Rawhide and Lace. Diana Palmer
haunt him all his life, he knew. He’d never had anyone of his own, anything to love or protect or take care of. Except Bruce. And Bruce had been too old for that kind of babying. Ty had wanted someone to spoil, someone to give things to and look after. And he’d tried to make Bruce into the child he himself would never have. But there had been a child. And obviously Erin had planned to keep it. His child. He remembered now, too late, the hopeful look in her eyes, the softness of her expression when she’d said, “I have something to tell you….”
His hand opened, letting the letter drop to the floor. He poured out another measure of whiskey and downed some of it quickly, feeling a tightness in his chest that would not, he knew, be eased by liquor.
He stared helplessly at the whiskey bottle for a long time. Then he got slowly to his feet, still staring at it, his face contorted with grief and rage. And he flung it at the fireplace with the full strength of his long, muscular arm, watched as it shattered against the bricks, watched the flames hit the alcohol and shoot up into the blackened chimney.
“Erin,” he whispered brokenly. “Oh, God, Erin, forgive me!”
The sudden opening of the door startled him. He didn’t turn, mindful of the glaze over his eyes, the fixed rigidity of his face.
“Yes?” he demanded coldly.
“Señor Ty, are you all right?” Conchita asked gently.
His shoulders shifted. “Yes.”
“Can I bring you something to eat?”
He shook his head. “Tell José I need five pallbearers,” he said. “Bruce’s roommate asked to be one already.”
“Si, señor. You have talked with the minister?”
“I did that when I came home.”
“Are you sure that I cannot bring you something?” the middle-aged Spanish woman asked softly.
“Absolution,” he said, his voice ghostly, haunted. “Only that.”
* * *
It was three days before Ty began to surface from his emotional torment. The funeral was held in the cold rain, with only the men and Bruce’s roommate to mourn him. Ty had thought about contacting Erin, but if she’d just been released from the hospital, she wouldn’t be in any condition to come to a funeral. He wanted to call her, to talk with her. But he didn’t want to hurt her anymore. His voice would bring back too many memories, open too many wounds. She’d never believe how much he regretted what he’d done. She probably wouldn’t even listen. So what was the use of upsetting her?
He went into town after the funeral to see Ed Johnson, the family’s attorney. With the strain between himself and his brother, Ty expected that Bruce had tried to keep him from inheriting his share of Staghorn—an assumption that proved to be all too true.
Ed was pushing fifty and balding, with a warm personality and a keen wit. He rose as Ty entered his office and held out his hand.
“I saw you at the funeral,” he said solemnly, “but I didn’t want to intrude. I figured you’d be in to see me.”
Ty took off his cream-colored Stetson and sat down, crossing his long legs. He looked elegant in his blue pinstriped suit, every inch the cattle king. His silver eyes pinned the attorney as he waited silently for the older man to speak.
“Bruce has changed his will three times in the past year,” Ed began. “Once, he tried to borrow money on the estate for some get-rich-quick scheme. He was so changeable. And after last week, I feared for his sanity.”
Last week. Just after he’d received Erin’s letter. Poor boy, Ty thought. He closed his eyes and sighed. “He cut me out of his will, obviously,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Got it in one,” Ed replied. “He left everything he had to a woman with a New York address. I think it’s that model he was dating a few months back,” he mumbled, missing Ty’s shocked expression. “Yes, here it is. Miss Erin Scott. His entire holdings. With the provision,” he added, lifting his eyes to Ty’s white face, “that she come and live on the ranch. If she doesn’t meet that condition, every penny of his holdings goes to Ward Jessup.”
Ward Jessup! Ty’s breath caught in his throat. He and Ward Jessup were long-standing enemies. Jessup’s ranch, which adjoined Staghorn, was littered with oil rigs, and the man made no secret of the fact that he wanted to extend his oil search to the portion of Staghorn closest to his land. Although Ty had been adamant about not selling, Jessup had made several attempts to persuade Bruce to sell to him. And now, if Erin refused to come, he’d have his way—he’d have half of Staghorn. What a priceless piece of revenge, Ty thought absently. Because Bruce knew how much Erin hated Ty—that she’d rather die than share a roof with Tyson Wade—he’d made sure big brother would never inherit.
“That’s the end of it, I guess,” Ty said gently.
“I don’t understand.” Ed stared at him over his glasses.
“Bruce had a letter from her last week,” the younger man said, his voice level, quiet. “She was in a wreck some time ago. She’s been crippled, and she lost the child she was carrying. I’m responsible.”
“Was it Bruce’s child?”
Ty met the curious stare levelly. “No. It was mine.”
Ed cleared his throat. “Oh. I’m sorry.”
“Not half as sorry as I am,” he said, and got up. “Thanks for your time, Ed.”
“Wait a minute,” the attorney said. “You aren’t just giving up half your ranch, for God’s sake? Not after you’ve worked most of your life to build it into what it is?”
Ty stared at him. “Erin hates me. I can’t imagine that she’d be charitable enough to want to help me, not after the way I’ve treated her. She has more reason than Bruce to want revenge. And I don’t have much heart for a fight, not even to save Staghorn. One way or another, it’s been a hell of a week.” He jammed his Stetson down over his hair, his eyes lifeless. “If she wants to cut my throat, I’m going to let her. My God, that’s the least I owe her!”
Ed watched him leave, frowning. That didn’t sound like the Tyson Wade he knew. Something had changed him, perhaps losing his brother. The old Ty would have fought with his last breath to save the homestead. Ed shook his head and picked up the phone.
“Jennie, get me Erin Scott in New York,” he told his secretary, and gave her the number. Seconds later a pleasant, ladylike voice came on the line.
“Yes?”
“Miss Scott?” he asked.
“I’m Erin Scott.”
“I’m Edward Johnson in Ravine, Texas…the attorney for the Wade family,” he clarified.
“I haven’t asked for restitution—”
“It’s about a totally different matter, Miss Scott,” he interrupted. “You knew my client, Bruce Wade?”
There was a long pause. “Bruce…has something happened to him?”
“He was in an automobile accident three days ago, Miss Scott. I’m sorry to have to tell you that it was fatal.”
“Oh.” She sighed. “Oh. I’m very sorry, Mr….?”
“Johnson. Ed Johnson. I’m calling to inform you that he named you his beneficiary.”
“Beneficiary?”
She sounded stunned. He supposed she was. “Miss Scott, you inherit a substantial amount of cash in the bequest, as well as part ownership of the Staghorn ranch.”
“I can’t believe he did that,” she murmured. “I can’t believe it! What about his brother?”
“I don’t quite understand