Slow Waltz Across Texas. Peggy Moreland
his way to the room alone, he pulled off his hat with a sigh of resignation and tossed it onto the heavily carved marble table centered beneath the entry hall’s dome-shaped ceiling, wishing he were most anywhere but there.
But then he heard the irresistible trill of Brittany’s excited chatter, and he headed for the solarium. He caught sight of his daughter immediately, leaning over the side of the fountain, her stomach pressed flat against the smooth stone. Her arm was stretched out as far as she could reach, as she tossed pennies toward the base of the mermaid who rose from the fountain as if breaking through the ocean’s surface.
“Whoa, shortcake,” he said, and caught her by the hem of her dress, saving her from pitching face first into the fountain’s pool. “You’re supposed to toss the pennies, not personally deliver them.”
Laughing, Brittany spun around and made a wild leap from the side of the fountain and straight into her daddy’s arms, taking him by surprise.
“Daddy!” she cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and clinging. “You came!”
Stunned by the unexpected exuberance in her welcome, Clayton had to swallow back emotion at the feel of the little arms wound tightly around his neck. “Course, I did, shortcake.” He gave her an awkward hug, then shifted her to his hip. “I was invited, wasn’t I?”
Brittany put a hand at the side of her mouth and leaned to whisper in his ear, “Yeah, but Nonnie said you wouldn’t come.”
Clayton turned to frown at the doorway just as his mother-in-law entered the solarium. “She did, did she?” he muttered, his frown deepening.
“Yeah. She said you didn’t have the graces to eat with us, but I told her you did.”
Clayton cocked his head to peer at his daughter in confusion. “Graces?” he repeated, frowning. Then slowly he realized what his mother-in-law must have said. “You mean social graces, don’t you, shortcake?” he asked wryly.
“Yeah,” she said, bobbing her head. “Social graces. Nonnie said you didn’t have any, but you do, don’t you, Daddy?”
Though he was tempted to leave right then and there, Clayton knew he wouldn’t. Not and let his in-laws think they could run him off that easily. “Do you know what social graces are?” he asked her.
She pushed her lips out into a pout. “No. I asked Mommy, but she just kept yellin’ at Nonnie and wouldn’t answer me.”
Clayton’s eyebrows shot up. “Your mother was yelling at Nonnie?”
Brittany nodded her head again, making her pigtails bob. “Uh-huh.” Scrunching her nose up impishly, she placed a hand at the side of her mouth again and leaned close. “And Mommy said a no-no word, too,” she whispered, then clapped her fingers over her mouth to smother a giggle.
Though he would love nothing better than to ask his daughter why her mother was yelling at Nonnie, Clayton knew that wouldn’t be right. Instead, he glanced around, looking for Rena. “Where is your mother?” he asked.
Brittany lifted a hand, pointing. “Over there.”
At that moment Clayton saw his wife, stepping around a tall potted palm, smiling at something a man following her was saying. She froze when her gaze met Clayton’s, and he would swear it was guilt he saw in her eyes before she looked away.
The jealous rage that swelled inside him was wild and dark, and tore through him like a wild bronc trying to bust his way out of a chute.
“Daddy,” Brittany complained, wriggling in his arms. “You’re hurtin’ me.”
Clayton immediately loosened his grip, unaware that, in his rage, he’d tightened his arms around her. “Sorry, shortcake,” he murmured, unable to take his eyes off his wife. “Who’s the man with Mommy?” he asked with a jerk of his chin in the direction of the two.
Brittany twisted around in his arms and looked. “Uncle Bill. He’s nice,” she said, turning to smile at Clayton. “He works at Pawpaw’s bank.”
A man from Pawpaw’s bank, huh? So that’s the plan, Clayton thought bitterly, as the pieces of the puzzle slowly clicked into place. Seemed Rena’s parents were already busy picking out his replacement.
“Did I hear correctly?” Bill asked, smiling—or was that leering?—at Clayton over a glass of Bordeaux from the opposite side of the table. “You rope calves for a living?”
Clayton ground his teeth, but managed a civil tone when he replied, “Yeah, you heard correctly.”
“And you get paid to do this?”
“When I win. But rodeoing isn’t my sole source of income.”
“Really?” Bill braced his elbows on the table and lazily swirled his wine around the bowl of the crystal goblet he held between hands that looked as pampered as any lady’s. “And what other businesses are you involved in?”
“I endorse a line of Western wear and a line of roping supplies, plus we run around two hundred head of cattle on our ranch.” He turned to Rena and forced a tight smile. “Don’t we, dear?” he asked, emphasizing the “we” so that Bill would get the message that his wife was still very much married and off-limits.
“Yes,” she said, and offered him a brittle smile in return. “We certainly do.”
“Run cattle,” Bill repeated thoughtfully as he sipped at his wine. “And what exactly does a man do when he ‘runs’ cattle?”
Clayton tried hard not to laugh. The man was more of a greenhorn than he’d first thought. “He raises them,” he replied dryly. “We have a cow-calf operation, which means we keep a herd of mama cows on the ranch, and several bulls to service them. Come fall, we’ll castrate most of the bull calves that were born last spring, then—”
He heard a silver fork clatter against bone china and glanced over to find Mrs. Palmer staring at him, her face mottled with indignation.
“Really, Clayton,” she chided. “I hardly think this is appropriate dinner conversation.”
Clayton gestured with his fork across the table at Bill. “He asked.”
Her frown of disapproval deepened before she turned it into an adoring smile as she shifted her gaze to Bill. “I’m sure Bill was just being polite by inquiring about your business interests. Bill’s quite a successful man himself, you know. Not only has he done a fine job heading up the trust department at Martin’s bank, he has also amassed a sizable fortune for himself with his own investments.”
Bill lifted his glass in a silent toast to Rena’s father. “I had an excellent teacher.”
“And he’s built an elegant home on Grand Lake,” Gloria added, “with the most stunning views. And he designed it himself. He’s quite talented, you know. You must see it, Rena,” she said, turning to her daughter. “Perhaps you can persuade Bill to give you a personal tour.”
Abruptly, Rena shoved back her chair, her arm striking Clayton’s as she rose. He glanced up and was surprised to see that her face was flushed with anger.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she said tersely, then spun and all but ran from the room.
Rena stood before the vanity in her bathroom, her fingers curled tightly around the cold marble, forcing herself to take long, deep, calming breaths. It didn’t help. Rage, white-hot and blinding, continued to burn through her.
She felt as if she were caught in a game of human tug-of-war. Her parents on one side; Clayton on the other. Her trapped in the middle, being pulled first one way, then the other, until she was sure she would snap in two at the pressure being placed on her.
She whirled away from the vanity, scraping her bangs from her forehead and holding them against the top of her head. Coming to her parents, when she’d left Clayton, had been a mistake. She could see that now.