The Ransom. Maggie Price
her eyes shut, she reeled against the onslaught of pain and remorse that pounded her with the force of a sledgehammer. Two of the most important men in her life had rejected her. Sam had taken her in after her parents died solely for the sake of appearances. Clay Turner had wanted her only for a good time, a pleasant diversion during a searing-hot summer. Then he headed back to Houston and his job as an agent in the U.S. State Department’s diplomatic security service.
She had seen him only one time after that when she woke to find him sitting beside her hospital bed. He hadn’t had to speak the words for her to know he regretted her fall, but nothing more. The child she had lost would have been a complication, one of those strings he’d told her up-front he didn’t want.
But she had wanted. Oh God, she had wanted both Clay and their child.
She grimaced as she realized what she was thinking. Everything about that summer was a part of the past, she reminded herself. She had Matthew now and she’d come back to the Cross C for his sake. Not only because he deserved a life away from the fishbowl of his father’s fame—she could have taken Matthew to live any number of places where he’d be sheltered from the unrelenting media attention that was a byproduct of Devin’s stardom. No, she’d brought her son to Texas because this had been Conner land for nearly two hundred years. The Cross C was Matthew’s heritage. His future. His right. She would make it their home and run the ranch to the best of her ability until Matthew was old enough to take over the reins.
For her son, she would deal with the memories that taunted her, the pain she’d buried deep and anything else that came along. Including the inevitable unavoidable encounters with Clay Turner.
Squaring her shoulders, Kathryn gripped the banister with a damp palm, then headed up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWO
“POW! POW! You aim the staple gun like this ’n pull the trigger. Pow!”
Matthew pointed a finger at an invisible target as he bounded down the staircase beside Kathryn. Abby followed in their wake, the dachshund’s short legs taking her down each step in a seesaw swagger.
“Sounds like important work.” Kathryn held back a smile at the sight of her son in his desert-camouflage shorts and a T-shirt. As fashion statements went, the cowboy boots he’d begged to wear didn’t quite make the outfit.
She paused to slick back his blond hair, still wet from the shower she’d had to insist he take after his outing to help mend a fence. Above them, Kathryn caught sight of Pilar Graciano moving as silent as death along the hallway, a stack of linens in the maid’s arms. It had been Pilar’s husband, Nilo, who’d taken his own son and Matthew out that morning.
Kathryn felt immense relief that in the three days they’d been at the Cross C, Matthew was fast on his way to making a new friend in Antonio.
With the staircase behind them, she and Matthew walked hand in hand, he swinging her arm to-and-fro as they traversed the hallway’s glossy wood floor. Abby trotted beside Matthew, her toenails tap-tapping lightly as she went. After turning a corner they came even with the door of Sam Conner’s study. Although Kathryn felt her grandfather’s heavy presence each time she walked into the room, she was determined to use it for her own office. After all, generations of Connors had ruled the Cross C from inside those dark-paneled walls. She had already set up her computer on the massive desk and was in the process of organizing files on the screenplay she was currently writing. In time, she would go through all of Sam’s files and purge him, page by page.
Arms swinging, she and Matthew continued down the hallway. The kitchen was at the back of the house, a cheerful room eternally filled with the heady aroma of Willa’s cooking. The room’s ash walls were painted white, butcher blocks covered the countertops and work island. Chains hung from the high-vaulted ceiling, suspending racks heavy with brass and copper pots. The kitchen was as modern as Sam Conner’s money could make it; the oversize refrigerators, dishwashers and ovens had been installed to ease Willa’s supervision of the extra help brought in for the lavish parties hosted for constituents and anyone else deemed capable of furthering the senator’s various agendas.
Still, Kathryn had to admit that not everything Sam did had some political motive behind it. When Willa’s husband suffered a heart attack, Sam had kept the ranch hand on the Cross C’s payroll until his death three years later. It was only his granddaughter whom Sam never opened his heart to.
“Lunch is almost ready.” Willa sent a bright smile across the center island while spreading peanut butter on bread.
Kathryn’s gaze flicked to the oak table in the alcove where Brad Jordan sat, a half-eaten piece of apple pie on the table before him. Beside the banker was a stack of receipts. Kathryn supposed Willa was trying to use her take-you-to-heaven pie to ply some goodwill from the man who now had his hand on the Cross C’s purse strings.
Not his fault, Kathryn reminded herself when heat rose under her skin. Brad wasn’t to blame for what was in Sam’s will.
Matthew lifted his chin and sniffed. “What smells so good?”
Brad pointed his fork at his plate. “Willa’s apple pie.”
Matthew’s face brightened as he peered around the center island. “Hi, Mr. Jordan!” He tugged from Kathryn’s hold and headed across the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
Brad feigned a look of horror as Matthew climbed onto a chair. “You’ve got a serious case of the wet look, son.”
While Abby settled beneath his chair, Matthew scratched his head. “Mommy made me take another shower.”
“Two in one day?” Brad asked, meeting Kathryn’s gaze.
“Couldn’t be helped,” she replied. “Matthew had a pound of prairie dirt on him.”
Brad Jordan was tall and wiry with dark hair and intense eyes. The smile he now flashed at Kathryn was the same one that had once had handfuls of females at Layton High School melting. But the star quarterback had eyes only for head cheerleader Felicia Smith. Their wedding had been the social event of that long-ago summer.
It was Brad’s father-in-law—a crony of Sam’s—who owned Layton National Bank. And it was Garner Smith who insisted the codicil be enforced with microscopic exactness. Brad had assured Kathryn he would work with her to make their transactions painless. She knew that wouldn’t be the case if she were forced to deal with Brad’s dour-faced father-in-law.
She retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “Brad, did we have an appointment I forgot about?”
“No. I had to go by the Double Starr this morning to discuss business with Clay Turner.”
Kathryn tightened her grip on the carton. Dammit, the part of her that had loved Clay was hollowed out. So why did just the mention of his name put a hitch under her ribs?
“Since I had to be out this way,” Brad continued, “I decided to drop off the check that you’ll present to the hospital board at the fund-raiser on Friday night.” He winked at Willa. “I got lassoed into having pie.”
“In a movie, my daddy tied up a bad man with rope,” Matthew said. He smiled up at Willa when she served him. “Can I have some pie?”
“I think your momma is taking you for dessert after you meet Dr. Teasdale.” She finger-combed his damp hair before moving back to the counter. “Kathryn, I almost forgot to tell you two things.”
Kathryn rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension that the mention of Clay had settled there. “What things?”
“First, Johnny needs to update you on what Doc Silver found when he checked that mare with colic. Second,” Willa continued, pulling a piece of paper from her apron pocket, “Shannon Burton called again. The Layton Times is sending her to the fund-raiser, and she wants to interview you about the wing you’re funding for the hospital.”
“Thanks.” Kathryn took the paper from Willa. “I’ll talk to Johnny before