Unspeakable (36 page)

Taking their cue from Connaught, the other two nodded in sync like a duo of puppets, which was the manner in which they acknowledged almost everything. They were tight-lipped and noncommittal, but Emory wasn't put off. He understood. It was SOP. It was the way moguls conducted their business affairs. There was a lesson to be learned from them. Now that they'd finished eating, Emory sensed their impatience. Connaught occasionally would glimpse disdainfully at the jukebox, which had blared forth throughout their meal. He also gave the extravagant, diamond-studded gold timepiece on his left wrist a frequent glance. As soon as the waitress transferred the four frosty longneck beer bottles from her tray to their table, Emory got down to business.

"It's sewn up. The Corbett place is as good as ours. As long as Delray was dying, he couldn't have picked a better time." He shot them smiles all around. "Meaning no disrespect, of course."

"What about Mrs. Corbett?" one of the puppets asked. "Did she inherit?"

"Everything."

"Isn't that a problem?" Connaught asked. "You told me she was as set against selling as her father-in-law."

Emory leaned back and stretched his arm along the back of the booth. "That might have been the case of the matter as long as he was alive. Honor thy father-in-law. She didn't want to cross him."

"But you believe she'll come around now?"

"I'm sure of it," he replied with a casual confidence. "How's she going to run that ranch alone?

She can't. She's a deaf mute. Won't take long for her to see the light. Give her a week, two at the outside, and she'll realize there's no way she can handle it. And of course"—he paused to insert a chuckle—"I'm going to be right there reminding her of all the hardships she'll face if she tries to go it alone. I'll be encouraging her to sell before y'all change your minds and start looking for another property."

The suit across the table from him pushed his untouched beer aside. "What makes you think you wield any influence over her?"

"Well, there's the note the bank's holding. I can use that as leverage. Then she's already had that one scare with the herd." Snickering, he added, "There could always be another unfortunate mishap."

"Is this Mexican of yours trustworthy?" asked the man sitting beside him.

"Long as you pay him, Jesse Garcia would screw his own mother with twelve people watching."

"You're sure the poisoning can't come back to you?"

"Absolutely. In fact, even as we speak, somebody else is being booked for the crime." He saw no point in telling them about the worrisome hired hand, who was too cagey-and competent-looking for Emory's comfort. His first impression of the cowboy was that he was an arrogant son of a bitch who might go poking his nose into other people's business. Emory couldn't risk having anybody around Anna Corbett undermining the sound advice he was going to be giving her. He needed to be rid of the hired hand.

And then there was Garcia. Despite what he had told them about the Mexican, he made Emory nervous, too. What if somebody offered him more than fifty dollars to finger the person who had hired him to poison the salt lick in Corbett's pasture? It wasn't the Mexican's standard practice to rat out his clients, but who knew? He might be having a bad year and need the money. So what had Emory done? He had conveniently taken care of the two niggling problems at once. As the banker whose collateral was in jeopardy, he had called the sheriff's office and shared with them his concerns about the senseless killing of valuable stock and the coincidental hiring of a new hand. They had assured him they would check into it.

As easily as that, he had removed himself from the poisoning by casting suspicion on someone else. The sheriff's office would be occupying the cowboy while they conducted an investigation. It could take a long time. Time in which Emory would work on Anna without interference. It was goddamn brilliant if he did say so himself.

"Trust me," he said, "I've got all the bases covered. Garcia is a genius. I've even thought about using him again. Anna Corbett dotes on her kid. Which opens up several avenues of possibility. For the right price, I'm sure Garcia could get real creative."

The three men from EastPark exchanged an uneasy glance. Noticing it, Emory quickly added,

"Of course I'd rather not apply that kind of pressure. That would be a last-resort tactic, to be used only if absolutely necessary, and only after discussing it with you beforehand."

"We hope you understand, Mr. Lomax," one of the veeps said, "that if your name is ever connected to a crime, EastPark will disavow all knowledge of it. We never sanction criminal activity."

Bullshit. Connaught probably conducted a handful of criminal activities before breakfast. Emory knew it, and Connaught knew that he knew it, but Emory agreed. "Of course. I'm just talking off the top of my head. Most of these options won't be exercised. What I'm counting on most, what will be most effective, is our personal relationship."

As hoped, that piqued interest. You could practically see Connaught's ears pricking. "Your personal relationship with whom?"

"Mrs. Corbett."

"I wasn't aware you had one."

Emory lowered his arm from the back of the booth and shrugged self-consciously. "I didn't want to let on about it. In case y'all misinterpreted my interest in the project. I pride myself on keeping my business affairs separate from my personal life. But from both points of view, I think Mrs. Corbett—Anna—will be making a mistake she'll regret forever if she declines your offer. I'll hammer that point home. If she won't listen to me as a financial adviser," he said, winking, "I'll simply have to use some other form of persuasion."

Again the men exchanged concerned looks. "Mr. Lomax, the laws on this type of land acquisition are very strict. Furthermore, they're carefully monitored by the federal government."

"I'm well aware of that, yes," Emory said, pulling a somber face. The suit sitting next to Connaught said, "It's imperative that you keep your involvement with us separate from your responsibilities at the banking institution with which you be affiliated." Who did these assholes think they were talking to? Emory Lomax knew the rules of this game; he'd been playing it for years. Although miffed by the implied insult to his intelligence, he maintained his solemn, obsequious expression. "Of course. That's been understood from the beginning."

"It's even more important that nothing unethical or, God forbid, immoral—"

"Hey, y'all!" Emory interrupted, holding up both hands. "You've got nothing to worry about." Reducing his voice to an undertone, he leaned across the red plastic basket in which his order of ribs had been served. "It's not like I need to seduce the woman. Anna is... Let's see, how can I phrase this delicately? Since she's been deprived of normal language skills, she's found another way to communicate. Get it?"

"You're saying that the two of you already have a relationship of an intimate nature?" Emory was fed up with the high-flown language. "No, what I'm saying is that I've been fucking her for a couple of years now. Almost to the day I started handling their accounts. At first I thought the old man was slipping it to her. That's what the gossips said and, as far as I know or care, they were right. But she came on to me something fierce, so I thought, hell, why not? I'm single. She's a knockout. And..." He inched forward as far as the booth allowed. "Know the best part? She can't talk. Now, I ask you, is that a dream fuck or what?" That drew a smile even from iron-ass Connaught.

Emory said, "Stand by for further developments, gentlemen. Should be in the bag any day now." That brought the meeting to a close. Emory left enough cash on the table to cover four rib dinners, eight beers, and a miserly tip. Back-slapping and glad-handing his guests to the door, he repeatedly assured them that he had the situation under control, all the while springing gushers of sweat from his armpits and wondering how in hell he was going to make good these boasts. He was so preoccupied with his dilemma he didn't notice the diner seated back-to-back with him in the next booth.

CHAPTER THIRTY–SIX

W
hen family and friends paid compliments to her photography, Anna had dismissed them as biased. But Pete Nolen's opinion of her work was valid. He was a professional who could differentiate good work from bad. He had understood exactly what she was trying to say with that photograph of the farmhouse. Of course Jack—

She didn't let the thought form completely, because thinking about Jack made her sad, and she was going to let nothing dampen this moment. Unlikely as it seemed, she had a fan! She wanted to bask in the glow of the shopkeeper's praise. Unfortunately, there was no one to tell of this news, no one with whom to share this momentous occasion.

When they arrived home, she was so pumped she immediately loaded her camera with film, gathered her equipment, took David outside, and started posing him on the swing Jack had rigged for him.

But the heat was oppressive, the atmosphere so sticky it seemed that the air clung to their skin. David got cranky and wouldn't cooperate. Before long she surrendered to the climate and her son's recalcitrance. As they trudged back inside, she noticed white, puffy thunderheads on the northwestern horizon, and thought how delicious a cleansing rain would feel. She fixed David a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch and let him picnic on the living room floor and watch a video about dinosaurs while he ate. She went upstairs to her bedroom for a few moments alone.

After Dean died, she had redecorated the bedroom so that every time she entered it she wouldn't be reminded of the days and nights her husband had lain in the bed, struggling for each breath and fearing his own mortality.

Decorated in shades of apricot and ivory, it was a soothing room, with baby portraits of David scattered about in silver frames. A few of her and Dean. One with Delray and Mary. Her favorite books lined the shelves of the open cabinet in the corner. An area rug broke up the space between the bed and the window, in front of which was a rocking chair. The room was personal but uncluttered. It wasn't fussy, but uncompromisingly feminine.

Too feminine. Very chaste.

Some nights she was assailed by a loneliness so dense it was palpable. She hated sleeping alone. She longed to have someone lying beside her to touch in the night, to feel his breath against her skin, share his body heat, and know that she wasn't alone in her dark silence. Other nights her desires took a decidedly more carnal turn. Following her periods, when she had always been easily aroused, she would have erotic dreams in which she and a faceless man were engaged in incredible sex. Sometimes she awoke in the throes of orgasm. Other times she awoke just prior to climaxing, and for the remainder of the night she was feverish and restless. On those nights, she hugged her pillow tightly and pressed it between her thighs. Yes, she missed sex.

Jack Sawyer had made her realize how much.

Pushing the thought aside, she moved to the dressing table, sat down on the tufted stool, and looked at herself in the mirror. What she saw terrified her. Because what she saw was a woman who had remained voluntarily mute for six years.

Following Dean's death, she simply hadn't had the heart to continue practicing her speech. She'd been wrong to give it up. Everything she had learned to that point was probably lost to her now and might be impossible to regain. But she had to try.

The encounter in the sheriff's office earlier today had been unpleasant and humiliating, but beneficial. It had made her realize that if she were going to oversee the ranch, and negotiate contracts with timber companies, and stave off land-grabbing opportunists like Emory Lomax, and sell her photographs, and combat the ignorance and prejudice of people who spoke down to her because of her handicap, then she must relearn how to speak.

She did not underestimate the task ahead. She accepted the limitations. Never would she be able to conduct conversations relying entirely on speech. Having been born profoundly deaf limited her capabilities, but it did not restrict her to absolute silence.

Too long she had relied on others, even her young son, to speak for her. No more. She must learn to speak for herself. She must.

Opening her mouth slightly, she exercised her vocal cords for the first time in years. She felt the vibration as the air moved across them and knew she had made a sound. It was probably just as well that she couldn't hear the noise that had come out, or she might never try again. She hesitated, reminding herself that thousands of hearing-impaired people relied solely on sign language and chose never to learn to speak. They led rewarding, productive, fulfilled lives. But she and her parents had decided when she was a child that she would combine sign language with lip reading and speech. Deaf educators and private tutors had dedicated themselves to teaching her. Hours had been spent in front of a mirror as she was now, following the instructions of patient, caring therapists.

She had been good at it and had become very proficient. Then Dean had died. Intimidation and self-pity had caused her to give up the skills she had worked so hard to acquire. Delray's selfish wish for her to remain locked in silence had been a good excuse for her to become indifferent to it. She realized that now. She'd taken the coward's way out.

It took a lot of courage to admit that. It took even more to face the mirror and confront not only the seemingly insurmountable task ahead of her, but also her fear of it, her fear of trying and failing.