Titans (31 page)

In Trevor's office, Samantha said, “Mr. Waverling, may I impose upon your receptionist to call a cab to take me to my hotel?”

“My dear Miss Gordon, after all we've put you through, I couldn't possibly allow you to go by cab. It will be Nathan's and my great pleasure to drop you off at your hotel.”

W
hat's got hold of your thinking, Dad?” Nathan asked, swaying with the jostle of the carriage as it pulled away from the Strathmore Hotel.

“Nothing, or it could be everything,” Trevor replied.

“You're one for the cryptic answer, aren't you?”

“I'm trying to break myself of the habit, especially with you. Are you looking forward to meeting Miss Charlotte Weatherspoon tonight?”

“Not particularly. Is she pretty?”

“You'll have to be the judge of that, but I can say she's a young woman of worth.”

Ah, thought Nathan. He got the picture. A Jane Eyre type, nice and pleasant, but plain as a mutton chop. “By that, I assume she's rich.”

“As God, but don't let that be a deterrent. By worth, I mean she's a young woman of character, or your grandmother wouldn't have her at her table. Her son may marry ladies of questionable virtue, but that won't do for her grandson.”

Nathan felt a prickle of resentment. His grandmother meant well, but she was being presumptuous to figure it a family duty to find a mate for him. He must make clear that when it came to his social life, he would choose his companions, and in regard to his future wife, he would decide the girl right for him. He would indulge his grandmother's matchmaking tonight, but it would be the last occasion he'd be placed in such a spot.

The dining room table had been set with the finest in the china cabinets. Sterling gleamed, crystal sparkled, damask glowed, even without the benefit of the myriad of candles stuck in the arms of the candelabra to be lit later. Mirrored bowls of antique roses threw rainbow prisms about the rooms and filled the house with their fragrance. Surveying the splendor, Nathan remarked to his grandmother, “Are we entertaining the king of England?”

“No, dear boy, the girl I hope will become the queen of your heart.”

Nathan had a firm grip on his resolution to avoid being pushed into a relationship not of his instigation until the entrance of Charlotte Weatherspoon and her parents into the parlor. She was tall and willowy, dark-haired, brown-eyed, and stunning, and from the get-go, totally disinterested in him. She wore the resigned face of a kidnap victim conscripted to serve an adversarial government. Nathan presented the same expression to her but out of tongue-tied awe rather than indifference. Shaken from his expectation of a Jane Eyre, Nathan took the hand she offered and managed a greeting without stuttering. “How do you do, Miss Weatherspoon. It's nice to meet you.”

“How do you know?” she queried, her dark eyes already flashing boredom. “We've only just been introduced.”

Irrationally cut to the quick, Nathan replied, “I suppose my judgment came from anticipation, but I can see it was premature.”

An exquisite eyebrow spiked. She was unaccustomed to having the stone she'd thrown tossed back at her, Nathan perceived. “I much doubt the evening will improve it,” she said.

Nathan bowed slightly to say she'd get no argument from him.

“Have mercy, Charlotte,” her mother scolded and frowned her disapproval, but Mavis simply smiled into her sherry glass.

Trevor despised traveling long distances—by horse, coach, or train, it didn't matter. But as with the carriage trip he'd taken to collect his son back in March, this trip would be worth his valuable time and discomfort. Early the next morning, Saturday, he bought a first-class train ticket to Gainesville. His traveling valise packed the night before, he had risen before dawn and crept quietly out of the house, leaving a note for his mother saying simply that he had gone on a business trip and would return in a few days. Benjy had managed to harness the horses without waking the household, and carriage and driver were before the front gate when he was ready to leave.

A surprise awaited him at the train station. He had sent Benjy on his way and was standing with his valise on the platform prepared to board when he caught sight of Daniel Lane farther down, obviously waiting for a passenger to disembark. He had no wish to engage in conversation with an employee this early in the morning, but his curiosity was roused. He stepped behind a lamppost where he could see without being seen, and presently a small, well-dressed woman stepped down from the train and flew into Daniel's arms. They walked off holding hands toward the livery area, Daniel swinging her one piece of luggage as if he might break into a dance step any second, their laughter carrying the distance to Trevor's ears.

Hmm, he thought, then all speculation about Daniel and his girlfriend vanished as Trevor settled into his first-class compartment and concentrated on what he might discover in Marietta, Oklahoma Territory.

Sloan was the first to open his eyes. He gently removed Samantha's arm from around him and stole quietly out of bed, keeping an eye on her for signs of movement. She did not stir. Pulling on a robe, he resisted the impulse to brush away her hair from her eyes to observe her face in sleep. How trusting and vulnerable she looked. How unsuspecting and innocent. But for the guilt raking his conscience, he would have climbed back in bed and kissed her awake. As it was, he stepped out on the small balcony to draw in fresh air before the sun rose and burned the life out of it. He needed time and privacy to mull over the course of action he should take now. Was it too late to tell Samantha of the skull in his wardrobe? Had he passed the point of no return?

Yesterday, he was already at the hotel when Samantha arrived. He had checked in minutes before and had his room key in hand when a handsomely outfitted Concord coach drew under the portico of the hotel and Samantha alighted, assisted by two gentlemen who climbed back into the coach when the doorman took charge of his bride-to-be. She'd made eye contact with him as he followed the porter up to his room adjoining hers. She did not explain her reason for taking an earlier train until later when they'd finished with the purpose for which they'd booked the rooms. Then she'd related the events of the past hours.

“I don't believe Todd mailed the camera, no matter that he had a postal receipt,” she said. “Neither does Nathan.”

“How about Trevor Waverling?”

“Hard to tell. He's a difficult man to read behind all his grace and charm.”

“Yes, I saw what a handsome devil he is,” Sloan said. “Also that he had a little more of an eye on you than a man of his age should have.”

She'd arched an eyebrow. “Jealous, are we? Stay that way. I love it.”

In telling of Todd's treachery, Samantha had presented Sloan with another opportunity—and his last—to assure her that all was not lost. He had a surprise for her stored in his wardrobe. But then she had said, “So, after painful and long consideration, I've decided to let Daddy have a go at Windy Bluff.”

Sloan was not sure he understood. “What does that mean, Sam?”

“It means that I saw Daddy's face the day he told Nathan Holloway there would be no drilling on my archeological site. I could almost see his heart fall at giving up a possible fortune to make his daughter happy, the way mine fell when I thought about your question, Sloan. How would I feel when the next disaster strikes and obliterates our surplus. I decided I could live without the world knowing of the scientific treasure that could lie beneath the sand at Windy Bluff, but I couldn't live with my guilt or Daddy's resentment if Las Tres Lomas—or the Triple S—was ever in financial jeopardy that an oil strike would have prevented.” She'd smiled sadly. “The land is Daddy's, after all, not mine. It is the blood of
his
people in the soil, not my own. I have no right to impose my will on what was entrusted to him to hold and preserve. It's enough to know that he would have sacrificed it all on my behalf.”

Sloan had listened to her little speech knowing what it cost her to arrive at her decision. He knew only the business of cattle and the hard life of ranching. He'd ridden his horse over many a creature's bones left to dry in the sun and disintegrate without ever giving a thought to their origin. But Samantha… Her eye never wavered from the ground in search of a speck that identified it as different from the ordinary graveyard scatterings found on the prairie. He'd had to make sure he understood. “Exactly what are you saying, Sam?” he'd asked.

“I'm saying I've had my shot. Now I'll let Daddy have his. I will not stand in the way of Waverling Tools setting up shop at Windy Bluff. It's not good grazing land anyway, and Mr. Waverling and his son are aware of my aversion to the destruction of oil drilling and are sensitive to it. They'll respect the rest of the ranch. Mr. Waverling will contact Daddy Monday morning. I'm to tell him to be at the Triple S at ten o'clock to take the call.”

The sun was rising, casting its strong, virulent arms over the city. By midmorning, the temperature would have soared over a hundred blistering degrees. Sloan filled his lungs with another cleansing draught of air. What was the point now of saying a word to Samantha about the skull? She had made her decision, and it was for the best. It might be that Neal would turn down Trevor Waverling after all and abide by his resolution to forbid drilling at Windy Bluff. In that case, Samantha need never know about the skull at all. He could endure a guilty conscience, but not the doubts the woman he loved might have about him.

The balcony door opened and Samantha, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, stepped out in a loosely tied robe, the birthday nightgown long discarded. Sloan felt a stunning rush of desire. “Good morning,” he said. “How's my girl, or rather”—he grinned—“how's my woman?”

Samantha laughed. “Your woman, my foot! How's my man?”

“Come here and I'll show you.”

“This is perfect,” Billie June said, casting a last glance around the apartment, the third listed in the
FOR RENT
section of the
Dallas Herald
that she and Daniel had inspected. “I'm going to take it.”

Daniel waved his hat before his face. The room, owing to the closed windows, was suffocating. Billie June had removed her suit jacket. There was a small patch of moisture under her arms and between her shoulder blades, but her batiste blouse with its ruffled collar looked as if she'd just stepped from her dressing room. Daniel liked that about her. Always looking fresh and tidy and cool in public was Billie June, such a contrast to the hot little number she was in bed.

While she opened wardrobes and pulled out drawers, sniffing and examining their interiors, Daniel inspected Billie June. He'd dreaded this day of taking her around to rental properties, mainly because he was afraid he'd give away his disrelish for having her live full-time within shacking-up distance. She'd not wanted to live in a women's boardinghouse with its rules and curfews but in an apartment where she could come and go, entertain as she pleased. Of course, she'd told her brother that she'd come to Dallas looking for just the sort of abode he thought her trust fund was paying for. Billie June said she'd rather live in a homeless shelter than in a coop of clucking hens.

“Won't your brother find out you're not living in a boardinghouse when he gets the bill?” Daniel asked.

“He doesn't want to be bothered with writing checks from my trust fund for my expenses each month,” Billie June had answered. “He will open an account for me at his bank, and I'm to draw on that to pay my bills.”

“Do you intend to study music at the Sarah B. Morrison Academy?”

“Of course I do. I wouldn't deceive him about
that
.”

Daniel watched her move about the room. Everything about her trim figure was perfect, from her small, perky breasts to her round little buttocks and shapely legs. The day was too hot for sex, but he found himself wanting to take her to bed when he had planned on getting rid of her as fast as he could. He had already told her that she could not stay at his apartment. There was no electricity because some idiot had shot out the generator. A pipe had sprung a leak, and he had no running water. The humidity had swollen shut some of the bedroom windows, and the house would be unbearably hot.

“That's all right,” she'd said. “I'll stay at the Strathmore, but I'll have to sneak you in. The Singletons are known there. It's the hotel where members of my family stay when they're in Dallas.”

So rather than wishing her gone, he was glad she would be staying until Sunday afternoon when she'd catch the four o'clock back to Fort Worth. He'd heard the Strathmore had a grand dining room, and he would treat her to a fine supper and champagne and later take her to a club where they could dance. He was looking forward to her company. Sometime during the evening he'd bring up the subject of the skull, though he had to be careful how he did it. Billie June had never said another word about the relic. Did she know of its importance to Samantha and that it had gone missing? Did she know of Samantha's worry over the fate of her camera and its significance? Wouldn't the subject have come up in girl talk? Was Billie June protecting her brother because, smart as she was, once aware of Samantha's concerns, coupled with Sloan's quick proposal to her, she'd have added it all up and arrived at the only explanation for that skull being in Sloan's hand that day? Somehow, despite family loyalty, Daniel couldn't see Billie June supporting her brother in committing what amounted to outright theft and fraud. Her sense of right and wrong was as ramrod straight as her slim little back, and Mr. High-and-Mighty Big Britches would be in big trouble with his sister if she ever learned the significance of that skull.

No, Daniel was willing to wager that it all boiled down to Samantha not trusting Billie June with her concerns simply because Billie June was sleeping with Daniel Lane, an employee of Waverling Tools, virtually the enemy, and she did not want her worries to be the topic of pillow talk and later the conference room.