Beloved Wolf (16 page)

Rand's smile was self-conscious as well as teasing. “Tell Sophie that you love her. That swan's for her, isn't it? The swan, the book, the rock candy. Inez loves to talk, River, and then Maya talks to Drake. We've got this really great early-warning system, us
Coltons, and news travels faster than the speed of light. If I were in D.C. rather than here, I'd probably have a stack of faxes from Drake by now. They really have to get that boy back on active duty, before he turns into a gossip columnist. So, does she know?”

“That I love her? Sure, she knows,” River told him, walking back over to Rand and handing him one of the bottles. “I'm just giving her time to start to believe it. I spent a lot of years pushing her away, you know. Too many years. I almost lost her.”

Rand shook his head. “You never lost her. Remember, River, I'm the one she came to, to talk about our friend Chet Wallace. She flew all the way to Washington to talk to me. She never loved him. It was going to be a business partnership, pure and simple. Maybe the engagement was also meant to wake you up, shake you up. I can't be sure of that, and I doubt if Sophie knows herself. I do know she was more than ready to call it off with Chet, quit her job and come back here to write a book. The fact that you're here probably didn't have much to do with it. It wouldn't have been more than, say, ninety-nine percent of the reason.”

River scratched at the back of his neck, then neatly slipped his hand higher, to push at the brim of his cowboy hat and tip it lower over his eyes. “You think so?”

“I think so,” Rand said, then laughed. “Excuse me, but are you really River James, or are you just impersonating him? Because the Riv I know would have stomped up that hill long ago, tossed my sister over his shoulder and plunked her down somewhere
until she listened to him. Swans? You're giving her
swans?
God, Riv, that's so lovesick and pathetic.”

“Great. Now I'm getting romantic advice from the self-acknowledged playboy of the western world. Lucky me. Back off, Rand, all right?”

Rand held up his hands in surrender. “You got it. But I had to tease you, Riv. Sophie's my sister. It's like I'm honor bound to make your life a living hell.”

River grinned. “Trust me on this one thing, Rand. Your stubborn sister doesn't need any help in making my life a living hell. But not for long. Tell you what—I'll even give you a timetable, so you can be sure to watch. By the time Joe lifts his glass when we toast his sixtieth birthday, Sophie will have agreed to marry me.”

“Well, I'll drink to that right now!” Rand said, lifting the bottled water to his mouth, then holding it there as he turned his head, and frowned at the car that drove toward the house. “What's he doing here?”

River looked at the car as it disappeared up the drive, then at Rand, who had gone rather white and tight around the mouth. “Emmett Fallon? Why shouldn't he be here? Maybe he has to talk to Joe about something going on at the office.”

Rand gave a wave of his hand. “Never mind. After all, it's not like I can put my finger on any one thing, can say—see,
that's
why I don't trust him. But I don't, River. And the older I get and the more I see, the less I trust him. He's envious of Dad, believes he should have a bigger piece of the profits. I think he'd
yank out Dad's eyeteeth, if he could get a good grip on them.”

“So Emmett's not you favorite guy, huh?” Rand wouldn't be here long, only until after the party, so River decided to talk to him while he could.

“You mean Uncle Marry-a-lot and his wife, my aunt Jeannie, no Sarah, no Beth Ann, no—Doris. That's the wife of the week, isn't it? Doris?”

“That's it? The playboy of the western world is disenchanted with his courtesy uncle because he marries the women he sleeps with?” River asked, then took a long drink of water. “There's got to be more to it than that.”

“Oh, there is, Riv, there is. I've been out in the big, bad world long enough to recognize a sycophant when I see one. Kissing Dad's boots, playing loyal friend and employee—and all the while hating his guts. And Uncle Graham is even worse. You know, Dad used to live in D.C. when he was a kid, so I've done a little snooping around, asked a few questions, learned a few things about his parents, about dearest Uncle Graham.”

“Really?” River said, taking up his seat on the bench once more, ready to listen to whatever Rand had to say, about Fallon, about Graham Colton.

“Yes, really,” Rand answered with a smile. “And now you're going to sit there, real quiet, and wait for me to spill my guts, right?”

“If it works…” River said, shrugging.

“Okay, but I'm only going to give you the short version. Dad's father, Teddy, was a lawyer in Washington. Not a good one, but he loved to party, so he
had a lot of friends. He married my grandmother, Kay, who had money but not the same social background Teddy had. It was a trade-off for him, I guess, as he'd always wanted the money to live as he thought his supposedly impeccable lineage deserved.”

“There's always a lot of that going around,” River said, tongue in cheek.

“How true! Anyway, Teddy and Kay begat Joe, and then Graham five years later—Teddy obviously a man who didn't know to quit while he was ahead. A few years after that, Teddy, who liked to drink, took Kay, who also liked to drink, and plowed the two of them into a tree one night on the way home from a party. Orphaned, young Joe and Graham went to live with mommy's rich parents. Only mommy's rich parents didn't like Joe, because Joe looked too much like his drunken daddy who had killed their little girl. So they shipped Joe out here, to live with Teddy's old army buddy, Jack McGrath.”

River held up a hand to stop Rand's recitation. “I know that part. Joe felt like he'd been abandoned, banished, but it turned out to be the best thing that could have happened to him. Jack and Maureen McGrath took him in, even though they had a bunch of kids of their own and not a lot of money, and, to hear Joe tell it, made a man out of him. That's one of the reasons I got to be here, because Joe wanted to give something back, take in foster kids of his own. But I don't know Graham's story.”

Rand drank the rest of his water, crushed the plastic bottle and tossed it into a nearby can. “Poor Graham.
And poor Ed and Betty—Kay's doting parents. One, they kept the wrong kid, because Graham may have looked like Kay, but he was Teddy, through and through. Add to that the fact that old Ed and Betty eventually lost all their money, and you've got a recipe for Graham showing up on the now wealthy Joe's doorstep after years of very little communication, saying, ‘Hi, bro, what do you say we bond, and all that good stuff?'”

“To which Joe, being Joe,” River concluded, “said, ‘Sure, you got it. Anything that's mine is yours, little brother.' Right?”

“Right,” Rand said, his lips twisting into a grimace. “Just the way he said it to Emmett Fallon, just because they went into one small mining project together. Now Emmett thinks he deserves a bite from every slice of pie that makes up Colton Enterprises. The mines, the media, you name it. If my dad has a fault, River, it's that he's too damn good, too damn nice, and
way
too damn trusting.”

“I watch him,” River said, standing up, tossing his own empty bottle into the trash can. “We all do, all of us who are still here. You can count on that, Rand.”

“I do, Riv,” Rand said, putting an arm around his foster brother's shoulder for a moment, giving River a quick, affectionate squeeze. “That's why I dump on you, old friend, and why I'm rooting for you to become my brother-in-law. You'll work on that, right?”

“I'm always working on that, Rand,” River said, and then returned to the bench and picked up the swan that still needed some finishing touches. Rand left him
there, saying he would walk back up to the house, to drop in on Joe, to make sure Emmett Fallon wasn't saying anything too stupid.

Nodding, River pulled the knife from his pocket opened it, and started to whittle. The swan would be good, all his presents would be good, and then the day of the party would be upon them. Joe's party, his sixtieth birthday, and the beginning, River hoped, of a whole new happiness for Sophie and himself.

It was going to be one hell of a night, one they'd never forget.

T
he day of the party dawned bright and sunny, and wonderfully “California,” so that everyone relaxed, not that anyone except Inez had been really worried about the possibility of rain. After all, the weather wouldn't dare to ruin such an important party.

The large house was already crammed to the rafters with Coltons, and Inez had given up trying to do anything more than put out huge buffets three times a day, then wave anyone out of the kitchens with a sturdy wooden spoon if they dared to invade her sanctuary between meals. Nora Hickman, the kitchen helper, had even taken to working round the clock, right alongside Inez.

The entire courtyard and gardens had been strung with tiny white fairy lights; there were three huge tents set up on the lawns. The fountain had been
scrubbed until it glistened, and the florist had actually done the impossible—he'd improved the looks of the courtyard with potted plants and masses of flowers.

There was a portable stage inside the huge living room for one live band, and another in the courtyard, which would be used for yet another band and also to serve as a podium for what would surely be more than one speaker who wished to toast the birthday boy.

Joe's wonderfully eccentric Aunt Sybil, who had arrived from Paris a day earlier, had pestered Sophie until she unearthed some ashtrays to set around. The eighty-eight-year-old Sybil had declared that either she'd be allowed to indulge her vice or she'd be on the next jet back to Europe. “After all, if it weren't for sex and cigarettes, I'd have nothing to live for at all,” the old woman had said, naughtily winking at Sophie.

Sophie found the ashtrays. She also checked with Marco to make sure there were freshly cut flowers in all the bedrooms—Meredith's orders to the florist not extending to any niceties for anyone save herself. Finally, she made arrangements to have a meal set out in the kitchen for all the reporters and photographers who would be covering the party, as Meredith hadn't made any such provision for the last large party, which had been, in Sophie's opinion, a glaring oversight.

So everything was done. Everything was ready. Inez had outdone herself, spending nearly two days on the huge birthday cake that would, conservatively, serve more than three hundred people. The catering
trucks had arrived, Sophie could hear chairs being opened and set up in small groupings in the courtyard, under the tents. Her father was already complaining about having to wear a tuxedo, and Meredith had been locked in her room for the past three hours with her hairdresser and a makeup artist he'd brought with him from the salon.

Two more hours, and the party would be in full swing. Six more hours, and it would all be over. All the work, the preparation, the hustle and the bustle—and it would be over.

What then? What would happen when it was over, and everyone said goodbye and went back to their own lives? Rand back to Washington. Drake to be gone soon, off to some place he couldn't name to do some thing he couldn't discuss. Amber had already announced that she'd be leaving for a trip with friends the morning after the party.

Emily would stay, of course. And Rebecca would visit from time to time. As for the rest of the foster children Joe and Meredith had taken in over the years? Well, Chance would go back on the road, selling farm equipment and running as far and as fast as he could from the legacy of his abusive father. Tripp, now a pediatrician, certainly couldn't stay away from his busy practice. Wyatt would go back to Washington with Rand, as they were lawyers in the same firm. Even Blake Fallon, Emmett's son, once so troubled that he came to live at the ranch for a while, would probably only be able to stop in about once a week, as he was so very busy running Hopechest Ranch.

Leaving, Sophie knew, River James.

River wasn't going anywhere. He'd move to his own place soon, but that was only a short ride away from the house, from Sophie, who also wasn't going anywhere.

Unless Sophie took her aunt Sybil up on her offer to go back to Paris with her for a few months. It would be a nice place to start writing her book, the one she planned about the history of Hopechest Ranch. All things considered, it was a tempting offer.

What would River do if she left the country? Would he try to stop her from leaving? He never had before.

“Flowers, Sophie,” Maya Ramirez said, knocking on Sophie's bedroom door, then walking in, hidden behind at least three dozen long-stemmed red roses.

“Good God, Maya!” Sophie exclaimed, taking the heavy vase from Inez's daughter. “Your father grew these?”

Maya's exotic dark eyes shone with amusement. “He's good, Sophie, but not that good. Besides, if he ever grew roses like these, he'd threaten us all with a hedge clipper before he'd allow them to be cut. There's a card,” she said, pointing to a small white card tucked in with the blooms. “Well, gotta go. Mom is having a nervous breakdown, which means that everything's just perfect and she has nothing else to do but worry between now and tonight. Don't forget, Soph, there's still that private dinner party at six, for the VIP-est of the VIPs, before everyone else shows up. Senator Howard is already here, and he and your dad have broken into that box of cigars Repre
sentative Blakely gave him as a gift. Mom's going wild, saying they're stinking up the house.”

“Mmm, hmm,” Sophie responded absently, putting the heavy vase on the center of her dresser, then reaching for the card. The envelope had her name printed on it, and when she pulled out the card inside, there was more printing. Simple, short, and to the point: “You asked what's upstairs. Come see.”

“Now?” Sophie asked, looking at the card. “He stays away all this time, sending me presents, and he picks
now?
”

A slow smile started on Sophie's face, and quickly grew into a grin. She could do it. She had time. She'd been given clearance to drive. She'd already had her shower, she was ready to get dressed. Inez would perform her miracles without her. She could do this. She
would
do this.

“Damn you, River James,” Sophie said, pulling a simple black full-length sheath over her head, shaking her head to rearrange her well-cut hair. She applied lipstick, too nervous to do more than that, and gave her scar a quick look, knowing she should get out her makeup, cover it up. “Oh, who cares?” she said, grinning at her reflection. She didn't care. All of a sudden, for no reason she could explain, even to herself, she just didn't care. “If they don't like it, they damn well don't have to look!”

“Sophie, Aunt Sybil says there still aren't ashtrays outside. What should I do?” Emily called to her as Sophie ran through the living room in her high heels.

“Tell her to take up chewing tobacco, and then she can just spit in the flower pots!” Sophie happily
called back over her shoulder, snagging the SUV keys from the hook just inside the front door.

“
Chew?
But—but—” Emily said, taking two steps toward Sophie, who was already gone, racing out to the SUV. Moments later, the tires scattered gravel as Sophie took off down the drive.

 

“We're not getting anywhere, are we?” Louise Smith asked, sighing. “We know my grandmother's name was Sophie. We know I think I saw myself in that other garden—
two
of myself—although how that's possible is anyone's guess. And now you tell me we're going to have to back off and not use hypnosis again for a while. Why?”

Dr. Wilkes put down the clipboard she used to take notes during sessions, and looked at Louise levelly. “Why, Louise? You know why. The headaches. These debilitating migraines you've been getting.”

“I've had the headaches as long as I can remember,” Louise reasoned.

“Yes, but not almost nightly. I'm glad your doctor prescribed medication, but that medication is strong stuff, and I don't want to think about you having all those chemicals on board while I'm taking peeks inside your mind. You're losing more weight, you're telling me that the nightmares are getting worse. No, I can't do it, Louise. Not as your psychologist, not as your friend. We're going to back off, just for a little while, just until we get these migraines under control.”

Louise blinked back tears. “I had so wanted to see that little girl again,” she said, sighing. “But I—
Patsy
—keeps pushing her away, out of the frame. That's what it's like, you know. Like a movie I'm seeing. I'm there, in the picture, but I'm also watching from a distance. The audience.” She shook her head. “I do so miss that little girl.”

 

River watched from the bedroom window as the SUV appeared in the distance, then slowly walked down the steps, doing his best to pretend he was calm, that his heart wasn't racing inside his chest, that his palms weren't damp, that his stomach wasn't tied in knots.

He raised a hand to the black silk bow tie at his neck, the contraption it had taken him twenty frustrating minutes to construct, then swallowed down hard. The last time he'd worn a monkey suit had been the night of Sophie's prom. He'd worn a rented tux and a string tie, and his rented patent leather shoes had squeaked when he walked.

Now he owned his own tux, his own black onyx studs, and for the price he'd paid for his shoes, if they squeaked he'd have somebody's head. Personally, he thought the snow-white shirt with conventional collar and minutely pleated front looked pretty good against his tanned skin, although he had debated for long moments before finally tying back his hair with a thin strip of black material he'd braided out of the extra material left over from the alterations on the tux.

He wasn't Chet Wallace. He didn't want to be Chet Wallace. But he didn't feel like he'd spend the whole night wishing himself out of the tux, back in his jeans and cowboy boots.

River heard the car door close, silently counted to ten, and then opened the front door just as Sophie was approaching the front porch. “You look beautiful, Soph,” he said, waiting for her to raise her head as she carefully lifted her hem and stepped up onto the porch.

“I look like I got dressed in five minutes flat, which I did.” She kept her head down a moment longer, then raised her eyes to look at him. “My God,” she said, taking an involuntary step backward. “You…you look…” She shook her head. “My God.”

“That bad?”

She pressed her lips together and shook her head. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “You have to be illegal in at least three states,” she said at last, and then she smiled. “I liked the swan best,” she told him. “I liked it best because you carved it yourself. You did, didn't you?”

He nodded and held out his hand. “Come inside. Come upstairs with me.”

“I thought you'd never ask.” She took his hand, then preceded him into the house.

 

Meredith turned her head left, then right, then looked into the mirror over her dressing table to see the reflection coming from the large hand mirror Frank held up so that she could see the intricate twists and curls he had magically woven into her upswept hairstyle. “Perfect. It's just perfect, Frank,” she told him enthusiastically. “You're a genius.”

“It helps that I have a great subject to work with,
Mrs. Colton,” the hairdresser said, stowing the hand mirror in a side pocket of the large canvas bag he'd brought with him from his salon. “Now don't you worry about those curls falling. I've sprayed them within an inch of their lives, although they won't feel hard or stiff. Here,” he said, putting the hair spray canister on the dressing table, “I'll leave this for you. You're really going to love it.”

“Thank you, Frank,” Meredith said, standing up, unsnapping the leopard skin silk smock Frank had brought with him to cover her gown. The action revealed a bright pink and green patterned gown—the print almost tropical—floor-length and split in the front to Meredith's knees, the bodice also spilt, nearly to her navel. The fact that the gown was long-sleeved only served to make her bodice look more exposed, more bare.

She turned back to the dressing table and picked up a diamond-and-gold necklace Joe had given his wife on their twentieth anniversary, handing it to Frank so that he would clasp it behind her neck, then slipped diamond teardrops—each a full carat—into her ears. “Too much?” she asked, spreading her arms and doing a quick pirouette.

Frank reached forward to give a slight tug to one of the long, curling wisps that framed Meredith's face. “Perfect. I wouldn't change a thing.”

“I would,” Meredith said, smiling wickedly. “I'd make the diamonds bigger.” Then she laughed, extracted a few hundred-dollar bills from the top drawer of her dressing table and approached Frank, brushing her body against his as she stuffed the bills into his
shirt pocket. “Now run along. I have to be bored at dinner in a little while, and I think I'll spend the next few minutes pouring martinis down my throat, to prepare.”

Frank laughed, as he was supposed to do, and quickly gathered up the rest of his equipment. He motioned for the makeup artist, who had been amusing herself filing her cherry-tipped nails, to follow him, and soon Meredith was alone.

She wanted to be alone, needed to be alone. She reached into the top drawer of her dressing table one more time, extracting a short, thin glass vial with a tiny screw-off top. The vial was half filled with a clear liquid.

“Damn gown,” she said, patting at her hips. “Where in hell am I going to hide this thing?” She looked down at herself, how she'd been so cunningly lifted and all but glued to the gown in order to accommodate her plunging neckline. “You can't tuck it in the usual place, because you aren't wearing the original place, are you, Meredith?” she asked herself, longing for a drink, but needing to settle this last problem before she could allow her mind to be even the least bit clouded.

“Can't carry a purse,” she said, talking to herself. “Why would a hostess carry a purse to her own party? And I can't take the chance I'll have time to come back here without missing the toast. Damn! There has to be someplace I can—” she cut herself off, looked at the can of hair spray.