Bethany Campbell - Wild Horses

MICKEY FACED fresh exasperation when she found Bridget covering the dining room table with a white linen cloth. “Bridget, I want us to eat in the kitchen tonight. Didn’t I tell you?”

“No, you did not,” Bridget said righteously. “And this is what Carolyn would want. I aim to do it to the way she’d have it done herself. She’d snatch me bald, giving him supper in the kitchen.”

Mickey rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t exactly seemed the type for formal dining. The way he dresses, he’d probably be more comfortable on the back porch, eating beans out of a can.”

“Humph.” Bridget put her hand on her hip. “You sound high-and-mighty all of a sudden. It’s not like you, Mick. He’s a very nice young man. He has a nice way about him. Not up-pity at all. And he’s handsome, to boot. Lord, like a movie star. But he acts like he doesn’t even know it.”

Mickey gazed at her suspiciously. “Have you been talking to him?”

“I fed him—which you forgot to do. We chatted a wee bit. It seemed the polite thing to do, that’s all.”

Bridget would not hear another word about eating in the kitchen.

So Mickey, as Carolyn had intended, sat across the dining room table from Adam Duran, but she sat alone with him.

The good silver and china were set on the best linen. There were flowers—and candlelight. Carolyn was a great lover of flowers and candlelight.

From the kitchen came the succulent scents of Bridget’s sauerbraten and dumplings. One of Carolyn’s favorite albums played softly on the sound system, The Ballad of the Irish Horse.

Bridget had succeeded all too well; the atmosphere was pleasant, touched with elegance, even intimacy. Drat, thought Mickey, who didn’t want to think of intimacy with this disturbing man. Drat and double drat and triple drat.

She hadn’t dressed for supper. Neither had Adam. She wore the same denim slacks and high-necked white blouse. He wore the same washed-out jeans and faded work shirt.

He and she both bent, without speaking, over their salads. The music swelled, faded, then built again. The candlelight gleamed on the gold streaks in Adam’s hair. It flashed from their silver forks and the crystal glasses.

On the way home, Mickey had mentally listed enough neutral subjects to get through the ordeal of supper. She would save her more pointed questions for dessert, when he might be warmed enough by wine and good food to be candid.

She trotted out her first innocuous remark. “I hope you got to enjoy the wildflowers on your drive here. It’s a particularly nice spring.”

He was supposed to say, Yes, the drive was nice, the weather was nice, and the flowers were nice. Then she’d ask, Is it spring in the Caribbean, too? What’s the weather like there? Is it already hot?

But he instantly booby-trapped her plans. “I hear you had a fall that wasn’t so fine last year. That some developer caused a helluva flash flood. Mrs. Trent was in a lawsuit against him. She and the other ranchers.”

Mickey almost choked on her lettuce. She stole a quick sip of water. “Oh,” she said, flustered. “That. Thank God it wasn’t worse than it was.”

“Which wasn’t worse? The flood? Or the lawsuit?” Shadows played on the planes of his face, but even in the muted light she thought she saw a glint of challenge in his eyes.

“Neither. The flood didn’t do any major damage, here at least.”

“Really? I heard it wiped out a housing development.”

He said it calmly, but his words hit a nerve, rousing her wariness.

“A would-be development,” she corrected. “There were only five houses. None was finished. The developer put up this stupid dam—”

“—and the dam didn’t hold,” he finished for her. “So the developer pulled out. His name was Fabian, wasn’t it?”

He was right, and two suspicions struck Mickey at once. He and Bridget must have had more than a wee chat. Bridget seemed taken with Adam. Had he charmed her into spilling out information the whole time Mickey was away?

But the more ominous one was the same fear that had haunted Caro when Fabian started buying up local land.

Mickey threw discretion to the wind. She said, “You seem to know a lot. Fabian wanted all the land he could get. Enoch Randolph had plenty of it. Did Fabian offer to buy it?”

Adam tilted his wineglass so the candlelight reflected in its red depths and studied it. “Oh, yeah,” he said. “He offered.”

Mickey held her breath. “Well?” she challenged.

Adam tipped the glass to another angle, watching the changing refraction. “Enoch wouldn’t sell. Some fancy lawyer came to the Bahamas to try to talk him into it. Enoch laughed in his face.”

Relief swept through her. “Caro always said Enoch was his own man.”

Adam’s gaze shifted to her eyes again. “He turned down a hell of a lot of money.”

“So did Carolyn. So did most of the ranchers. It takes character to hold out against greed.”

“Does it?” There was mockery in his voice. “With Enoch, all it took was cussedness.”

Mickey looked at him questioningly.

“He knew he was dying,” Adam said. “He said, ‘This sonuvva bitch says I’ll be rich. What good’s money gonna do me? Buy me a gold coffin? Screw it.’”

The humor was dark, but Mickey smiled dutifully. “Good for him. Some men might find it tempting, to be rich for even a little while.”

Adam shook his head. “He didn’t like anything about the scheme.”

“We didn’t either. We’ve got a way of life here. Fabian threatened it.”

“You’re in favor of preservation?” Adam raised an eyebrow as if doubtful. “Protecting nature?”

“Yes, and so is Carolyn,” she insisted. “She and the others worked hard for it. She’ll be grateful to know Enoch helped.”

“Grateful?” he echoed. “He didn’t do it to help. He did it because he felt like doing it.”

Bridget swept in, carrying plates of sauerbraten, dumplings and homemade applesauce. “Save room for dessert,” she said cheerfully to Adam. “I made my special German chocolate cake.”

He smiled at her, and Bridget beamed at him as indulgently as a fond aunt. Mickey shot Bridget a warning look that said You and I are going to have a serious talk. But Bridget didn’t notice.

Gamely, Mickey raised her glass in a toast. “Here’s to Enoch, for helping to protect the Hill Country, whatever his reasons.”

“I’ll drink to Enoch,” he said, clicking his glass against hers. He did not mention the Hill Country.

They each sipped. He said, “You’re very…close to Carolyn and Vern.”

Good Lord, had Bridget talked about that, too? “Yes. I guess I am.”

“Especially Carolyn.”

Mickey felt unsettled by this turn in the conversation. “Well, it’s Carolyn I work for,” she said, trying to sound casual.

“Vern stays busy at the courthouse?”

“Very busy. He’s the only justice of the peace in the county.”

Adam gave a wry smile. He had a good smile, too good. It did odd, tickly things to the pit of her stomach. “I thought a justice of the peace was just a guy who could marry people.”

Mickey fought to ignore the tickle. “No. He handles civil and criminal cases and small-claims court. And works with juveniles. He’s got a lot of duties.”

“So Carolyn runs the ranch.”

“Yes.” Mickey pushed at the applesauce with her spoon. “But let’s talk about you. How did you come to know Enoch?”

“Let’s save that for later,” he said. “I’m staying in Carolyn’s house, enjoying her hospitality. I’d like to know more about her. She’s run this place a long time?”

Mickey’s guard went up. “Yes,” she said, not elaborating.

“How long?” he persisted.