The Pregnancy Clause. Elizabeth Sinclair
it took two weeks to locate the original will.”
“But this doesn’t make sense. When my father told me about the terms of his will, he gave me the impression that I would have sole ownership of Clover Hill Farms. He never said anything about a baby or the farm reverting to charity.”
Lowering his wire-rimmed spectacles to the bridge of his bony nose, Lawrence stared at her. “I cannot speak to your father’s reasoning or his decision. I can only relate what the codicil says. The terms of the original will were just as you say. The farm went solely to you—however, the codicil changes all that.”
Emily shook her head. “I don’t understand any of this.”
The young lawyer sighed impatiently. “Let me explain.” Lawrence straightened the papers on his desk, lining them up like soldiers at a dress parade. “When your father originally had my father draw up his will, the terms were as you’ve stated them. This codicil applies conditions to that original document and to your continued ownership. You must meet these terms in the allotted time or lose the horse-breeding farm to the charity your father has designated here as his new beneficiary.” He used his forefinger to push his glasses back in place, then shuffled through the papers. “The Horseman’s Benevolent Association.”
Emily sighed, leaned back, then took a deep fortifying breath. The smell of lemon oil, leather-bound books, stale smoke and Larry’s expensive, overpowering, cologne assaulted her. The combination turned her already queasy stomach. “Is it legal? Could he do that?”
“Yes, he had every right to put additional stipulations on the distribution of his estate. I’m afraid you will have to produce a child in ten and a half months or you’ll lose your horse farm.” He cleared his throat. “Of course, I’m sure he assumed that marriage would precede the blessed event.”
“That’s impossible.” Emily wasn’t about to tie herself to any man.
He eyed her over his glasses, his gesture making him look older than his thirty years. “You mean you don’t have a young man who’s pressing you to marry?” Lawrence leered. “Of course, you didn’t date all that frequently in high school, but you’ve turned into an attractive woman. There must be men lined up on your porch.” His leer deepened. “If I can be of any help with the…uh…baby problem, don’t hesitate to ask.”
His condescending tone caused Emily’s anger to churn inwardly. Whatever made this pompous ass think she’d resort to asking him to father her child? She’d spent four years in high school avoiding his amorous overtures. Why would she change her mind now? Not in this lifetime. She’d rather walk over hot coals than climb into bed with Lawrence Tippens.
And as far as her personal life went, she wasn’t about to share with this stodgy legal machine that the Sahara Desert had a better chance of getting a torrential rain than she did of getting a date. She couldn’t be expected to run a business like hers and still play the social butterfly. The only nursery she should be planning to furnish should be one with hay on the floor.
“Thanks but no thanks, Larry. This idea needs getting used to. I’m a horse breeder—I’m not cut out to be a mother.”
He bristled at her rejection, just as he’d done in high school, then became all business again. “Am I to assume then that you’re willing to let the farm go to charity?”
“No, certainly not.” The smug—Emily fought to remember she was a lady.
“In that case, short of contesting this, I see no other alternative for you except to comply.”
A dim ray of hope rose in Emily. “Contesting? You mean I can fight this legally?”
“You can.” Lawrence jogged the papers, papers that had changed her life, into a neat stack, then returned them to the manila folder from which he’d taken them a half hour ago. “However, since your father was of sound mind, your chances of winning are slim at best.”
Standing, Emily walked to the window overlooking the main street of the small town of Bristol, New York. She’d lived here all her life. Everyone knew everyone, along with their business. The thought of having to face people with the news of what had gone on here today made her want to crawl off in a corner and hide. And it would spread beyond these doors, she had no doubt. Larry could never keep a juicy little tidbit like this to himself.
A movement in the windowpane drew her attention from the lazy activity of Main Street. Reflected in the window, she could see Larry fingering a cigar, no doubt in anticipation of her leaving. He was much too proper to light it with her there, but the stale smell of predecessors to the cigar he held already clung to the legal books and drapes. Little did he realize that the cigar didn’t fit his professional personae any more than being a mother fit hers.
She knew nothing about raising babies. What could her father have been thinking? Larry had described Frank Kingston as being of sound mind. An arguable description from her standpoint.
She shouldn’t be shocked at this turn of events. Frank Kingston had either been breaking promises to her, her sister Honey and her brother Jesse all their lives or running other people’s lives. He’d known how much the breeding farm meant to her. He’d promised it would be hers. Hers. Why the change of heart? She shook her head. It didn’t make sense.
However, little her father did made sense to those not privy to his reasoning. Sense or no sense, he’d trapped her by making it all very legal and very binding. Men! They just couldn’t be trusted. Hadn’t she figured that one out a long time ago?
“If you have no further questions….” Lawrence stood and walked around his desk, obviously anxious to get rid of her.
“No. I think that’s quite enough for one day.”
As Emily made her way across the thick carpet to the door, she decided that her opinion of Lawrence hadn’t changed since high school. He was a pompous windbag of a man, so full of himself and his profession that she doubted there was room left over for a heart inside his bony chest. Nothing like his gregarious, soft-spoken father.
Emily halfheartedly shook the hand he offered, then left the cigar-scented offices of Tippens, Tippens and Forge.
AS KAT Madison watched out the café window, a young woman, obviously intent on something other than her safety, walked into the street and was nearly run down by an oncoming car. She looked familiar. That he couldn’t place her from this distance didn’t stop him from appreciating the gentle sway of her single dark braid against her denim-encased hips or the swell of her breasts beneath a white T-shirt shouting in black letters, I’ve Got The Answers.
Lucky her. Finding answers had brought him home to Bristol for the first time in over sixteen years, since his parents’ funeral. He’d only stayed for a day. Thoughts of that day drove a pain through his heart. Out of habit, he pushed them to the back of his mind.
“More coffee?”
Kat glanced at the young blonde he’d been flirting outrageously with before spotting the T-shirt-clad woman across the street. Nodding, he turned his gaze back to the street in time to see her red pickup drive by the window, heading out of town. Across the truck’s door in white letters he read Clover Hill Farms.
Emily?
Just his luck to be ogling the one person he really wasn’t ready to come face-to-face with. The one person who would inevitably confront him with questions he couldn’t answer.
“Here’s the key.”
Dave Thornton’s deep voice roused Kat from his observations. “Thanks.” He took the key to the summer cottage his friend had arranged for Kat to use until he found somewhere to live.
“I told the power company that you’d call when you leave so they can cut off the electric. Oh, and I had the phone turned on, too.”
“Thanks.” Kat shook the key. “I owe you one.”
Dave smiled. “So, what do you plan on doing with your parents’ house, Kat? Or do you go by Rian