Bethany Campbell - A Little Town In Texas

Kitt blinked hard. “You mean you knew I grew up there?”

He laughed the laugh that was famous at Exclusive magazine. It was described as the gurgle of ice water pouring over a grave. “Of course. That’s why I picked you.”

“Oh,” Kitt said tonelessly. She’d hoped he’d chosen her for her ability.

“That,” he said with a dismissive wave, “and the fact you can write. I assume you’ve lots of connections in this one-horse town? Relatives? Old friends and neighbors? People who’ll pour out their hearts to you?”

Kitt drew a deep breath, mind whirling. She didn’t think of Crystal Creek as her hometown; she tried not to think of it at all. When she’d left, she’d meant to leave forever. People opening their hearts to her? Hardly.

But—there was Nora.

Ah, yes, thank God there was Nora. A lifeline back then. And possibly a lifeline now. “I know people, yes,” Kitt said vaguely.

“Then you know what this story’s about? Eh? Do you?”

Kitt’s mind spun more swiftly. “It has to be about Brian Fabian,” she guessed. “About his buying land there. To build some megahousing development.”

Cronin sank back into his chair and folded his hands over his vest. “Ha. You do have sources. Yes, Brian Fabian. He’s always news. He sells magazines, by God.”

So that was Cronin’s angle, Kitt thought. If Brian Fabian was interested in Crystal Creek, so was Exclusive magazine. Cronin knew what fascinated the public, and he played that fascination like a magic flute.

Cronin’s eyes stayed fixed on her, gauging her. “Tell me what you know about Fabian.”

Kitt told him what she knew, what everybody knew—next to nothing. Fabian was a billionaire and almost total recluse. No known photo existed of him. Information about his private life usually proved to be false or misleading or both.

Facts about his business ventures were just as elusive. They were hidden in a maze of mergers, partnerships, shell corporations and deals of dizzying complexity.

“I’d guess he’s the mystery in the story,” Kitt mused. “And the money and power.” Then she added, “And probably the sex.”

One thing certain about Brian Fabian was his appetite for beautiful women. But none of these women ever talked about him. Never a one said so much as a word. His affairs remained as secret as everything else.

Cronin gave her a crooked, tight-lipped smile. “The sex? Not Fabian—this time. Sex came into the story with the lawyer he sent there to buy land. Nick Belyle. He fell for some local Venus and did the unthinkable. He violated Fabian’s confidence. He told about the plans for the development.”

Kitt said, “I heard.”

Nora had sent a long, excited letter about it. At the time, Kitt had given it little thought. So Fabian wanted a few thousand acres in Texas for some harebrained housing development—so what? For him such a project would be no more important than a mere whim, an expensive toy.

“That lawyer,” Cronin said, tapping his mahogany desktop, “let the cat out of the bag. And it was a rabid wild cat. Fabian wants to start a ‘planned’ community. The folks in your old neighborhood want to stop it.”

It’s not my old neighborhood, she wanted to retort. But she said, “I heard that, too.”

“A clan named McKinney’s leading the battle. Know ’em?”

Kitt’s body stiffened. J. T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch near Crystal Creek, and the McKinneys were the most important family in the county. Kitt knew more about them than she cared to remember, more than she dared to remember.

But she let her face betray nothing. “Yes. I know—most of them.”

“They’re stubborn, and they’re full of fight,” Cronin said, watching her expression closely. “They’ve got money and power. One of them’s out of the country—Cal—but the rumor is he’s coming back for this. Of course, next to Fabian, they’re small potatoes. Nothing, really.”

Cal’s name hit her like a physical blow, but Kitt didn’t flinch. She was too proud. The McKinneys were part of her distant past, thank God. Especially Cal. But to go back to Crystal Creek and write about them? About him? Her nerves jangled in protest.

She shook her head. “If you want a story on the McKinneys—”

Cronin waved his hand negatively. “No, no. They’re only one part. It’s the whole town—the whole county. It’s split. Some want the development. Some don’t. A house divided against itself. That’s the drama.”

Kitt allowed herself a skeptical smile. “But to fight Brian Fabian—”

“Yes,” Cronin said with pleasure. “A classic David and Goliath story. Except, of course, David gets his brains bashed out. Creamed. Murdered.”

Kitt kept her face carefully blank.

“Hopeless cause,” Cronin mused. “Idiotic actually. But valiant. I want both sides of the story, of course. Part of your job is to give the reader the point of view of the underdogs. Those kindly folks who live and love in your hometown. Their way of life ending forever. Heartrending.”

Inwardly Kitt squirmed. Did Cronin just want sob sister stuff from her? She was a better writer than that. Furthermore, even if the McKinneys weren’t the sole players, they were involved. She couldn’t help it—the fact made her profoundly uneasy. “I see,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Do you?” he challenged. “There’s something you haven’t asked. I expected more from you, Mitchell. Why haven’t you asked about the revenge part?”

Kitt squared her shoulders and tried to fake him. “I was about to. My sources—” she meant Nora, of course “—never mentioned such a thing.”

He steepled his fingers and peered over them, eyes glittering. “That’s because your sources don’t know yet. And you’re not to tell them. You’re going there to gather information—not leak it.”

Her chin jerked up defiantly. She’d never leaked a story, never purposely influenced one, and she never would.

Cronin smiled at her reaction. “Here’s the nitty-gritty. Brian Fabian wants more land. And he’s so incensed at his turncoat lawyer—”

“Nick Belyle,” furnished Kitt.

“—that he’s sending down the man’s own brother to finish the job.”

Kitt’s interest shot up several notches. “His own flesh and blood?”

“Yes. His younger brother. Mel. Ruthless man, I’m told. I’ve had research prepare a folder of information for you on each of them.”

Kitt narrowed her eyes. “Brian Fabian’s setting brother against brother? Like…the Civil War?”

“Yes. It’s quite nasty. I like it,” said Mr. Cronin.

Kitt didn’t. “What kind of a man would go gunning after his own brother? There must be more to this feud than just company loyalty. When I talk to him—”

“You won’t. He won’t,” Cronin said. “If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it’ll only be to bite your head off. Fabian hates the press.”

“I could try—” Kitt began.

“Forget it,” ordered Cronin. “I repeat. Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. You’ll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors.”

Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she’d turned her back on them long ago—with good reason. And there was the very real question of how objective she could be. This worried her. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn’t want this story.

But then Cronin said the magic words. “Do a good job of this,” he said silkily, “and you’ll be promoted from staff writer to contributing editor.”

Her misgivings vanished as if a lightning bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor? For a promotion like that, she would cover a story in the hottest part of hell.