Paradise County (6 page)

“Is there a place where we could talk—privately?” Alex asked Welch in a low but determined voice before he could fall into conversation with the other two men, who were discussing the merits, or rather the lack of them, of the retreating animal.

“Sure. Come on into my office.” He nodded toward the closed door opposite. “Such as it is.”

“Cary must’ve been drunk as a damned skunk! That’s the worst-looking animal I’ve ’bout ever seen.” This, addressed to the dentist and accompanied by a woefully shaken head, came from the sheriff in a disbelieving undertone.

“Just let it go, Tommy, would you?” Welch overheard, and his eyes glinted ominously as he looked at the sheriff. Again Alex registered the man’s intimidation potential.

“Sorry, Joe.” The sheriff sounded repentant rather than intimidated. Welch’s expression didn’t soften as he glanced down at Alex.

“This way,” he said, nodding toward the door.

Alex moved toward it, her boots sinking soundlessly into the well-raked sawdust. Welch reached around to open the door for her, then stood back, allowing her to precede him inside.

The room was small, perhaps eight by ten feet, and certainly not fancy, with white-painted drywall, a gray-speckled linoleum floor, and a suspended ceiling crisscrossed with strips of aluminum to hold it in place. A single frosted light panel in the ceiling provided unflatteringly
bright illumination. In the center of the room stood a metal desk with a wood-veneer top that was cluttered with papers. A black vinyl desk chair on metal casters sat askew behind the desk, and another table with a switched-off computer and a telephone was pushed up against the rear wall. On the left were do-it-yourself shelves holding a motley collection of trophies, photos, books, and papers above perhaps half a dozen black metal file cabinets. Two more office chairs—metal arms and legs, molded vinyl seats and backs—had been placed in front of the desk.

“Have a seat.” Gesturing in the general direction of the two visitors’ chairs, Welch unzipped his coat without removing it and walked behind the desk, pulled the black vinyl chair into position, then glanced at her and hesitated, obviously waiting for her to sit down before he did. Southern men were known for their manners, but Alex wouldn’t have expected this man to be so punctilious. She sat and he followed suit, rolled his chair close to the desk, placed his hands flat on top, and looked at her levelly.

“Shoot,” he ordered.

Slightly uncomfortable and annoyed at herself because of it, Alex stalled for time, crossing her legs and placing her folded hands on her raised knee before meeting his gaze.

“There’s no pleasant way to say what I have to say.”

His eyebrows rose.

She’d done this what seemed like a hundred times since the funeral, but it was still not easy. The staffs of four houses had been dismissed, and the houses themselves had been put on the market. The crew of her father’s yacht had been told to seek other positions, as had the crews of his private planes, and the boat and planes were in the process of being sold. Accompanied by a phalanx of lawyers, she’d addressed the employees of each hospital, each nursing home, each HMO, personally delivering the bad news that they would be sold or closed, although her lawyers could and would have done it for her, without any need for her presence. But as the only family member named as an executor of her father’s will, as well as his oldest, closest child, she had felt that it was her responsibility to speak for him now that he could no longer speak for himself.

As she must speak for him now. Alex took a deep breath. “Mr. Welch, I’m very sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go.”

Five

H
is eyes narrowed as that sank in. “Are you saying I’m
fired?”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Alex’s voice was steady and her gaze never faltered. “I’m giving you thirty days’ notice, which I believe is more than fair.”

Welch’s lips thinned and he leaned back in his chair, rocking in it a little, his gaze shifting to fix unseeingly on the ceiling. He looked very big sitting there, and very—Alex supposed the word was “daunting,” although she didn’t like to admit that she felt vaguely unnerved in the face of his sudden tense silence. His unshaven jaw had grown hard, his lips had compressed into a thin line, and all the muscles in his powerful body seemed poised for action. It was obvious that her news had caught him totally by surprise. After a long, nerve-racking moment his gaze snapped back to meet hers. Placing both hands flat on the desktop, he leaned forward. His eyes were grim.

“You can’t be serious.”

She had not expected him to argue with her. No one so far had
argued.
Of course, this was the first time she had delivered the bad news in such a one-on-one setting. Usually she gave a little speech to a gathering of the dismissed, with lawyers at her back, and was whisked away the
moment she was done. This time, for very personal reasons, she had decided to tackle the job completely on her own.

Possibly she’d made a miscalculation.

She gathered her courage and her wits, and met his gaze head on. “I am completely serious, Mr. Welch, believe me.”

“You got somebody to replace me?”

“No. The position is being eliminated.”

“The position is being …” He broke off as if words failed him, shook his head, and then continued, looking at her very hard. “What do you mean, the position is being eliminated? You can’t eliminate the position! There’s six hundred and seventeen acres of farmland I manage for you, Miss Haywood. Each year we do about a hundred fifty acres each of corn and soybeans, and a hundred acres of tobacco. You know anything about tobacco quotas or crop rotation or seasonal workers or anything like that?” Alex gave a tiny negative shake of her head. “I didn’t think so. Plus I got four of your horses stabled at Churchill Downs, two out there in my barn—in foal, I might add—and more up the hill in Whistledown’s barn. Are
you
planning to take care of them?”

“The horses will be sold.”

“What?”
Suddenly he looked like he was ready to jump out of his chair, come around the desk, and throttle her. “You can’t do that! You don’t know damn anything about what we’ve been trying to do here with those horses! God damn it to hell, we’re almost where we want to be!”

Alex’s chin went up as anger sparked to life inside her. She was not used to being spoken to like that—and she was definitely not used to being sworn at. “Oh, yes, I can do that, believe me. And I don’t
care
what you’ve been trying to do here with those horses. The point is, you won’t be doing it for me any longer.”

Mission accomplished. Alex stood up.

“You got a buyer?” The question was flung at her like a rock.

“That’s your job, Mr. Welch. Selling the horses, that is. I expect you to complete it within the thirty days of your notice. The farm will be sold as well, but you don’t need to concern yourself about that. My people will handle it.”

“You’re selling Whistledown?” He looked, and sounded, as stunned as if she’d slapped him. Manners either abandoned or forgotten in the heat of the moment, he remained seated although she was now on her feet staring icily at him. He leaned back in his chair, the fingers of one hand drumming the desktop. His gaze never left her face. “Do you have any idea what a jewel you have here? Whistledown Farm is one of the few properties of any size in this area that is still almost entirely intact. Six hundred and seventeen acres of prime Kentucky bluegrass! What, are you going to sell out to a developer? And let him turn it into a subdivision, with a house on every quarter acre? Your father would turn over in his grave! He loved this place. Hell, I love it! During the eight years I’ve been managing it, I’ve spent every single day working my ass off to make Whistledown pay its own way. Damn it to
hell,
we’ve been making a profit on the land for the last five years! Do you have any idea how hard that is? And we’re just now getting the racing stable built up to the point where it’s worth a crap! I’ve got two mares in foal to Storm Cat in that barn. Another one … Ah, you don’t understand a word I’m saying, do you? I’m wasting my breath talking to you.”

“There’s nothing you can say that will make a difference, Mr. Welch. The farm is going to be sold. The horses are going to be sold. And at the end of thirty days, you’re going to be out of a job. End of discussion.” Alex’s voice was cold. In the face of his anger, hanging on to her composure was difficult, but she was determined to do it.

“The horses are going to be sold.” He stood up then, his mouth tight, his voice bitter, and thrust his hands into the front pockets of his jeans. The edges of his coat parted even more with the sudden movement, and she noticed in passing that he wore a red-and-gray plaid flannel shirt beneath, over a white T-shirt that contrasted vividly with the bronze of his skin. “You realize you’d get a hell of a lot better price for the horses if you waited until the summer sale at Keeneland? Or at least until after the mares have foaled?”

“I have no intention of arguing with you, Mr. Welch. You have thirty days to liquidate inventory.” Alex turned away and started walking toward the door. There was no point in prolonging this. She’d said everything
she had to say, and the bottom line was that he could like it or lump it.

“Liquidate inventory! Jesus!” He came around the side of the desk and caught up with her in two strides, grabbing her arm, swinging her around to face him. She was five-foot-seven, a good height, and with her high-heeled boots on she probably stood around five-foot-ten. Yet he was still far taller than her—she had to tilt her head back to meet his furious gaze—and far bigger, too. The breadth of his shoulders and chest dwarfed her slender frame, and as his hands gripped both her arms she realized that they were big enough to wrap around them twice. She could feel the hard strength of his fingers through her jacket, and had the unpleasant sensation that he was looming over her, doing his best to intimidate her with his sheer physical size.

Alex began to lose her temper. She liked being manhandled even less than she liked being sworn at. He was glaring at her, biting off each word. “See, basically we got two problems when it comes to
liquidating inventory:
First, there are the horses that your dad just bought. He laid out one point two million for one and nine hundred and eighty thousand for the other. Then there are the mares in foal to Storm Cat. They’re worth a pretty piece of change, too. So are a few others. Finding buyers for that many high-end horses at this time of the year isn’t going to be easy: there are only so many players at that level of the game. Which brings us to the second problem: The rest of ’em you won’t get jack for. We’re talking glue or dog-food factories here. Your father kept them, kept paying for their feed and care, long after their careers as racehorses were over, because he appreciated what they’d done in the past, and he flat-out loved them. You’ll be selling animals he loved by the pound, Miss Haywood. Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

“Get your hands off me.” She spoke through her teeth, her eyes blazing into his, daring him to disobey. Too angry to feel the least bit cautious, she tried to jerk her arms free of his hold. She didn’t succeed; he was too strong. But then he let her go, letting his hands drop away from her arms and taking a step backward although he still looked as blindingly angry as she felt. “Don’t try to manipulate me with sob stories, Mr. Welch. It won’t work.”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you with anything at all.” His voice was low and hard. His eyes were bright with fury as they met hers. He jammed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans as if to keep himself from grabbing hold of her again. “I’m trying to get you to see what an impossible, idiotic, damned
inhumane
thing you’re asking me to do.
I can’t sell those horses.
Not in thirty days. Not under fire-sale conditions. I can’t do it, and I won’t.”

“If you’re not up to the job of selling
my
horses, Mr. Welch, then you leave me no choice but to make other arrangements for their disposal. There
are
other possibilities, you know. To begin with, my lawyers have already ascertained that there are auction houses that can handle a mass sale of this sort.”

“Auction houses! You cold, unfeeling …” He broke off, but his eyes flamed and his meaning was clear.

Alex had had enough. She drew herself up to her full height and met his glare head-on. “You’re fired, Mr. Welch. As of right now. Forget the thirty days’ notice.”

Turning her back on him, head held high, spine as straight as a soldier’s, she moved toward the door again. She was furious; he had made her furious. She knew it, recognized the sensation, and realized to her surprise that the hot rush of temper was the first unblunted emotion that she had felt since her father’s death.

For a brief, welcome moment she felt like herself again.

His voice followed her, almost taunting in its tone. “There’s twenty-two of them altogether, here and at Churchill and in Whistledown’s barn. They get fed again at five o’clock. Hay and grain. Plus Toreador’s on antibiotics. Feelsogood has a little crack in the bar of his hoof, and could use some ointment on it. Mama’s Boy’s been bleeding again, and he needs to be scoped. Plus a whole lot more. You gonna do all that, Miss Haywood? Or you think you can get somebody else in here who knows what the hell he’s doing to do it? Just like that?”