A Woman of Fortune (8 page)

So the Sandells were going to punish her—push her away, tell her to go. “Fine,” she said bitterly.

And now came the regret.

Reece loved her. In the morning, they'd work all this out. But Lainie would never forget the way she'd been slighted.

Going forward, Lainie would pretend to overlook the Sandells' treatment. Even so, Reece's parents underestimated how deeply they'd marred their relationship with their future daughter-in-law.

6

C
laire stepped inside her bedroom and closed the door. She leaned her back against the only barrier between this sanctuary and the now silent house. Her eyes traced the empty room, finally focusing on the clock on Tuck's beside table—4:30 a.m.

No wonder she was exhausted. After hours of high tension, every cell in her body ached. First the arrest, followed by what could be termed pandemonium. The meeting with Ranger, as she hoped for information that still remained sketchy at best. Escaping home in the helicopter to avoid masses of reporters, only to discover strangers carting out boxes filled with personal records and belongings. Watching like a helpless spectator while life unraveled.

Claire's eyes filled with tears.

Tuck.

The look in her husband's eyes would haunt her forever. She would have expected a chiseled response to the indignity forced upon Tuck by overzealous prosecutors trying to intentionally ridicule. Strangely, by the time those awful men clicked the handcuffs on his wrists, her husband's shoulders were stooped in resignation. That was what confused Claire the most.

Few things Claire Massey could not afford, and patience was one. This legal situation would not be easily resolved, but the truth
would come out. She'd insist her husband find out who was behind this public spectacle and demand he use his wealth and influence to set things right . . . eventually.

She slumped onto the bed. She ran her hand over the place where Tuck normally slept.

Where would he be sleeping tonight?

She leaned back and stared at the ceiling. It occurred to Claire how little she really knew about Tuck's business. After they'd married, he'd struggled to find acceptable employment. Accolades gained on a football field seldom translated into marketable skills, a fact her mother pointed out on many occasions, sometimes even to his face.

Claire had crossed her mother on only two occasions. The first time, she passed over an opportunity to attend Princeton, instead moving to Austin to participate in a culinary arts program at the University of Texas. The second was marrying a man from a family far beneath her mother's standards. “Muscles, charm, and the ability to play football won't provide financial security,” her mother claimed, a position she maintained until Tuck's assets far surpassed her own.

Mother hadn't counted on Tuck's tenacity, his driven spirit to come out a winner no matter what. He'd always promised he would score in life as he had on the field. And he had—big-time.

The break he'd needed came when an elderly UT alumnus with no heirs realized he had no one to leave his very lucrative cattle trucking enterprise to. Liston Cliburne was in his eighties. Although he was worth millions, he still drove a fifteen-year-old green Chevy pickup. “The color of money,” he'd told Tuck the night he offered to sell his business for pennies on the dollar. “I've watched you on that football field, son. You have what it takes to build on what I've started. With you at the helm, this legacy will last far after I'm gone. I'll even finance you, son.”

Liston died two years later, leaving Tuck in full control of the necessary capital he needed. Tuck parlayed that trucking business
into what was now Massey Enterprises, a business worth ten times what Liston handed him.

Or at least was . . . until tonight.

Max stood outside his mother's bedroom door, pondering whether or not she'd be up. Who was he kidding? None of them would sleep tonight.

He lightly rapped on the door. “Mom?”

“I'm here,” she called. “Come on in.”

His mother had never looked more disheartened, more haggard. Her red-rimmed eyes were filled with fear, despite her earlier claims this would all get worked out.

She held out her arms and Max moved into them, giving his mother a tight hug. “Ranger will get Dad home soon,” he said. If he could, Max would wrestle rattlesnakes to fix this for her.

His mother nodded. “I don't understand. One minute Tuck is passing out million-dollar checks, and the next—”

“Don't think about that now, Mom. You need sleep. Why don't you get undressed and I'll go down and help Margarita. We'll bring you up some hot tea.”

“Margarita's awake?”

Max gave his mother a tired smile. “She started baking an hour ago.” Their housekeeper believed food cured everything.

“Are Garrett and Marcy still up?”

He shook his head. “Nah, they headed back to their place over an hour ago. Garrett's really freaked out over all this. So is Queen Marcy.”

“Honey, don't call her that,” his mother said.

“Aw, fine. I won't,” he said. “At least not to her face.”

It'd been a standing joke between him and Lainie that their big brother's wife ruled Garrett like a small country. If his mom were honest, she'd agree.

But Dad couldn't have been more pleased when Garrett landed his trophy wife. “Success always looks better with a beauty on your
arm,” he'd said, pointing out how Marcy shared their own mother's good looks. Out of Mom's earshot, Dad also claimed he'd never seen a woman open her mouth more and say less.

Now, Garrett. He was a whole other story. His parents should have named him Garrett of Assisi, for no guy was better suited to be a saint.

Even so, Max hardly wished what had transpired tonight on anybody—especially his tight-gripped brother, who clutched life like he was in the last second of a championship bull ride.

If you took somebody's worst nightmare and tripled it, you would be halfway to the look on Garrett's face as he escorted the feds across the lawn to his place. Even Queen Marcy remained silent as they walked away.

On the bed, his mother rubbed her forehead. “Max?”

“Yeah, Mom?”

“Your dad couldn't have done any of these things. Right?”

Max sat on the bed next to her and patted her arm. “I don't know, Mom.” He hesitated. He'd never seen his mother this vulnerable. “I hope not.”

She shifted back against the pillows. A tiny tear pooled at the corner of his mother's closed eye, then trickled down, eventually getting lost in her hair.

The sight cramped Max's chest. “Uh, Mom, why don't you try and get some sleep. There's nothing more you can do tonight by worrying.” In an odd role reversal, he bent and pulled the shoes from her feet. He grabbed the afghan from a nearby chair and draped it over his mother. “I love you, Mom.”

With closed eyes, she whispered, “I love you too, baby.” Just before Max reached the door, she added, “Max?”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Your father does too, you know.”

He didn't respond. Instead, he gently pulled the door closed behind him and headed for his old room, carrying his mother's words with him.

Max knew a lot of things. But believing his father truly loved him was not one of them.

7

L
ainie had released Henry for the evening and was in the hotel lobby when the text came from Max and she learned what was happening at home. She rushed to the concierge desk, ordered her car, and raced north from Dallas on Interstate 75, only slowing for the exit to the road leading to Legacy Ranch. After clearing the stoplight, she gunned the engine, sending her cherry-red Ferrari flying down the road, braking only when the gate came into view.

The horizon held a hint of pre-dawn lavender. No matter how dark the night had been, the sun always appeared, bringing a new day. One she hoped couldn't possibly be worse than what she'd just experienced.

The sound of her car woke the cameramen at the gate. Van doors opened and barely awake reporters scrambled out, clutching microphones. Security quickly opened the gate and she drove through a mass of cameras flashing. When she'd safely made it through, she geared down and drove slowly toward the house.

Max met her out front. He opened her car door. “Hey, Sis.”

“Hey,” she replied, hoping she didn't look as wrecked as she felt.

After leaving her overnight bag on the front porch, together they headed for the oak on the knoll to the right of the horse barns.

The tree had played many roles over the years, from the perfect Alamo when Max pretended to be Davy Crockett, to Lainie's Grauman's Chinese Theatre when she dressed in her mother's nightgowns and heels, and a Prell shampoo bottle became her version of the Oscar. Garrett teased and called his siblings silly, but one time they caught him up in the branches, flying the friendly skies as a pilot.

In later years, the oak served as the place where Lainie escaped to think, at times joined by her younger brother.

Like now.

Lainie leaned against the sturdy trunk, pressed against Max's shoulder, each lost in their own thoughts until an early cicada's screechy song broke the silence.

Lainie picked up a twig and drew a stick figure in the dirt, barely visible in the soft light of early dawn. “Max?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Dad is a crook?”

He drew a deep breath. “Funny. Mom asked me that earlier.”

“She did?”

“Uh-huh.”

Lainie outlined a wedding veil on the stick figure. “What did you tell her?”

“I don't think I've ever seen Mom cry before.” Max picked at his thumb while staring at the ground. “She's pretty scared.”

“I am too,” Lainie said. “A grand jury indictment is a big deal, isn't it?”

Max nodded. “Yup. A very big deal.”

Another cicada's screech cut through the heated early morning air.

“The Sandells wouldn't let me see Reece.” Lainie scratched at the dirt, erasing her drawing. She bit the tender flesh inside her cheek to keep from tearing up. “I—I think they're going to try to call off the wedding,” she whispered. The admission, once voiced, made her ache inside.

Suddenly Max pounded the ground with his fist. “Did he even stop to consider any of us?”

“What are you saying, Max?”

He huffed in disgust and stared up into the branches. “I'm saying I think our father focused on everything but his family. Sounds like he cut a lot of corners just to be rich, and we're all going to pay the price. Especially Mom.”

“So—you think he did it?”

Her brother turned and looked at her, misery evident in his eyes. “What do you think?”

Dreams in the middle of the night were never more vivid than in the hours following real dreams left shattered. Claire woke fitfully, with visions of her life with Tuck sifting into her early-morning consciousness. While asleep, she'd dreamed of her honeymoon, the memories a sweet respite to a night knotted with dread.

Unable to afford much, she and Tuck had combed rice from their hair, packed up their sprouting devotion to one another and a few pairs of jeans, and headed for Jefferson, a quaint town in eastern Texas known for their antique shops and bed-and-breakfasts.

Tuck sold his treasured football jersey to an avid collector of Texas Longhorn memorabilia for the price of two nights at the Delta Street Inn, a quaint B&B on the edge of town. Claire giggled as Tuck carried her over the threshold and into their second-story suite decorated with a lavish brick fireplace, hardwood floors, and views of magnolia trees in bloom. They spent most of the two days nestled under a thick hand-sewn quilt or lounging in the claw-foot bathtub filled with bubbles.

On the last night, he'd lifted her toe from the warm suds and brought it to his mouth. His kisses sent tingles through her already sated body, making her long for her new husband again.

“Claire?” he said, his eyes filled with wonder. “You know I'd give you the moon if I could, don't you?”

“I don't want the moon, babe. I want to get back under the quilt,” she teased.

His chin tilted at a curious angle. “I'm serious. I'm going to take good care of you, Claire.”

Tuck was a good man. He'd provided a life most wives only dreamed of. Oh sure, there were matching Maseratis in the garage and stays at L'Albereta in Italy. But there were also s'mores cooked on a campfire on the bluff with the children, and Sundays spent in church with his arm around her shoulders.

How could she reconcile these horrible accusations with the man she knew him to be? Her husband was not a criminal. He was that guy in the bathtub making a promise to his bride.

Tears pooled in Claire's eyes.

And more than any sports car or vacation stay, she wanted him home.