Season of Fear (4 page)

Someone was waiting for her at the door. A quick glance was all she needed to recognize Sara's twin brother, Jacob. The dark hair, the olive-colored skin, the questioning eyes—all were identical to his female twin. His body was fuller, he stood a little taller, the locks of black hair fell forward into his eyes, but the similarity was there.

"You must be Jacob." Robin smiled.

"That took no great intuition, Miss North, seeing as you're already acquainted with my sister," he said, politely, to be sure, but Robin was certain she could detect an air of hostility beneath the surface of his voice. His eyes were not open or friendly like those of his sister.

"Sara is delighted that Father had allowed you to stay."

"I'm glad she's happy about it. And how about you?" Robin looked at the young man questioningly, his barely hidden gruffness such a reminder of her recent run-in with his father.

"I'm still unsure of why you've come. You don't look much like a housekeeper." His eyes traveled up and down her slender body.

She was angry at his undisguised nerve. "Things are not always as they look," she retorted.

"No doubt you will be hearing a variety of rumors in town about the Ridleys. You may not want to stay."

"I've already heard them, Jacob."

"And still you came?" He looked at her suspiciously. "Looking for a rich husband, perhaps?"

She could feel the flush that she was sure was creeping up her cheeks. What a rude young man!

He turned and slipped quietly into the house, but not before giving Robin a murderous look. She had not made a friend in Jacob Ridley.

She gave a sigh and headed for the dining room, where she knew the family would be assembling for dinner. Was she going to be happy here? Not if she were constantly questioned and accused and suspected of ulterior motives. Could she live among these arrogant, proud people? She had sincere doubts. She'd write a letter to Herman after dinner and make plans to find another job, one in which she could use her education and abilities.

She arrived at the dining room, where the family was waiting. She slipped into her chair beside Sara, and the men took their seats. Gregory, the ten year old, was blond and fair, with a happy smile on his face. He sat beside his father, who was dressed in a cool pressed shirt and khaki slacks.

"I'm Gregory, I'm ten, Miss North. Can I call you Robin the way Sara does?"

"Glad to meet you, Gregory. Robin is fine with me."

The meal began, and Robin raised her eyes to regard the family seated at the long table: Sara and Gregory chatting easily about a new pony just being trained, Mr. Ridley solemnly quiet, sunken deeply in his own thoughts, and Jacob, eyes blazing, staring at his plate as he ate.

Robin began to mentally compose her letter to Herman as she ate.

As soon as cook began to clear away the dinner dishes before them. Robin hastily excused herself and retreated to her room. The tension in the house seemed unbearable. A blanket of gloom nestled over the inhabitants. Only Sara and Gregory seemed immune to it. Even Cook, a slim, short little woman with a no-nonsense look peeking out from beneath her wispy graying hair, was grim and untalkative.

Robin felt discouraged and defeated. She would write to Herman and tell him she was displeased with her position, to see if he could advise her on an alternative.

Her note was brief and to the point. She signed her name at the bottom and slipped the paper into the waiting envelope.

There was a tap at the door. She hesitated, not wanting any further confrontations with the Ridley family.

But Sara's voice came to her ears. It sounded thin, tight.

"Robin, Robin, are you there? Can I please talk to you for a moment?"

Robin moved to the door. "Come on in. Sara. What is it?"

The girl came into the room. Her eyes were red, her shoulders sagging.

Robin's heart went out to her. "Sara, you're upset. Come, sit here." She motioned to one of the chrome chairs.

Sara sat, but didn't meet Robin's questioning eyes. She gazed out the window to the prairie beyond. "I had to come to talk to you. It isn't fair not to warn you."

"What on earth are you talking about?"

Sara's voice was thick. "Robin, I was so happy that you came. I was so happy when Father said you could stay with us for a while. I thought everything would be all right. But Jacob is so mad at me. And Jacob's right. It's not safe for you to be here."

Robin thought of the dark youth at the dining-room table. She seriously doubted that he would be concerned about her safety.

Sara went on. "I've got to tell you a story, a horrible story. You may not want to stay after you've heard it. It's about my mother, Laura Ridley."

Robin could feel her stomach tense up. She sat quietly as Sara continued.

"When Jacob and I were eleven. Mother was still alive, and she and Father seemed to argue all the time. This one day they had a huge fight, out by the pool. You could hear them shouting and yelling at each other all over the place. But then they quieted down, and after a while they saddled up their horses and rode out onto the prairie. They often did that. They rode for miles and miles. But at the end of the day. Father came back alone, saying that Mother had wanted to ride a while longer, and that they had decided to divorce."

Sara's voice cracked, and for a moment Robin thought she wouldn't go on. But the girl steeled herself and squared her chin. Robin felt a rush of admiration for her.

"Mother didn't return that night. Father didn't seem to care. But by morning, some of the hands found her out on the prairie. She was dead. Her head—her head was crushed with a rock."

Emotion was etched on Sara's face.

"They had an inquest in town, and the verdict was that it had been an accident. That she had fallen off her horse, and struck her head on the rock. Her horse stood grazing nearby."

She looked directly at Robin now, her eyes sharp and bright. "But it was no accident, Robin. My mother had never fallen off a horse in her entire life. She had ridden Spice for years. There was not a jumpy bone in his body. She did not fall off that horse."

"But the verdict," Robin insisted. "Surely, if there was any doubt—"

"They didn't dare, Robin. They didn't dare give any other verdict. There was only one person who could have been responsible for Mom's death, and to accuse him would leave half of the town unemployed. My father!"

She was crying now, and Robin put her arms around her and held her close. What ugly ideas for such a young impressionable girl to grow up with. How it must hurt!

"I want to believe him, Robin, I really do. But he's been so different since that day. And there was no one else out there. She did not fall off that horse."

"But if she was upset, if she was angry," began Robin.

Sara stopped her, her eyes blazing. "Don't you think I've tried to convince myself of that all these years? That the gossip in the town is untrue, that we're ostracized for no reason? But I know the truth. It was no accident. You see, I saw Mother and Father ride off that day.

"You could always identify Mother on a horse, even at a distance. She grew up in New York City and began to ride as a child in the riding stables there. She rode English style, though everyone out here thought it was strange, complete with jodhpurs and knee-high boots and a tailored coat. You could see her posting as she trotted across the prairie. English riders are funny. Robin. They are very cautious. She never went anywhere on a horse without wearing her black velvet riding helmet. She wore it that day. I saw it. But when they found her body, there was no helmet in sight! It had not merely fallen off—it had totally disappeared. Someone was out on the prairie with her when she died, Robin, and that someone took her helmet with him."

Robin shivered as a chill traveled the length of her spine. It was hard for her to believe that a mere three days before she had been snug in her home in Chicago, living a solitary and uneventful life. The tale that she had just heard was horrifying and ugly. She tried to picture the man who had sat at the head of the table, raising the rock that killed his wife above his head. No, somehow, some way, it didn't ring true. He was gruff, he was insensitive. That she would admit without a moment's hesitation. Yet he had had a few moments of kindness, of charm, when she had met him.

Wouldn't a person who could act in such violent and ruthless ways have to be totally bad? Couldn't you tell just by looking at him? And why, anyway, would he have any desire to kill his wife, no matter how they may have argued?

Robin was surprised at the number of defensive arguments that crept into her mind as she sat absorbing the information she had just heard. She wanted to believe Alexander Ridley innocent. That she knew. But did she feel that way because she wanted to ease the pain in the heart of the young girl before her? Or did she really feel that she had had a glimpse into a man who was incapable of performing such an inhuman act?

Robin looked down at her just-finished letter to Herman as it lay on the desk before her. She gave a long sigh, then ripped it in two and deposited it in the trash can beside the desk.

"Sara," she said, "I'm not going to be scared away by the story you've just shared with me. I'm going to stay."

Sara's tear-stained face was a mixture of relief and joy.

"I'm—I'm so glad, Robin," she stammered.

"And," Robin continued, "I want you to stop being so melodramatic over the death of your mother. It was years ago, and what's done is done. There's no proof that your father had anything to do with the incident."

"But he's changed so much since that day. He wants nothing to do with us. He hates us, Robin. Jacob says it's clear he has a guilty conscience."

"Jacob is jumping to conclusions. Has it ever occurred to you that your dad may be filled with grief? That despite arguing with your mother, he may have loved her dearly, and been sad and empty at her death? Sometimes losing someone we love makes us act in strange ways." She couldn't stop the tears that filled her eyes. She was thinking of her own father.

"Robin, Robin, don't cry. I'm so sorry if I've made you cry. Have you lost someone you loved, Robin? You look so sad."

"My father. He was very sick. We knew he'd pass on, but it still hurt me tremendously when he did."

"I'm sorry, Robin." Sara's voice was very soft. "You mean Father may have been feeling something like that when Mother died? That maybe he really had nothing to do with it, and yet no one understood how he felt."

"It could be, Sara. I don't know your father very well. But what I'm trying to say is that it's wrong to accuse people of things when there's no proof."

"Jacob is so sure that he did it."

"You're very close to Jacob, aren't you?"

"Well, we're twins. And he's very smart, you know. I don't have a lot of friends. We do a lot together. We go to private school in California and just fly home for holidays and summer."

"I imagine you have a lot of friends in school."

Sara blushed. "Not really. Jacob says no one would like us if they knew about Father, so we keep to ourselves most of the time. I don't like school. I'd much rather be here."

Robin tried to push down the anger she was feeling inside. These poor children were experiencing such tragedy in their early years, growing up without close parental relationships and guidance at a time when they were most necessary, drowning themselves in suspicion and unhappiness. She wanted to help them, to befriend them, but she didn't know how.

When the clock in the hallway chimed eleven times, Sara and Robin decided to table their conversation until morning. Sara left for her own room soundlessly, and in a much better state of mind than when she had come in.

Robin, on the other hand, was left alone with her thoughts, a mixture of confusion and uneasiness. She could feel herself being drawn into the web of problems that surrounded the Ridley Ranch.

And she kept wondering about Alexander Ridley. What was he really like?

Chapter 4

The fatigue of her journey caught up with Robin as she retired that first night, and she slept deeply and restfully until the clamoring alarm beside her had announced that seven o'clock had arrived.