Heiress (37 page)

"Hey, girl. Easy," MacCrea crooned. Her ears pricked at the sound of his voice as she swung her head around to look at him, blowing softly. "She's sleeping. Don't wake her up."

After a few seconds, the horse let her head droop again, the listlessness returning. MacCrea watched her closely for several more minutes, but the horse made no further attempts to fight the immobilizing makeshift harness. As Abbie stirred against him, he gently smoothed the top of her head and drew her closer still.

Chapter 22

Although the auction wasn't scheduled to begin for another hour yet, an assortment of parked cars, pickup trucks, and horse trailers already filled the farmyard, a few overflowing onto the shoulder of the narrow lane, when Rachel arrived. She found a space between two vehicles parked near the house and maneuvered her car into it.

As she stepped out of the car, a hand touched her arm. Startled, Rachel turned sharply, half expecting to be confronted by Abbie. Instead she found herself gazing into Lane's smiling eyes, happy lines fanning out from the corners like so many rays from the sun.

"Lane." She breathed out his name in a mixture of delight and relief.

"Surprised?" He kissed her lightly.

"And glad," she admitted as he drew back to run an admiring glance over her, sweeping her from head to toe.

She met it confidently, aware that her choice of attire was both casual and elegant, as well as practical and feminine. Padded at the shoulders and graced with high stand-up collar and turned-back cuffs, her ivory blouse was done in a softly draping silk charmeuse. A wide brown leather belt circled the shaped waistline of her camel skirt, which then fell gracefully full to midcalf. Instead of shoes, she wore a sophisticated version of flat-heeled riding boots. A silk scarf, the same ivory shade as her blouse, held her hair back at the nape of her neck. Her only jewelry was a pair of heavy gold earrings, sculpted in layers.

Since she'd moved to Houston, she'd thrown out or given away all her clothes and bought a whole new wardrobe. No more inexpensive California casual for her: now that she had some money, it was Texas chic, thanks to the helpful and instructive suggestions she'd received from clerks at several of Houston's more exclusive department stores—clerks vastly different from the disinterested, gum-chewing salespeople in the stores where she used to shop. Knowing what to wear, how to wear it, and when to wear it—and knowing that because of it she always looked her best—had done wonders to improve her self-image.

"You look stunning, as usual," Lane declared, then tucked a hand under her elbow and guided her toward the idly milling crowds near the stables.

"I didn't know you'd be here today. You never said anything about it when we talked on the phone last night." She looked at him curiously.

"Under the circumstances, I decided it would be wise for me to come and ensure that there wouldn't be any problems." He didn't say "with Abbie," but Rachel knew that's what he meant. "And, as Dean's executor, I felt I should be on hand to see how the auction went."

"Of course." A small crowd had gathered at the rail of the riding arena to watch a horse and rider working in English tack. Rachel paused with Lane to observe the pair, her attention first drawn to the flashy bay mare, then shifting to the rider. It was Abbie, dressed in jodhpurs, riding helmet, and white shirt, minus the customary jacket, her dark hair pulled back in a low bun. As she rode along the near rail, Rachel noticed that her face looked haggard and she had dark hollows beneath her eyes. "Did you see her, Lane? She looks awful." The words were out before she realized how tactless the remark was. She tried to cover them. "Is she ill?"

"No, I think she's just tired. She hasn't had much sleep lately, I understand." He hesitated, then added, "Her horse was injured in a freak accident a couple days ago. Both front legs were broken. She's been sitting up nights with her ever since."

"What happened?"

"The way it was explained to me, the horse got out of the pasture sometime in the night and strayed onto the adjoining farm. The neighbor caught her the next morning and put her in his barn, then called here to let them know the horse was safe. Before they could go get her, the horse was frightened by the noise from some farm machinery and tried to get out of the barn."

"How terrible." Rachel shuddered to think of such a thing happening to her mare.

"Yes. . . . I think Chet needs to talk to me about something," Lane said, indicating the man motioning for him. "Do you want to come along?"

"No. I think I'll wander through the barns and look over the horses." Rachel took the sales catalogue from her purse and folded it open to the page containing the names and sale numbers of the three mares she was interested in buying.

"I'll catch up with you later. You'll be all right?"

"Of course." She smiled, liking the way he was so protective of her. It made her feel secure and loved.

More than a dozen prospective buyers were scattered along the wide corridor, surveying the horses in the stalls, when Rachel entered. Inside, she checked the sale numbers of the horses on her list again, then started down the cement walkway, pausing in front of each stall long enough to read the number on the horse's hip. Along the way she caught snatches of conversation.

"This mare should nick well with our stallion. Her breeding—"

"—pretty head, but her legs are—"

"—always said, if you don't like the looks of a horse in the stall, don't buy it."

Rachel stopped in front of one of the last stalls in the row. The flaxen-maned chestnut mare stood at an angle that made it difficult for Rachel to tell if the last number on her hip was a five or a nine. As she moved to try to get a better view of the number, someone else came up to the stall to look at the horse. She paid no attention to him until he spoke.

"Hello, beautiful."

At first she thought the murmured words were addressed to the mare, although his voice sounded vaguely familiar. Idly curious, she glanced sideways at the man and encountered his gaze. As he pushed the dark cowboy hat with the concho-studded band to the back of his head, Rachel recognized the curly-haired singer, Ross Tibbs.

"Mr. Tibbs." She was surprised at how clearly she remembered him.

"I thought we agreed that it was Ross to you." He smiled, looking at her as if nothing and no one else existed, the sensation distinctly unnerving "It's been so long since I've seen you, I was beginning to wonder if I hadn't dreamed you."

She was disturbed by the flattery inherent in his remarks. "I never expected to run into you at a horse auction. Why are you here?”

"Same reason you are, I expect. I came to look over the horses. I've always wanted to own an Arabian. I was kinda hoping I might be able to pick one up for a song." He winked at her, then smiled ruefully. "That was a joke. A poor one, I admit. Singer. . . song."

"Of course." She laughed uneasily.

"From the looks of all these folks that've shown up, there's not going to be much chance of me picking up a bargain. But, it never does any harm to window-shop now and then." Turning, he braced an arm against the stall, his head resting on a board near her head. She'd never noticed how dark and thick his eyelashes were—long like a woman's. "I'd like to take you out to dinner after the auction's over."

"I can't." She was surprised and briefly embarrassed by the invitation.

"Why?"

"I'm. . . with someone." She stared at the open collar of his shirt, her eyes on the smooth, taut skin of his throat and neck.

"Who? Lane Canfield again?"

"Yes."

"Just what is he to you? Your sugar daddy or what?" He sounded almost angry, and the muscles along his jaw tightened visibly.

"No." Rachel didn't like the connotation of that term. It implied she was his mistress, his plaything. But what was she to him? "We're. . . friends. That's all."

"Friends, eh? That can cover a lot of ground, you know." Ross swung partially around, trapping her against the wall of the stall. "He's too old for you, Rachel."

"He isn't old," she insisted, but she recognized the shakiness of that argument. "Besides, maybe I like older men."

"I'm pushing thirty. I fit that category." He leaned closer and she felt smothered by his nearness, unable to breathe. Reaching up, he lightly traced the curve of her cheekbone with the tip of his forefinger, following it all the way to the lobe of her ear. "You remind me of Sleeping Beauty still waiting to be awakened by a kiss from her prince. I never read any fairy tale that had a prince with white hair in it."

She felt hot all over as her heart beat rapidly. He was staring at her lips and Rachel could almost feel the pressure of his mouth on them. She was frightened by the things she was feeling. Was this how her mother had felt with Dean—so overwhelmed by emotion that she abandoned everything, including her pride and self-respect? That wasn't going to happen to her. She wouldn't let it.

"Don't say things like that." She pushed away from the stall and hurriedly brushed past him, not stopping until she'd put several feet between them. Against her will, Rachel looked back.

"I'm sorry." He lifted his hand in a helpless, apologetic gesture. "I didn't mean any harm."

"Please, just leave me alone." She walked out of the barn and nearly ran into Lane on his way in.

"I was just coming to look for you." His initial smile faded slightly as his interest in her sharpened. "Is something wrong?"

"Of course not. What could be wrong?" Rachel forced a smile, surprised that she could do it so convincingly, and linked her arm with his to steer him away from the open barn doors before he could catch sight of Ross Tibbs.

She didn't want Lane to know she'd been talking with Ross or he'd guess why she was upset. Knowing that a moment sooner and Lane would have found them together made it all the more imperative that he not find out. At the same time, Rachel didn't understand this feeling of guilt just because for a brief instant she'd been attracted to—and tempted by—Ross. After all, nothing had happened.

"I thought Abbie may—"

"I haven't seen her." She began to breathe easier as his smile came back.

"The auction is scheduled to start in another ten minutes. I think we'd better head over to the sales ring if you want a good vantage point."

"Yes, we probably should."

As they walked toward the sales ring, they were joined by others converging on the same destination. Rachel noticed the looks Lane received and heard the murmurs of recognition. The first few times she'd been out in public with him, the stares and whispers had bothered her, but she'd grown used to the attention he attracted—the respect, admiration, and envy with which he was regarded. In fact, she was actually beginning to enjoy it.

"Testing: one, two, three. Testing. Testing." The auctioneer's voice came over the loudspeakers. "Well, folks, it looks like we're ready to start. We've got some fine horses for you today. And we'll start with Lot Number One. Coming into the ring now is the incredible stallion, Nahr Ibn Kedar, the five-year-old son of the stallion imported from Egypt by the late Dean Lawson himself. This magnificent stallion is being shown under saddle by Dean's daughter, Abbie Lawson."

Recognizing that he was dealing with a knowledgeable group of buyers, the auctioneer wasted little time extolling the pedigrees and show records of the Arabian horses that entered the ring one after another. And rarely did he interrupt his rhythmic chant to exhort higher bids from the participants. The quickness of his hammer to declare a horse sold instilled a feverish pace to the bidding and allowed few lulls between bids.

As Abbie rode out of the sales ring on the final horse to be shown under saddle, Ben waited to take the reins. She flipped them to him and dismounted, feeling exhausted. The heavy humidity from the moisture-laden clouds overhead was taking its toll on her, as well as the tension of trying to get the best out of every horse she rode.

"It goes well." Ben patted the mare's neck, then turned to lead the horse to the barn. Abbie fell into step beside him. "The auctioneer does not give them time to think how much they are bidding. We get good prices."

"I noticed." She should have been pleased about it, but she wasn't, and she blamed the indifference she felt on her tiredness. "Is the next lot ready for the ring?"

"Yes."

She spied the bale of hay shoved up against the stable door. It offered an escape from all the hubbub and confusion going on inside the barn. "If you don't need me, I think I'll just sit and rest for a minute."

"We can manage," Ben assured her.

"Thanks." She smiled wanly and angled away from him, walking over to the lone bale.

As she sank onto the compressed hay, Abbie removed the hot riding helmet and laid it on the bale, then leaned back against the barn door. For a time, she stared at the crowd gathered around the sale ring and idly listened to the auctioneer's singsong voice calling for higher bids on the mare and foal in the ring.

Then her attention wandered to the barns, the white-fenced pastures, and the old Victorian house—the place, the land, the buildings that comprised her home, the only real home she'd ever known. Suddenly it was all a blur as tears filled her eyes. Tomorrow it would be sold and a new owner would take possession of it.

Leaning forward, she scooped up a handful of dirt—dirt that turned into thick gumbo when it rained. She rubbed it between her thumb and fingers, feeling its texture and consistency, the way she'd seen her grandfather do a hundred times or more. When she'd ask him why he did it, he'd put some in her hands and say, "Now, feel that. It's more than just dirt, you know."

"It's Texas dirt," Abbie would reply.

"It's more than that. You see, that dirt you're holding, that's pieces of Lawson land." Then he would hold it up close to his face, smell it, and taste it with the tip of his tongue.

"Why did you do that, Grandpa?" she would ask.

"Because it's good for what ails you. Remember that."

Abbie remembered, closing her hand into a fist and squeezing the dirt into a thick clump in her palm.