Bethany Campbell - Wild Horses

Vern sighed. “I’m sure dozens of things got lost, Mick. What is it?”

She took a deep breath and said, “Adam Duran is here. The executor of Enoch’s will.”

“Oh, damn!” Vern almost moaned. “Damn! I never gave him a thought. Neither did Carolyn, I know. Hellfire, she doesn’t need him on her mind, too. Why didn’t I think—”

Mickey, feeling guilty for adding to his troubles, tried to reduce them. “Don’t give it a moment’s thought. He’s here, he’s comfortable, I’ll see to him.”

“I don’t know why he couldn’t have handled this damned will business by mail,” Vern grumbled. “What sort of guy is he? A lawyer? A banker? Or just a friend of Enoch’s?”

Mickey remembered the untrimmed hair and faded clothes, and thought perhaps the less she said the better. “I don’t think he’s a lawyer or banker. Just a—an acquaintance.”

“Well, God knows what kind of acquaintance that old coot would make. Be careful. But feel him out, will you? Maybe there are some strings tied to this lease-land deal. I hope not. I don’t want any nasty surprises sprung on Carolyn. She’s in no shape for it.”

“I’ll find out all I can,” Mickey promised.

“Tell him you’re Carolyn’s most trusted agent. Anything he has to say to her, he can say to you. It’s true, God knows.”

A glow of pride warmed her, in spite of her anxiety. “I’ll be glad to. So rest easy about this, Vern. And don’t let Carolyn fret over it.”

“I’m not even going to mention it to her. She’s got enough on her mind, God knows. You should have seen that tiny child. All those tubes—Lord.”

“Whatever you think is best,” Mickey assured him. She told him to give her love to everyone. They said their goodbyes, and she hung up.

Feeling strangely agitated, she walked down the hall and knocked on the guest-room door. “Mr. Duran, I’m leaving. I have to go into town on an errand,” she said through the door. “I’ll be back in about an hour. Bridget should be along any minute. I’ll call her and let her know you’re here.”

She waited, holding her breath. At last, from the other side of the door, he answered, “Fine.”

That single word was apparently all the reply he was going to make.

She felt odd about leaving him alone in Carolyn’s house, but she had no choice. And what she’d told him was true; Bridget would soon be there.

AS SOON AS Adam heard the car pull away, he opened the door and glanced down the deserted hall. The house had that eerie, empty feeling that houses get when their dwellers are gone, but a lone visitor stays. The place was still and silent with no sign of life—except for him. The unwanted guest.

He walked down the hall and saw that the office doors that had been open before were now closed. He tried the first one. Unlocked, it swung open easily.

Adam hesitated a moment, staring into the room. He wrestled with his conscience. His conscience lost. He stepped inside, not only an intruder, but a spy.

He told himself that he must do it, he had to learn as much about these people as he could. He needed to know their strengths. And even more, their weaknesses.

Once they knew who he really was, they could become his enemies—any or all of them—in a heartbeat.

BRIDGET BLUM, the cook and housekeeper at the Circle T, was one of seven children of an Irish mother and a German father. Her father, Dolph Blum had been the chief wrangler at the Double J, the old Kendell spread.

Dolph was a large man with a square jaw, a pug nose and a ready grin. His wife, Maeve, was tiny, as slender as a wand, but it was she who’d kept those seven children in order. Her voice could crack like a whip.

Bridget took after her father. She was almost six feet tall, and she had big hands, a big smile and a big heart. At forty-five she had never been married, and if she missed having a husband, she never let it show.

She seemed happy and busy with her own family: three married sisters, three married brothers and a whopping total of thirty-one nieces and nephews. Maeve had died four years ago, and Dolph was frail. Bridget, the eldest daughter, had become surrogate mother of the clan.

She had, as well, her adoptive family: Carolyn and Vern and the people of the Circle T. Yes, Bridget had plenty of people to care for and love; she did not know what an empty day felt like.

Because Carolyn and Vern were like kin, her heart filled with empathy for them over the ailing baby. But because, unlike either of them, she came from a large family, she was not as frightened as they were. In Bridget’s sprawling brood, someone was always falling off a bicycle or crashing out of a tree or tumbling down the stairs.

So when a true emergency arose, Bridget did what she always did: she went to church, lit candles and said prayers. That’s what she’d done today.

Just as she drove through the gates of the Circle T, her cell phone rang. This startled her, for she wasn’t yet used to the contraption—it still seemed supernatural to her. She prayed its ringing didn’t signal bad news about the baby.

She pulled over to the side of the drive, parked and rummaged through her purse for the chirping phone. “Hello?” she said breathlessly. “Hello?”

“Bridget, it’s Mick. I called to tell you that the Duran man got here from the Caribbean. I need to get to town before the bank closes, and I’m on my way. I had to leave him alone at the house. Are you close to home?”

Bridget glanced down the lane. The house was just around the curve. “I’m good as there right now. I’m nearly to the gates.”

“Good.” Relief eased Mickey’s voice. “I didn’t like the idea of giving a stranger the run of the place. And I wanted to warn you he was there.”

Bridget’s heart skipped guiltily. “Tarnation! I truly meant to get straight back. I stopped in the parking lot to help Mary Gibson with a flat tire. I swear I forgot about what’s his face—who?”

“Adam Duran. It’s all right. I’d forgotten about him, too. Anyway I’ve only been gone ten minutes.”

“Ah,” said Bridget, relieved, “and I’ll be there in two. What trouble could the man get up to in twelve minutes, I ask you?”

IF A MAN is determined and observant, he can discover a great deal in twelve minutes. Adam was determined, observant and quick to learn.

He was looking over Mickey Nightingale’s office when he heard the crunch of tires on the gravel driveway. The housekeeper—she must be back. I need to get out of here.

He turned from the pictures arranged on Mickey’s bookshelf. Her office was neat, almost Spartan, but like Carolyn, she enjoyed having framed snapshots about her while she worked. Adam had studied those snapshots with interest. Mickey’s choice of pictures was revealing—and mystifying.

But he had no time to ponder the significance of the photographs. He slipped out of her office, shut the door and made his way to the den. He sat down in an armchair and snatched up a copy of Western Horseman. He swept his legs up onto the ottoman and opened the magazine just as he heard the front door swing open.

He waited, giving the woman time to enter. Tentative footsteps sounded on the tiles of the foyer. A female voice called out, “Yoo-hoo. Mister Duran? It’s me, Bridget Blum. Mickey just phoned to tell me you were here. Mister Duran?”

Then she appeared, framed in the doorway, a tall woman, sturdy rather than plump. Adam sprang to his feet, holding the magazine in his left hand. He tried to seem friendly, comfortable and confident—as if he had every right to be sitting in the Trents’ family room, as if he himself were like the Trents—someone of note and power.

He approached Bridget, stretching his right hand to her. “Hi. I’m Adam Duran. Miss Nightingale said it was okay to use this room.”