The Ransom. Maggie Price
Matthew took exceptional pride in the fact one of his ancestors had been a real life outlaw.
Willa gave Kathryn another squeeze. “The decorator finished up the remodeling you wanted done yesterday. You won’t recognize your old bedroom.”
That’s the idea, Kathryn thought. She knew she would never walk into that room again without thinking about the final vicious fight she’d had with Sam. So she had instructed Willa to put her clothes and other belongings in one of the spacious bedrooms that the senator had reserved for guests.
Willa looked toward the porch. “Pilar, come get re-acquainted with Kathryn.”
Pilar Graciano came down the porch steps where she paused and gave a polite nod. “Señorita Conner, it is nice to see you after so long,” she said in the hesitant, accented English Kathryn remembered.
“Thank you, Pilar.” Kathryn smiled at the thin, small-boned woman with black hair plaited into a braid. The maid had always been as skittish and shy as a newborn colt. “How is Nilo?” Kathryn asked, referring to the swarthy ranchhand who’d won Pilar’s heart.
“My husband is well.”
Willa patted Matthew’s shoulder. “This is Pilar. Do you remember me telling you she has a boy named Antonio?”
Matthew nodded. “You said he has a horse named Gringo.”
Pilar quietly welcomed Matthew. That done, she slid her hands into the pockets of her dress and stood in silence as if awaiting orders.
A distant shout drew Kathryn’s attention beyond the vast lawn to the stables. She recognized Johnny Sullivan’s lean, craggy build. The Cross C’s longtime foreman appeared to be involved in an intense discussion with a tall, blond man who looked distinctly out of place in a gray suit.
Kathryn turned to Willa. “Is that Brad Jordan with Johnny?”
“It is.” Willa shrugged. “I expect the banker’s fussing at Johnny for not getting permission before calling Doc Silver out to look at the horses you shipped here.”
Kathryn’s eyes narrowed. “Johnny doesn’t need to check with Brad before calling the vet.”
“Tell that to Brad.” Willa blotted her damp brow with the back of her hand. “Everything changed once Sam’s will was read and the bank got control over the Cross C.”
The reminder of the last-minute codicil Sam added to his will before cancer killed him had Kathryn setting her jaw. Because all Conner land and money was held in a series of age-old trusts, there was no way Sam could disinherit her or Matthew. So her grandfather had done all he could to hobble her when it came to running the ranch. It was Sam’s way of reaching out from the grave and slapping her one last time, just to prove how totally he had loathed her every day of her life.
Even now, Kathryn had no idea why her grandfather had hated her like poison.
“The bank doesn’t control Cross C business,” she said, forcing back the anger she’d carried with her since she learned the contents of Sam’s will. “It oversees expenditures, is all.”
“Well, Brad’s been doing a lot of overseeing,” Willa commented. “I have to show him receipts for the groceries and everything else I buy. Waste of time when I’ve got a house to run. I expect he’ll bring all that up at the meeting you said you’ve got scheduled with him in the morning.”
“No doubt.” Kathryn looked back toward the stables in time to see Brad slide behind the wheel of a blue Jaguar. A moment later, he steered the car toward the road.
“Well now,” Willa said, cupping Matthew’s chin. “How about we find some milk to wash down that cookie?”
A smear of chocolate on the boy’s cheek lengthened when he grinned. “Okay.”
Willa and Matthew walked hand in hand toward the house, Pilar and Abby following in their wake.
Kathryn waited until they were out of earshot to turn to Owen. “You’re sure about the codicil? Positive the terms will stick?”
“They’ll stick,” her lawyer confirmed. “You know how Sam was—he didn’t do anything without thinking it through. Same thing goes for the codicil. And don’t forget the clause that states if you contest the will, a corporation made up of your grandfather’s political friends has authority to take over the running of the Cross C.”
“Meaning, everything stays in the Conner name, but there wouldn’t be a Conner at the helm.”
“Basically.” Owen raised a brow. “Do you want me here in the morning when you meet with Brad?”
Kathryn pulled in a deep breath, drawing in the scents of mown grass, fresh hay and animal flesh. It was a shock to discover that the scents and the land itself still called to her.
That land—and all the responsibilities that went with it—were now hers. There were always cattle that needed to be rounded up, fences to mend, grain to be planted or harvested. No matter the barriers Sam had erected in his will, it was up to her to deal with every aspect of running the ranch. She understood full well that all of Layton would be watching to see if the Hollywood screenwriter had enough of her grandfather in her to operate the Conner empire.
Watch me. Standing there, she could almost feel the mantle of her new responsibilities drop onto her shoulders. Those responsibilities would be in addition to the writing career she’d worked so hard to establish and intended to continue.
Turning, she looked back at Owen. “Yes, since I’m not familiar yet with all the terms of the financial noose Sam put around my neck.”
“That’s what you pay me for.” Owen checked his watch. “You need me for anything else before I head back to Layton?”
“No. Thank you for picking us up at the airport. It was good to have a chance to discuss business face-to-face.” Kathryn squeezed his arm. “I’m sorry, Owen, I got so caught up talking about Cross C matters that I haven’t asked after your father.”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “The stroke left him weak, but his mind’s as sharp as ever. I expect he’ll be back in the office in a couple of weeks.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” She wondered, but didn’t ask, if Owen partly blamed Sam for his father’s stroke. How could he not, the way Sam had so suddenly and ruthlessly jerked all his legal dealings away from the man who’d not only been his attorney for decades, but a close friend since childhood?
While Owen’s car headed down the driveway, Kathryn turned toward the house. It was hers now. Hers and Matthew’s. She would make him a good home here, a happy home. And over time she would wipe away the darkness of the past.
A past that, right now, hung heavy around her as she scaled the steps. Her pulse beat dull and thick as she moved across the porch toward the massive front door. She knew there would be ghosts. But if she was going to make a good life here for Matthew, she was going to have to face them.
Better to get that over with she told herself, then eased the door open and stepped inside.
And was instantly flung back in time.
Her breath shallowed as she remained unmoving in the dim entryway. The same drop-leaf table still stood against the wall holding her late grandmother’s crystal vase that was eternally filled with yellow roses. The familiar antique mirror in the gleaming brass frame hung over the table. The long rug still ran muted colors along the length of the wide hall that stretched from the front door to the back.
Gathering her courage, she shifted toward the staircase that swept up two stories. As always, the wooden railing and newel post gleamed with polish.
The ghosts of the house circled around Kathryn, whispering taunts, making her feel as if her nerves were crawling under her skin. An ache settled in her heart. Yet, she couldn’t cry. The tears had frozen inside long ago.
Damn you, girl, you’ll do as I say!