Heiress (30 page)

"What?" Rachel couldn't believe she'd heard him correctly. "Why would you want to become involved in it?" If it was only to help her, she knew she couldn't let him.

"Everyone knows that breeding operations are excellent tax shelters if managed properly. In my position, I can certainly use the write-offs. So you see, it's to my advantage to become involved. It would be a joint venture, with you overseeing the operation and me contributing part of the capital."

"You're serious."

"I am very serious."

"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" Rachel clutched at his hand, hardly daring to believe him.

"Only if you want me for a partner."

"There isn't anyone else I'd rather have than you, Lane." Inside, she was exploding with happiness. She couldn't imagine anything more wonderful than always having Lane there to turn to whenever she had a question or a problem. All her life she'd wanted to share this dream with someone. Doing things alone was no fun. She'd done them that way all her life and she knew. She wanted to plan with someone, work with someone, and share success with someone. "Your can't know how happy you've made me, Lane."

"I'm glad. I want you to be happy."

"Earlier tonight, I had the feeling you had something on your mind." She'd been so certain it was Abbie, but now. . . "This was it, wasn't it?"

"I. . . have been giving the idea considerable thought lately."

But Rachel caught the slight hesitation. All her life she'd been sensitive to such things, quick to pick up the smallest nuance of phrasing—the careful wording that made a statement neither the truth nor a lie.

"I thought I might have said something wrong or maybe. . . there were problems at River Bend." Watching him closely as she voiced her suspicions, Rachel saw the faint break in his expression.

"Why should you think that?"

She wasn't fooled by his smooth smile. "It was River Bend. Something happened today that you don't want me to know." He was keeping things from her, shielding her the way Dean had, and she hated that. "What is it?"

"Yes, there are some problems there, but I'd rather not talk about them right now. After all, we have plans to make, critical things to decide. . . such as what are we going to name our farm?"

Rachel tried to go along with him. "South Wind." She'd picked out the name years ago. "According to legend, the Prophet Mohammed claimed that Allah summoned the south wind to him and the angel Gabriel grabbed a handful of it. From that, God created the Arabian horse." But she couldn't muster her usual enthusiasm for the subject.

"I like it."

"It's no good, Lane," she said. "If you don't tell me what happened, I'll just wonder about it. Did they say something about me?"

"No, Rachel, it isn't that at all. I didn't want to talk about it now because this is a big moment for you. I want you to enjoy it."

"So do I." But there had never been a single occasion in her life that hadn't been shadowed by Dean's other family. And it seemed that nothing had changed. "But I have to know."

"All right." He sounded grim. "It seems your father was heavily in debt when he died. He was behind in his payments. Everything is heavily mortgaged. It will all have to be sold to pay his creditors."

"But"—Rachel stared at him in disbelief—"how could that be? It's impossible. He couldn't have been broke. . . not with all the money he left me."

"That money was tied up in a trust for you. He couldn't touch it."

"Abbie, her mother—what about them?"

"I'm confident that after the assets are sold off and the accounts settled, there will be enough money left to enable them to find a new home and carry them for a while."

"River Bend is to be sold." She couldn't imagine such a thing happening. "Dean loved that place." Even more than he'd loved her mother, refusing to leave it for her. "It's been in his family for generations. It doesn't seem right that someone who isn't a Lawson should have it." The instant the words were out of her mouth, the thought flashed in her mind. "I'm a Lawson—by blood." She turned to him eagerly. "Lane, let's buy it."

"What?" An eyebrow shot up in surprise.

"Don't you see? It's perfect. Not only can we keep it from falling into a stranger's hands—someone who wouldn't love it and care for it the way Dean did—but we'd also have all the facilities standing there ready for use. There wouldn't be the expense of building. Plus River Bend already is a recognized name in the Arabian horse world. Time won't be lost establishing a reputation for ourselves. It's so obvious I'm surprised it didn't occur to you."

"Obvious, perhaps, but is it wise? That's something we need to think about."

"What is there to think about?" Rachel argued, not understanding why he didn't agree with her. "It's logical, practical, and sound. Even I can see that." Then she guessed his reason for hesitating and stiffened. "You're worried about how they'll react to me buying River Bend, aren't you?"

Lane set his coffee cup aside and took her gently by the shoulders. "All I'm saying is that we should think it through carefully. River Bend was Dean's home. It's natural that you would feel a special attachment to it. And I love you for wanting it to stay in the family. But I don't want you to make an impulsive decision that you may later regret. Right now, your reaction is mainly an emotional one. It isn't imperative that you make up your mind tonight. River Bend won't be sold for several more weeks yet. You have time and I want you to take it. Will you do that for me?"

"Yes," she agreed reluctantly, and turned away from him to stare out the window. "But I know I'm not going to change my mind. I don't care what they think. Maybe that sounds heartless, but. . . River Bend is going to be sold anyway. They're going to lose it, so what possible difference could it make to them who buys it? At least if I do, it will still be in the family. They should be grateful for that."

"Maybe. But let's sleep on the idea for a few days and talk about it then."

"All right." She breathed in deeply and nodded.

"I meant what I said a few minutes ago."

"I know. And I will think about it."

"I wasn't referring to that." Lane smiled faintly, his gaze running over her profile in a caress.

"Then what?" With so many other thoughts crowding her mind, Rachel didn't try to guess.

"I meant it when I said I love you."

He said it so softly, so gently, that for a full minute, its meaning didn't register. When it did, Rachel was stunned. "Lane," she whispered and turned to touch his face in wonder that a man like him could love her.

As he kissed her long and deep, she wrapped her arms around him and slid her fingers into his thick hair. That he should love her was such an amazing thing that she was afraid to believe it.

"Lane, are you sure?" She ached inside that it might be so.

"You are the woman I love," he insisted and smoothed the hair away from her face, then kissed her brow, nose, and cheek with feather-light touches of his lips.

"But I'm illeg—" His lips silenced the rest.

"You're a love child," he murmured against them.

Her breath caught in her throat. She drew back to stare at him. "My mother always said that."

"She was right. You were born out of love and intended for love. And I'm going to show you that."

The proof was offered by his lips and hands, caressing and arousing a desire in her that Rachel hadn't known she could feel. When Lanes hand stroked her breast, it was as if in adoration of her shape, and Rachel reveled in the feeling.

"I love you, too, Lane." Delicious shivers danced over her skin as he nibbled at her neck and ear.

"Do you?" He drew back, bringing her face into focus. "I want to believe that, but I'm older than you—much older. Are you sure you don't see me as a father figure?"

"Why do you have to say things like that?" she protested, hurt and angry that he should doubt her. "I look up to you, yes. But is it wrong for a woman to look up to the man she loves?"

"No, it's not wrong, if that's what it is."

"Why are you trying to put doubts in my mind?" She hated the way he was making her question her feelings. For her, it was enough that she felt them. Emotions weren't meant to be analyzed.

"Have you ever been in love before?"

"No." Twice she'd been close, but love had always eluded her—always.

"Then how can you be sure you know how it feels?" he reasoned. "I'm going to be out of town for a couple days. When I get back, we'll see how you feel then. If it is love, examining it won't hurt it. . . or change it." Shifting his hold on her, he hooked an arm around her shoulders and turned her away from the window. "Walk me to the door before I decide to take advantage of your moment of weakness."

Rachel almost wished he would. When he kissed her good night, she couldn't recapture her earlier pleasure in his touch. He'd given her too much to think about: her feelings for him and River Bend.

At nine-thirty, MacCrea saw the flash of headlights through the trailer windows. On the phone earlier, Abbie had told him she'd be there by nine. He started for the door, then turned abruptly and walked into the kitchen instead, irritated by how much he wanted to see her and hold her. After she'd made him wait this long, he'd be damned if he was going to run out there to her like some lovesick swain. He pulled a bottle of beer out of the refrigerator and waited for the trailer door to open.

When she walked in, everything else went out of his mind. She was slim and petite, but filled out in all the right places, as the low neckline of her peasant blouse revealed. Her dark hair lay thickly about her shoulders, all loose and soft, the way he liked it.

"Hello." That was all she said.

"I was beginning to wonder where you were." As he moved toward her, MacCrea noticed the tiredness in her eyes and the faintly troubled look in her expression despite the smile she gave him.

"It took longer than I thought. We have another sick foal. Ben thinks it might be pneumonia."

She slid her arms around his middle and tipped back her head for his kiss. MacCrea was happy to oblige. She responded, but not with the fervor and greedy passion he'd come to expect. She seemed unnaturally subdued. Something was on her mind and it wasn't him. A little annoyed, he released her and walked over to the kitchen counter.

"How about a cold beer?" He popped the top off his bottle with an opener.

"No. The last thing my head needs right now is alcohol." She sounded discouraged or angry, MacCrea wasn't sure which—maybe both. She turned toward the table. "What's this? Flowers?" She touched the spray of wildflowers in the amber glass as if assuring herself that they were real.

"I decided the place needed a man's touch." He moved over to stand next to her, breathing in the shampoo scent of her hair.

"They're beautiful." But her smile was barely more than a movement of the mouth.

"Careful. You might get carried away by so much excitement," MacCrea taunted.

"I'm sorry." She sighed, her glance sliding off him. "I guess I'm tired tonight."

That wasn't tiredness he saw; it was tension. Abbie was wound up tighter than a spring. Talking wasn't what he'd had in mind when she arrived, but until she relaxed a little, something told him she'd just go through the motions of making love. MacCrea didn't want that and decided, if they had to talk, it might as well be about a subject that interested him.

"You said Canfield came today. Did everything go all right?" He started to raise the bottle to his mouth, but he stopped in midmotion as Abbie turned abruptly away from him, suddenly agitated and angry.

"He showed up all right." Her voice vibrated with the effort of holding her feelings in check. Then just as abruptly as she'd turned away, she turned back and headed for the refrigerator. "I think I will have that beer you offered."

Curious, MacCrea watched her. While she took a cold bottle of beer out of the refrigerator, he opened the overhead cabinet and took down a glass. He watched as she snapped the cap off with the opener. The sharp popping sound seemed to release some of the built-up pressure inside her as well.

"What happened?" MacCrea pushed the glass across the counter toward her.

Abbie hesitated, then poured the cold beer into the glass, the foam rising thickly. "It's hardly a secret, I guess. In a few days, the whole damned state of Texas is going to know about it. You see, MacCrea"—she paused, the bitterness in her voice thicker than the foam on her beer—"we're broke. That's what Lane had to tell us today."

"What do you mean by broke?" He frowned, aware that different people had different definitions of the word.

"Broke as in head-over-heels in debt. Broke as in everything has to be sold to pay off the debts. Broke as in penniless—homeless." She gripped the bottle of beer tightly, her hand trembling with the vehemence and anger that had come from her.

"I think I get the picture," MacCrea said quietly, feeling a little stunned by the news.

"I doubt it," she retorted caustically. "Everything has to be sold: the house, the farm, the land, the horses, everything. I had a feeling we were going to have problems with Daddy's estate, but I thought they were going to come from Rachel. I thought she'd contest the will or make some sort of trouble. But I never expected this. Not once."

"It's rough." He knew better than anyone that right now words were meaningless. Abbie wasn't listening.

"I'll bet she knew all along. Lane must have told her. No wonder she didn't try to get a share of the estate. She already knew there wasn't anything to get." She picked up the glass of beer and drank down a quick swallow, then stared at the glass. "You know why there isn't any money, don't you? It's because he spent so much on her and that mistress of his. He probably showered her with expensive presents—like that filly he gave her."

"She was his daughter."

"So am I!" Abbie exploded. "But she always got everything! Did you know he was killed while he was on his way back from seeing her?"

"No."

"Not me. It was never me." She looked close to breaking, her voice choking up. "I had nothing of him when he was alive. Maybe it's fitting that I have nothing of his now that he's dead." She lifted her shoulders in a vague shrug, showing her helplessness. "I just don't know what to do."