Chosen To Die. Lisa Jackson
and clustered apart from the main living quarters.
Eyeing the terrain surrounding the house, he eased the big bird over the tops of the spruce and fir trees before spying the landing pad, a wide, flat circle not a hundred yards from the main house. Yeah, there was plenty of snow, but his chopper had been built to handle winter conditions and he had no trouble putting her down in the thick, icy powder, the JetRanger’s skids holding steady.
Perfect.
He loved flying.
Should have been in the military. A pilot.
But then he would have had to take orders, and being obedient, or a team player, just wasn’t in Brady’s nature.
He cut the engine and let the rotors slow before grabbing his computer and bag from the back.
He’d left Denver on the down-low, not letting anyone there, even Maya, know of his plans. Well, especially not Maya. Pushing open the helicopter door, he hopped to the ground and slogged his way toward the house. He didn’t want to think too much about his fiancée, a beautiful model who refused to sign a prenup and not just any prenup, but a fair one.
Not that he was in any hurry to get married, he reminded himself as he followed a snow-covered path through a thicket of spruce and the house appeared.
Brady couldn’t help but smile. He loved this old, creaky lodge, had spent some of the happiest times of his youth here in Montana. He’d bagged his first buck not five hundred yards from the barn, learned to ride horses on this ranch long before he made a name for himself on the rodeo circuit, and lost his virginity up in the old man’s bedroom, to the younger sister of his second stepmother.
Yeah, he had some great memories in Montana, and though he’d been all over the globe, whenever he needed to think, he came back. “Home” was what he thought of the stone and cedar house that stood so close to the creek, now frozen, not so much as a bit of water visible beneath the snow and ice.
He was free here, he thought, fishing in the pockets of his insulated ski pants and withdrawing a key ring as he made his way to a carport big enough for an RV or boat and separating the quadruple garage from the main house.
In Denver there were pressures. First there was Maya and her petulant insistence that they get married in a cathedral with hundreds of guests. She wanted to walk down the aisle in a white dress with a long train and have over a dozen attendants. It didn’t matter that this would be his third time saying “I do” and “’til death do us part.”
Secondly, there was the board of directors, old farts and pains in the butt each and every one.
Third, there was dear old Dad. Still clinging to life by a thread in the nursing home but looking as if he might kick the bucket at any minute. Brady was sick to his back teeth of answering questions about his father. Hubert Elmore Long was dying. Period. What more was there to say except what he didn’t dare voice, that he hoped the old man kicked off and fast. What good was lying, barely conscious, unaware of the world, suffering, for God’s sake, when there was no hope left?
Angry, Brady unlocked the back door and walked through a mud room where he started stripping off his outer layers. He knew a lot of people thought he wanted the old man to die so he could officially inherit his fortune. What was it now? Forty, maybe forty-five million? But he already had control of the money as it was. Yeah, it would be nice to actually be the head of Long International, but hell, unofficially, he was. He just didn’t want his father to linger any longer in that near-vegetative state that Hubert would have hated. He wanted the old man hearty and hale, a man who could stalk a bull elk for hours on end, or pull a calf from a cow having trouble birthing. He wanted the hard-as-nails executive who could negotiate stubbornly with the Chinese or Saudis or anyone on God’s green earth—language being no barrier to him getting his way. He wanted the six-foot-four man who would laugh at a ribald joke while having a few beers at the Spot Tavern, or sip cognac while sucking on an expensive cigar in a high-priced New York hotel.
That’s the guy Brady would like to see again.
But it wasn’t going to happen.
So the husk of a human lying in Regal Oaks Care Center with the iron constitution and will to cling to life at any cost, that guy should just give it up.
He unlaced his boots and left them in the expansive mud room, tucked on the tile floor under a bench above, which his jacket and pants were hung and dripping. He wondered if Clementine was in the house, and that pleasant thought teased one corner of his mouth upward.
Clementine DeGrazio, a petite, pretty woman pushing forty who could clean a stove until it sparkled with as much gusto as she would get on her knees for Brady if he asked, which he did each and every time he returned here and had since he was in his mid-twenties. Her touches were everywhere, he thought, as he padded through the kitchen in his stocking feet. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, three newspapers spread neatly on the table in the nook, country music emanating from hidden speakers, and as he opened the refrigerator door, he discovered platters of cheeses and deli meats, spreads and dips, his favorite nacho that just needed reheating. He knew the cupboards would be stocked with his favorites. All because he’d called her less than eight hours earlier.
Clementine asked for nothing other than to keep her job. Not only was she paid well, she and her son lived in this big house rent free. Still, he did, as he aged, feel a twinge of conscience about the eager if submissive sex.
God, he was getting old.
Things that never bothered him had started to dig a bit into his conscience. His old man lying near death in the nursing home, his sister in a far-off institution, and Clementine with her full lips and quick tongue…Oh, hell. He shoved his hair from his eyes and realized he hadn’t thought of Maya and the way that he refused to give into her demands. Probably because she was as hardheaded and probably hard-hearted as he.
“A match made in heaven,” he said and flicked on the lights, then made his way to the thermostat in the front hallway where an open staircase climbed to the upper floors and leaded glass surrounded the massive front doors. As he adjusted the heat down a couple of degrees, he glanced across the stone floor of the foyer to a huge room where the ceiling soared twenty feet upward and a wall of glass offered an incredible view of the forest and creek that wound through the grounds. A river rock fireplace stretched to the beamed ceiling on the opposite wall and leather chairs, tufted couches, and metal wall art, all compliments of his last ex-wife, filled the wide expanse.
“A goddamned fishbowl,” his father had complained, preferring the den located down a wide hallway where he was allowed to smoke his cigars while surrounded by pine walls covered with the heads and hides of creatures killed by generations of Long huntsmen.
From one of the bank of windows, Brady took a look down the lane to the spot where, through the trees, he could just make out the house that had been built as part of the original homestead. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of some light through the trees and assumed that Santana was either in the cabin, stable, barn, or other shed. The guy was a hard worker. For all his faults.
What was the old axiom? Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?
Brady subscribed to the theory. Big-time. He wondered if Santana guessed, then discarded the question. Didn’t matter. They’d known each other as kids and, both super competitive, had butted heads and clashed fists. There had been a few black eyes and a couple of bloody noses, but Brady had always wondered what made Santana tick. The man never sucked up to him, never gave in; always, it seemed, looking down his crooked nose at Brady. But Santana was a helluva horseman, communicated with animals in a way that Brady found both uncomfortable and fascinating. The upshot was that Santana was working for him, here, in No-Fucking-Where Montana, which was just as it should be.
Brady carried his laptop case to his father’s den and dropped the computer on the desk. Then he found the bar located near another massive rock fireplace and poured himself a stiff drink. Three fingers of bourbon. On the rocks, again compliments of Clementine, who had left a filled ice bucket on the counter. Ice cubes clinked softly as he carried the drink to his desk. Reaching down, he