she find out? About his other child, I mean."

"I'm not sure, probably a couple of years after you were born. With all the trips Dean was making to Los Angeles, she became suspicious that he was seeing Caroline again. When she confronted him, he told her about Rachel. How much, I don't know. I do know he promised Babs he would never leave her, even though he was deeply in love with Caroline and intended to visit her and Rachel whenever he could. I'm sure your mother didn't like it, but she accepted the situation. After all, she was desperately in love with him, too." Lane paused, a frown gathering on his forehead. "By that, I don't mean to imply that Dean didn't have any feelings for her. He did care about Babs very much."

"If that's true, then he wouldn't want her hurt any more than she's already been. I hope you'll agree that there isn't any reason for Momma to see the entire contents of the will if it can be avoided. She has suffered enough, I think. Surely as the executor of Daddy's will you can arrange that."

"To a degree. However, the will has to be filed with the probate court. It will be a matter of public record."

"I see," she said tightly.

"I'm sorry, Abbie."

"I know. Everybody always is." She couldn't help sounding cynical and a little bitter. That was the way she felt.

"Abbie," Lane began, "I hope you can appreciate how difficult, mentally and emotionally, it must have been for your father. He was in an extremely awkward situation and he handled it the best way he could. It's the most natural thing in the world for a father to want to love and protect his children, and to spare them from unnecessary hurt. And it's just as natural that he would want to provide for them in the event anything should happen to him."

"What about. . . Caroline?" Abbie questioned, only now struck by the possibility that she, too, might be one of his beneficiaries.

"She died several years ago—from an aneurysm, I believe."

Several years ago. "I see," was all that was left for her to say. A misting of tears blurred her vision as she lightly stroked the stallion's soft nose. "I appreciate your frankness, Lane. You'd probably better go to the house now before Momma starts wondering what's keeping you."

"Aren't you coming?"

"I'll be there soon."

The stallion attempted to pull away from her again, but Abbie kept him there until Lane had walked away. Then she let him go and watched him, her father's favorite, as he galloped around the small pen and stopped at the far end to call to the mares in the pasture, his sleek body quivering in anticipation. But his love call went unanswered.

Abbie turned and walked blindly away from the stallion run that butted up to the stud barn. The gray filly nickered plaintively to her, but Abbie's misery was so great she was unaware of the horse. She felt the tears coming and had to find a place where she could be alone and cry.

She sought refuge in the building that housed a reception area for visitors as well as the manager's office, the tack room, and her father's private office. Attached to the main stable by a breezeway that her grandfather had always called a dogtrot, it commanded a view of the stables, the stud barn, and the pastures. A black wreath hung on the door. Another time Abbie would have been moved by the gesture of the stable help to show their grief over her father's passing, but she didn't even look twice at it as she pushed through the door and headed directly to her father's private office, pulled by memories of the times she'd spent with him there. . . memories that now seemed so false.

Once inside, she closed the door and leaned against it to look around the room, her throat tight, her chin trembling. Sunlight, filtered by the pecan trees outside, streamed through the window onto the richly paneled walls covered with trophies, framed photographs, and show ribbons. A heavy oak desk sat in front of the window, strewn with papers, notes, and breeding charts. To the right of it stood antique file cabinets that contained the papers, pedigrees, and breeding files for every horse at River Bend. Behind the glass doors of the corniced and columned oak bookcase, shelves held books on equine ailments, horse husbandry, and genetics. Along the near wall stretched a chesterfield sofa upholstered in Madeira-brown leather and trimmed with brass nailheads. Partners to it were the wing chair and ottoman.

Abbie walked around to the big leather armchair behind the desk and ran her hand over the hollow curved into the headrest. She remembered how hard she had tried to please her father—to make him proud of her. Abruptly she turned away from his chair, fighting the writhing anger and hurt inside.

She almost regretted asking Lane to tell her about her father and Caroline. Before, she'd at least had her illusions. Now she didn't even have those. But she had asked for the truth and she got it. It wasn't Lane's fault that it wasn't what she'd expected.

She thought he'd tell her that it had been some cheap, meaningless affair; that her father had made a regrettable mistake he'd had to pay for for the rest of his life; that some tramp had tricked him into getting her pregnant then blackmailed him with the child; that. . . somehow, he'd been trying to protect the family honor and spare them his shame.

Instead, she'd heard a story of tragic love—of two people from different worlds, deeply and passionately in love with each other, but destined to remain apart—and the child born from that love.

No wonder she'd never been the daughter he wanted. She was the wrong one. All she'd ever been was a look-alike stand-in, a double, right down to having the same birthday.

Abbie longed to scream and release all the pain she felt inside, but what would that change? Nothing—nothing at all.

With hands and teeth clenched, she moved away from the desk and fought to convince herself that she didn't care that he hadn't loved her. She wasn't a child anymore. She didn't need his love. But Abbie didn't think she could ever forget—or forgive him for—the years of deception. As a hot tear rolled down her cheek, she blinked to clear her burning eyes, and wondered how she could have been so naïve all this time.

On the wall in front of her was an old photograph of her grandfather, R. D. Lawson, taken at the Scottsdale Arabian Horse Show the year he died. He stood there beside the two-year-old gray filly, River Wind, named Champion Filly of the Scottsdale Show—the dam of Abbie's filly, River Breeze. A Stetson hat concealed the iron gray of his hair, but it didn't hide the proud smile that wreathed his face and softened its hard angles. The picture showed a robust man who carried his years well.

As Abbie stared at the photograph, memories came flooding back. She was finally forced to admit that she hadn't been blind to what had gone on all these years: she had simply refused to see it. Innumerable incidents had contained clues, but she had ignored them all.

She remembered the last time she'd seen her grandfather alive. He'd gone to the airport to see them off on what Abbie regarded as a family vacation. In actuality, it had been combined with a business trip her father was taking to check on the company's overseas offices and to look over Arabian breeding stock in other countries for possible purchase and importation. She had been all of eight years old at the time, so the reasons for the trip hadn't mattered to her. They were going: Abbie, her parents, and their black maid, Justine, brought along to look after Abbie.

Chapter 7

London was the first stop on their overseas tour. Abbie, with her boundless energy, fueled by excitement, didn't suffer from jet lag and didn't understand why the first full day of their vacation in a new city had to be spent so quietly. She wanted to go out and explore this town where people drove on the wrong side of the road and talked so funny she could hardly understand them. She wanted to ride on one of those red double-decker buses and see the palace where the queen lived.