Heiress (2 page)

"Oil." Mixed in with the aroma of her father's pipe tobacco had been the smell of the oil fields. "Wasn't that what you were talking to my father about?"

"Indirectly. I'm flattered you remember."

"Are you?" Somehow he didn't seem to be the type to be influenced by compliments one way or the other.

"Who wouldn't be flattered to have a beautiful woman remember him from a chance meeting?"

"I could name a few." Abbie wasn't fooled by his smooth charm, any more than she was fooled by hard muscles. She was usually good at sizing up people.

"Your ex-husband, for instance?"

Automatically Abbie covered the bare ring finger on her left hand. The platinum wedding rings, dominated by a brilliant three-carat sapphire encircled with diamonds—the very set she had chosen at Tiffany's after she and Christopher John Atwell had romantically breakfasted outside the Fifth Avenue store in New York—no longer adorned her third finger. Ten months ago, she had thrown them at him and watched the intertwined pair tumble to the floor and break apart—like their disastrous six-year marriage. She had walked out of their home on Lazy Lane in Houston's River Oaks section that very afternoon, moving home to River Bend and taking back her maiden name. Certain things in her life she regretted, but the end of her marriage wasn't one of them.

Still, she resented his trespass into her personal life. "You seem to know a great deal about me, Mr. Wilder," she replied, challenging him ever so faintly.

"As I recall you had received your final divorce decree that day and wanted to celebrate. A man doesn't exactly forget when a young—and strikingly attractive—woman announces her availability."

Until now she had forgotten the reason she had barged into her father's office that day. "You remember?" she said, her tone softening. "I'm flattered."

"Are you?"

She looked at him with new interest, surprised at the quick way he had picked up the cue and turned her own words back to her. A part of her felt alive for the first time since she had received the news of her father's death, but only briefly. She couldn't escape the soberness of this occasion, not with her father's closed casket still visible and the oppressively hot air heavy with the sweet scent of roses.

MacCrea glanced at the brass-encrusted coffin. "I want you to know how sorry I am about your father's death."

Abbie regretted the return to trite phrases—and equally trite responses. "Thank you. And thank you for caring."

The instant he walked away she felt his absence, but she didn't have an opportunity to dwell on it. Someone else was waiting to offer her more words of sympathy, and Abbie began making the rounds once more, but her gaze was always moving, searching for that woman, still wondering who she was.

Rachel Farr watched her from a distance, observing the grace and assurance with which she moved through the crowd. It was that expensive little black dress that did it, Rachel decided—so simple yet so elegant, with its black satin accents at the cuffs, placket, and mandarin collar. Or maybe it was the way she wore her hair—all swept up in that sophisticated French twist that made her look so stylish and poised. She certainly didn't appear to be suffering from the heat and humidity the way Rachel was. Her dress wasn't sticking to her skin and her hair wasn't damp with perspiration like Rachel's. Rachel had expected the heat, but not the humidity. Texas was supposed to be dry, brown, and flat. Houston was flat, but lushly green and obviously wet.

Rachel glanced down at the single red rose she held clutched in her hand. Its velvety petals were already drooping from the heat. She'd bought it at the flower cart in the terminal of Houston Intercontinental Airport shortly after she'd arrived from California yesterday afternoon. She wanted to place it on Dean's coffin as a symbol of her love for him, yet she was afraid to make this one simple gesture.

Last night she'd gone to the funeral home, but she hadn't found the courage to go inside, fearing the family's reaction and reluctant to cause a scene. And today, she'd sat outside the church while they held services for Dean inside, wanting to be there, yet oddly feeling too unclean to attend. Finally, she had followed the procession of Lincolns, Mercedes, Rollses, and Cadillacs to the cemetery on the edge of town.

Over and over she kept thinking that if his secretary hadn't telephoned her, no one would have notified her of Dean's death. It might have been days, weeks, perhaps months before she'd found out otherwise. She had tried to express her gratitude to Mrs. Anderson, but she had sensed how awkward and uncomfortable the woman felt with her at the funeral.

It wasn't fair. She had loved Dean, too. Surely his family could understand that she wanted to grieve with them and share the pain of their mutual loss. She'd had so little of him and they'd had so much. She would place the rose on his coffin. She didn't care what they thought.

Not giving herself a chance to have second thoughts, she set out quickly, walking blindly along the narrow strip of ground that separated the rows of graves. Her low heels sank into the thick carpet of grass that covered the ground as she moved in and out of the dappling shade cast by the towering oak trees that stood guard over the dead. It seemed as though she was traveling in a vacuum, encapsulated by a grief that dulled her senses, the sights and sounds of her surroundings making little impression on her.

Yet, despite all the hurt and suffering she felt, Rachel was conscious of the irony of the moment. Since she'd been able to have only small pieces of his life, it was fitting somehow that she was only allowed a small piece of his death. But just as she had railed at the inequity of the former, she cried over it now. There was nothing she could do that would change it. Dean was the only one who had possessed the power to do that, and he was dead.

Suddenly the casket was before her, draped in a blanket of sun-yellow roses. Rachel stopped beside it and hesitantly laid the wilted red rose on top of it. The bloom looked so forlorn and out of place she wanted to cry. She blinked at the tears that stung her eyes and trailed her fingers over the edge of the casket in a last good-bye as she turned away. When she looked up, she saw Abbie standing a scant fifteen feet away, staring at her with a confused and wary frown. For a split second, Rachel was tempted to hurry away, as if she were guilty of something. She wasn't. So why should she run? Gathering her fragile pride, Rachel lifted her chin a little higher and started forward at the same instant that Abbie did.

They met midway. Abbie spoke first. "Who are you?' Should I know you?" Her voice was lightly laced with a soft Texas drawl, like Dean's. Rachel noticed that she was taller than Abbie by a good four inches, but it didn't make her feel superior in any way, only awkward and gauche.

"I'm Rachel. Rachel Farr from Los Angeles."

"From Los Angeles?" Abbie's frown deepened, "Daddy had just returned from there.

"I know." Realizing that Abbie had absolutely no idea who she was, Rachel suddenly felt very bitter and hurt. "Dean used to say we looked a lot alike. I suppose we do, in a way."

"Who are you?" she demanded again.

"I'm his daughter."

Abbie recoiled in shock and anger. "That's impossible. I'm his daughter, his only child."

"No, you're—"

But Abbie didn't want to hear any more of her preposterous lie. "I don't know who you are or what you're doing here," she declared, struggling to keep her voice down, "but if you don't leave now—this very minute—I'll have you thrown out of this cemetery."

Chapter 2

Barely able to see through her tears, Rachel bolted from the grave, making her long legs carry her quickly away. She wished she had never come to the funeral. It had been a mistake—an awful mistake.

How had she expected Abbie to react when she met her? Had she thought Abbie would throw her arms around her and greet her like the long-lost sister she was? Half-sister, at any rate. Had she hoped that Abbie would invite her home? No, that would have been awful.

She could imagine nothing worse than seeing all the trophies Abbie had won competing in horse shows on Dean's horses. Rachel had long ago begun haunting the Los Angeles Public Library, going through its magazines and out-of-town newspapers to satisfy her hunger to find out more about the father she saw so seldom. What did he do when he wasn't with her? Where did he live? How did he live? Over the years River Bend had been featured in several magazines, mainly those dealing with Arabian horses, but a few society-type publications as well. Dean had rarely mentioned any of them to her, but in them she'd seen too many photographs showing Abbie astride some gorgeous Arabian with Dean standing proudly at its head.

She'd seen pictures of the family's Victorian mansion, and of the expensive fashions worn by his wife and other daughter when they attended their lavish parties and balls. She'd read all about Abbie's formal coming-out in the society columns of the Houston newspapers: she didn't want to look at pictures of her, stunning in an elaborate white gown, dancing with Dean at a debutante ball. Abbie, so beautiful and daring—and looking so much like her it hurt.

She couldn't bear the thought of hearing about Abbie's travels with Dean to England, Europe, and the Middle East; she had never gone anywhere with Dean except to Disneyland and Catalina Island.

All her life she'd been filled with envy, knowing that Abbie had Dean with her all the time. He was there to tuck her into bed at night. He was there for every holiday, every Christmas morning when she got up. He was there for every important occasion, from piano recitals to graduation. But Rachel had been lucky, especially since her mother died, to see him four times a year.

It was obvious whom he had wanted to be with, whom he had loved. She doubted that she had ever been more than an embarrassing burden to him, an unwanted complication. She thought she'd put all that pain and bitterness behind her. After graduation from UCLA, she had tried to make a life for herself without him. She had a good job and a promising career as a commercial artist with a large advertising firm in L.A. But today, all the old wounds had been opened again. And the hurt went deep—deeper than ever before.

She paused, trying to get her bearings and locate her rental car. Just as she spotted the tan Firebird, a long black limousine pulled onto the shoulder of the cemetery lane and parked in the space behind her car. A uniformed driver hopped out and opened the rear passenger door. Absentmindedly Rachel stared at the silver-haired man who stepped out.

The man said something to the chauffeur, then walked away from the limousine, striding briskly toward Rachel and the gravesite behind her. Something about his strong facial features reminded Rachel of Dean. He was in his middle fifties—about the same age as Dean. She wondered whether his eyes would crinkle at the covers when he smiled the way Dean's had.

A moment later she saw that they did as he noticed her and smiled quickly. "How are you? The warmth, the sincerity in his voice gave meaning to the question, changing it from an offhand phrase of greeting. Rachel was startled to find herself shaking hands with him in the very next second.

"Fine, thank you. Hurriedly she wiped away a tear that had slipped onto her cheek, certain she probably looked awful, her eyes all bloodshot and puffy. But the kindness in his look told her he was too much of a gentleman to notice.

"The services are over, aren't they?" he asked instead. "I'm sorry I was late, but I. . ." He paused, a frown flickering across his expression. "Excuse me, but you aren't Abbie, are you?"

"No. I'm not." She wanted to die when she noticed the way he unconsciously drew back from her. All her life she'd fought against this sense of shame. She'd done nothing wrong, yet she had never been able to escape this feeling of guilt. Trembling with agony of a different kind, Rachel turned to leave.

"Wait. You must be. . . Caroline's daughter."

She paused, tears of gratitude welling in her eyes. At last she'd been recognized by someone, someone who could truly understand the deep loss she felt. "You. . . knew my mother?" Hesitantly she faced him.

"Yes." A smile of understanding crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Your name is Rachel, isn't it?"

"Yes." She smiled for the first time in days. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head a little vaguely, too choked with emotion to say much more. "Your name?"

"Forgive me. I took it for granted that you would know me. My name is Lane Canfield."

"Mr. Canfield. Yes, Dean spoke of you often. He. . . thought a great deal of you."

There were some who claimed Lane Canfield owned half of Texas—and the other half wasn't worth buying. According to newspaper accounts Rachel had read, his holdings were vast and widely diversified, ranging from real estate developments to luxury hotels and giant petrochemical plants. Photographs had rarely accompanied the articles. Rachel seemed to remember hearing that Lane Canfield shunned personal publicity.

"To be truthful, the feeling was mutual. Dean was a remarkable man, and a loyal friend. He will be missed by many people."

"Yes." She bowed her head with the grief his words elicited.

"Do you still live in Los Angeles?" Gently he directed their conversation to a less emotional subject.

"Yes. He'd just been out to visit me. His flight back was delayed. He was late. He was hurrying to get home when. . . the accident happened." Hurrying back home, to Abbie, the daughter he loved.

"Will you be staying in Houston long? Maybe we could have, lunch, or dinner, together. I think Dean would like that, don't you?"

"You don't have to do that." She didn't want to be a duty, an obligation to anyone.

"I don't have to do anything. I want to do it. What hotel are you at?"

"The Holiday Inn, the one near the Astro," Rachel heard herself answer.

"I'll call you tomorrow after I've had a chance to check my schedule."

"All right."

After their good-byes were said, Lane lingered to watch the young woman as she walked away. The resemblance between father and daughter was strong. She was tall and slender like her father, with his thick brown hair and incredibly blue eyes. Sensitive and vulnerable—yes, she was very much like Dean.