When The Heart Beckons (29 page)

“And what,” Cade asked slowly, his voice
hard, his eyes almost opaquely black within his bronzed face, “does
he want now with you?”

Brett stared down at the grass again. “When
I went to meet him at the hotel, he said he wanted to claim me as
his son. To be a father to me at last. And to share the empire he’s
built with me. He offered me twenty percent of everything he’s
built and acquired.” His lips twisted. “It was an impressive list
of companies, with some freight yards, mines, and railroad holdings
thrown in for good measure. But there was a nice little catch.”

“There always is.”

“Boxer wanted me to sign over all of my
interests in
Father’s
companies to
him
.”

“
What?
” Annabel felt her pulse
starting to race. Things were beginning to make sense. A queer,
dangerous kind of sense. She didn’t fully understand it yet, but a
queasy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her she soon would.
Things were far more amiss with the McCallums than anyone had first
guessed. An old enemy ... this shocking story ... an attempt to
take over Ross McCallum’s business interests ...

“How much of an interest are we talking
about here?” she asked abruptly, not caring that the McCallums’
personal concerns might be none of her affair, caring only that she
sensed trouble. Big trouble ...

“Considerable. On my twenty-first birthday,
my father made me a partner in several of his concerns. I own
twenty percent of the stock in numerous McCallum factories and
companies, plus a sizable share of railroad stock. Boxer wanted me
to sign everything over to him, in exchange for twenty percent of
his ownings.”

“Twenty percent for twenty percent,” Annabel
murmured.

“It seems his goal in life is to wreak his
revenge on Ross McCallum. He didn’t say as much, but I knew by
looking into his eyes that he wanted to wrest control of all of my
father’s business enterprises and bring him to ruin.”

Annabel touched Brett’s sleeve. “What did
you say?”

“I knocked him down,” Brett spat. “Bloodied
his damned nose.” His twisted smile held a measure of crude
satisfaction. “Then I marched out of there and went home to talk to
Father. I wasn’t sure I believed Boxer’s story, not on the surface,
but deep down, I knew it was true. Most of it, I guess. I couldn’t
get much out of Father—he was in too much of a fury—but he
confirmed all the major points—the love affair between Mama and
Frank Boxer, the money paid to get the son of a bitch out of town,
the eventual drastic action Father took to get rid of him when
Boxer returned to claim Mama and his ‘son’.”

“What about the suicide?” Cade spoke
quietly. “How did that fit into all of this mess?”

“According to Boxer, Mama killed herself
because she was miserable with Father and he wouldn’t let her go.
He wouldn’t allow a divorce, a scandal, wouldn’t stand to have the
McCallum name and reputation sullied. Boxer insists he could have
made her happy, but that Father kept them apart and crushed her
will to live. And he also added that Ross never let her forget that
her son was a bastard, a bastard he was raising as his own.”
Brett’s voice was so low Annabel had to lean very close to hear
him. “He claims that Father continually reminded her that instead
of throwing her out as she deserved, she was fortunate to be able
to continue living a life of luxury, fortunate her son would be
raised as a gentleman and would inherit an empire—far more than
either of them deserved.” His voice, thick with bitterness, broke.
But after one ragged gasp, he managed to continue. “Boxer claims
that at last she couldn’t take his tirades anymore, couldn’t take
the lectures and the constant burden of guilt he heaped upon her
shoulders, and she sought the only way out she could find.”

Brett threw himself down on his back in the
grass, staring dully up at the sky. Beside him, Annabel closed her
eyes. Poor Livinia. And poor Brett. A chilly gray sadness crept
through her at the thought of pale, lovely Livinia caught in a vise
of such utter misery. Suddenly she opened her eyes and looked at
Cade. He had turned away, toward the vista of gray-green sage and
golden plains. She could not see his face, but his powerful
shoulders were tensed beneath his flannel shirt and he stood
perfectly still, motionless as a stone statue.

She rose without thinking and went to him.
Without conscious thought, without even realizing what she was
doing, she gently reached out and touched his arm.

“I’m so sorry. Are you all right?”

The sight of his face shook her. It was
ashen. The hard strong bones looked even sharper than before, and
the grimness in his eyes had been replaced by an expression of such
utter desolation that it ripped at her heart. As if dazed, he
glanced over at her, then down at her slender hand upon his
arm.

“I’m fine. Right as rain.” But he looked
like a soul in torment. Annabel’s hand crept up to his cheek, and
touched it softly. If only there was a way she could erase the pain
that gripped his strong, handsome face. She knew it was tearing
through his insides with a searing intensity, an intensity no less
profound for the years that had passed since Livinia took her
life.

Cade had left home at seventeen because he’d
learned of his mother’s suicide, she reflected sorrowfully, and
because he’d discovered the lies with which his father had covered
it up. He’d blamed his father all those years ago, instinctively
and automatically, but back then he had not known the full
story.

Now he did. Or did he?

Something was not right here. She thought
back over everything Brett had said, and suddenly it hit her.

“How did Frank Boxer know all this?” she
demanded, whirling toward Brett. “About what your father said to
Livinia, about the cruel lectures and the taunts.”

“I guess Mama must have confided her pain to
him,” Brett began, but Annabel interrupted him, shaking her
head.

“He was kidnapped, remember? How could he
possibly know what was happening to Livinia in St. Louis right
before she died, if he was in the West Indies?”

Silence greeted her question. Beneath a
cottonwood tree, a pair of squirrels skittered wildly about, then
chased each other through the grass and past a spattering of
wildflowers.

Cade spoke roughly. “What does it matter? My
mother took her own life because my father made her so miserable
that—”

“You don’t know that for certain. You only
know what Frank Boxer told Brett.”

“I know what kind of man my father was—and
is.”

Brett was pacing now, round and round the
little clearing, his boots crunching in the dry grass. “Ross said
he loved her—he swore to me he was trying to protect her—that’s
about all I gave him a chance to explain, though,” he admitted. “I
didn’t even tell him I’d spoken with Boxer. We were both too angry
and too upset for much rational conversation.”

“And you ran away without ever telling him
that Boxer was back? Brett, how could you? That man hates your
father. He’s an enemy, no doubt a dangerous one! Why, you know
yourself that he planned to bring your father to financial ruin—he
wanted you to help him!”

“Yes, but I made it clear to him when my
fist landed in his face that I wouldn’t be a part of anything like
that. And Annabel, I didn’t exactly run out without explaining
anything. I left a letter detailing my meeting with Frank Boxer and
warning my father—that is, Ross—of Boxer’s scheme. I made sure that
Ross McCallum was fully alerted to his plans. But I just couldn’t
stay to thrash it out with him anymore. I wasn’t in the mood to
listen. I was in the mood to run, to escape. I needed to be away
from him, from that big beautiful house where I really didn’t
belong, and I needed a chance to do some thinking.”

“Your father never received that letter. At
least, not so far as I know,” Annabel said coolly.

Both men stared at her.

“How do you know that?” Brett stopped pacing
long enough to plant himself before her.

“Because he reported to Mr. Everett
Stevenson that you ran away without any kind of letter or
explanation. Oh, it was clear there had been some kind of a
quarrel, but he obviously hadn’t known you were going to just up
and disappear—and he told Mr. Stevenson that there was no farewell
letter of any sort. Why, it was only later that he received your
letter postmarked Justice. He
did
know about Red Cobb
chasing after you, because a business acquaintance in Kansas City
alerted him to that bit of gossip—and by the way, that’s something
we need to discuss, too—but Brett, I’m certain that your letter
about Frank Boxer never reached him.”

“Who the hell is Everett Stevenson?” Cade
demanded, stalking toward her. “And if you’re not really Brett’s
little fiancée, how the hell do you come to know so much about all
this?”

Annabel took a deep breath.
Here it
comes
, she thought.
The explosion. Cade McCallum, you
won’t like this one little bit
.

“Everett Stevenson II is the president of
the Stevenson Detective Agency. Ross McCallum hired him to find
Brett and bring him safely home before Red Cobb could put a bullet
in him.” She met Cade’s gaze as steadily as she could, wondering if
he would simply shoot her or if he’d strangle her first and then
finish her off with his gun. “I work for Mr. Stevenson—I’m a
private investigator. He assigned me to Brett’s case.”

Anger as harsh and bitter as a Wyoming
winter descended over Cade’s features. For a moment she thought he
really might pull his gun. “So,” he said at last, his eyes like
chips of black granite, “you’re nothing but a little liar. Ross
McCallum’s paid sneak. I should have known.”

The brutal calm with which he spoke the
words stung her deeper than the lash of a whip. “No! Cade,” she
pleaded, desperation washing over her. “Let me explain!”

Annabel reached a hand toward him, but the
scorn on his face stopped her cold.

“Reckon I’ll pass on that, Miss Brannigan.
I’ve heard enough of your lies to last me a lifetime.”

Something inside of her withered like a
wilted flower as Cade wheeled away toward the ranch house. Before
he’d gone ten steps, he halted and threw a glance back at his
brother. “We have a fight to finish. You coming?”

“Soon.” Brett drew an arm around Annabel as
he answered, drawing her shaking form close to him.

Cade frowned at them. “Suit yourself.”

When he strode away this time, he didn’t
look back.

“You and my brother don’t seem to like each
other very much,” Brett commented, leading her back toward the tree
stump and sitting her down. “What’s behind all this?”

Annabel was still seeing in her mind’s eye
Cade’s coldly furious face. She could still hear his quietly
contemptuous words flaying at her. “What?” she asked distractedly,
as Brett shook his head and repeated his question. “Oh, well, it’s
a long story, Brett. And very complicated. I’m too tired to talk
about it right now.”

“Too tired—or too upset?” he asked
curiously, studying the sheen of suppressed tears in her eyes. “You
know, I have a few questions for you, too, Annie. How did you come
to be the private investigator my father sent hunting after me? And
why’d you tell my brother that you were my fiancée?” He gave a
short laugh, his face softening a little with affection for
her.

“It’s me, Annie, so stop playing your games.
Time to fess up.”

“Oh, Brett, I can’t talk about it now.” She
stood up, peering past him in the direction of the ranch house. “I
have to find Cade.”

Vaguely, she knew she ought to be
questioning Brett about Red Cobb and about Lucas Johnson, finding
out if Brett had any idea why Johnson wanted him dead. And she also
knew she should head immediately to Skull Creek to wire Mr.
Stevenson with her latest theories and suspicions. Yet another part
of her felt she should be making the most of these moments alone in
this beautiful wild spot with Brett, opening her heart to him, and
letting him know how much she loved him, and yet all she could
think about was Cade.

“No, you don’t.” Brett placed his hands
firmly on her shoulders as she tried to edge past him. “You haven’t
given me a single answer.”

She scowled at him in exasperation as a
sudden gust ruffled his dark hair and sent her own loose cinnamon
curls flying. “Has anyone ever told you that you ask too many
questions?”

“No. That’s what most people usually tell
you
.” He grinned.

She smiled back. But then she turned her
head again and fixed her gaze on Cade just before he disappeared
inside the ranch.

Something odd was happening here, something
she didn’t understand at all, but which she couldn’t deny. She was
all alone beneath a lemon sun and a lilac sky with Brett, her
Brett, and all she could think about was his brother.

What is wrong with me?

“I didn’t know who Cade was when I met
him—he was, after all, only Roy Steele,” she explained slowly, her
eyes still fixed on the ranch. “So of course I never guessed he was
your brother. And I didn’t fully trust him at first, and didn’t
think he would help me find you unless I had a very good reason—so
I simply told him I was your fiancée.” She sighed. “I never dreamed
everything would get so complicated ...”

Brett had been watching her face. He knew
Annabel Brannigan as well as he knew any person on earth, and a
strange thought popped into his mind as he saw the way she was
staring at the place where his brother had disappeared.

“I think I’m beginning to understand,” he
murmured.

“Are you?” All Annabel could muster was a
wry, sad little smile. “I’m glad, Brett, very glad indeed—because I
don’t.” She leaned against him, felt his arms tighten protectively
around her suddenly, and sighed again, feeling more bereft and
confused than she ever remembered. “I thought I had everything in
my life figured out, but now ... it seems I don’t understand
anything at all.”