House of Strangers (Harlequin Super Romance) (16 page)

Karen Lowrance had never actually said his father had built her a house before he died, but Paul supposed it
should have been obvious. Karen would probably have preferred a tent to her mother-in-law’s house. He’d always visualized his father’s ghost in the mansion, but perhaps it stalked the halls of the house that was now Trey’s, instead.

Miss Esther’s voice brought him back from his musings. It took a second to catch up with the conversation. Miss Esther was talking about the Delaney business.

“’Course Mr. Trey was too young to handle the businesses after Mr. David died, so Miss Karen and Miss Maribelle took over until Mr. Trey got out of college. Miss Maribelle and Miss Karen fussed a good bit sometimes, but in the end they did real well at it.”

“What can you tell us about Conrad’s son?” Paul asked. “Did you ever notice any, say, strange visitors?”

Miss Esther shook her head. “Mr. David? He had his drinking buddies, but that was about all.”

“No other women?”

“Son, what do you want to know that for? I declare, if Miss Ann hadn’t told me it was all right to talk to you, I’d swear you were with one of those scandalous newspapers I see in the grocery store.”

Paul backed off quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“Well, for your information, my Mr. David never so much as looked at another woman after he married Miss Karen. And he didn’t sneak ’em into that studio, either.”

“Of course he didn’t, Miss Esther.” Ann caught Paul’s eye. “We’ve taken up entirely too much of your time.”

“Nothing better to do. My boys are all living up north now. Don’t see my grandbabies but a few times a year.”

Paul put down his empty glass, reached across the table and took Miss Esther’s hand. “Please come see the house. Anytime.”

Miss Esther seemed mollified. She smiled at him. “I’ll stop by on one of my walks.”

They said their goodbyes and left.

In Paul’s car Ann turned to him. “I always knew men liked to gossip, but you take the cake.”

“Morbid curiosity. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I thought it was fascinating. I wonder what Miss Addy did with that journal?”

“I’ll look around. Now, about that airplane ride…”

P
AUL COULD FEEL
Ann trembling as he helped her into the front seat of his Cessna. “Are you really terrified?” he asked. “Because if you are…”

“In my job, I have to fly all the time. I’m always a bit nervous. I’ve never been in a little plane, that’s all.”

“I can land this one safely in a cotton field. Can’t do that with a 747. We’ll be fine, you’ll see.”

He was proud of the little silver plane. It wouldn’t do barrel rolls, but it was a lovely aircraft and a pleasure to fly. He finished his preflight check, started the engine and began to roll down the grass strip. Beside him, Ann caught her breath. He took his hand off the controls long enough to touch her knee in reassurance.

The afternoon was warm and the sky was patterned with white, puffy clouds. Although they looked innocent, the thermals under them made for a bumpy ride. Ann gasped each time the engine changed pitch.

He kept his pattern simple with plenty of airspace between him and the ground. He never strayed far from the field. He wanted her to know that they could get down in a hurry if she demanded to land.

He felt her begin to relax. He pointed out landmarks beneath them and flew along the railroad tracks that bi
sected Rossiter. “That’s called flying IFR—I fly railroads,” he told her. She managed a small chuckle.

He wanted her to love this experience as much as he did. Maybe if she took some lessons… Hack had his instructor-rating. He’d be happy to teach Ann. Paul could barter a few extra dusting runs for lessons if he could talk Ann into it.

They had to yell at each other to be heard, so after a time they sat side by side without speaking.

Thirty minutes was enough for her introduction. He turned back for the field and began to set up for his landing when without warning the engine gave a single tubercular cough and quit.

The only sound now was the rush of wind. A second later a coat of black oil covered the windshield.

He could feel Ann tense. He knew she was trying not to scream. “We’ve broken an oil seal,” he yelled at her.

“Are we going to die?”

“I’m already in the glide path for the field. We’re fine. She’ll damn near fly herself.”

No sense in trying to restart the engine. Even if he could coax it to life, he might stall. At this altitude that could get them killed.

He slid the plane onto the grass strip. It bumped a couple of times, then came to a stop.

In the sudden silence he heard her inhale sharply. He turned to her and slipped his arm around her shoulders. He could see that her knuckles were white where her hands were clasped in her lap.

“Sorry, Ann. I have no idea why we should have broken an oil seal. They were all just checked.”

“Please, can we just get out of here?” When she looked at him, her face was ashen. “Now.”

“Sure.” He smiled. “I promise we weren’t in any danger.”

He climbed out, then helped her down. “What if we’d been over the mountains?” she asked.

It was a reasonable question. “There are plenty of landing places available almost everywhere.” He felt certain Ann knew that was a lie. In the mountains or over a body of water, they would have been in real trouble. Even in this relatively flat country of open fields, setting down could have been problematic with all the trees and creeks. If Ann hadn’t been with him, he wouldn’t have stayed close enough to the field to simply dead-stick in. His own legs started to feel a bit shaky.

At that moment Hack hobbled up. “What the hell happened? I heard you coming in and then I didn’t.”

“Blew an oil seal.” He turned to Ann. “Look, I really need to check this out. Are you okay to drive my car? Hack can give me a ride home later, can’t you, Hack?”

“Where your manners, boy? Take the lady home. I’ll start checking this out while you’re gone. I want to find out what the hell happened, too.”

On the way to Ann’s house, Paul tried to explain how unusual an occurrence this was, how safely she could fly with him.

She listened politely, nodded from time to time, but he could see he hadn’t convinced her. She climbed out of his car and trotted up her steps without a backward glance.

He stopped at his house long enough to change into the grubby clothes he wore to work on the plane.

Hack met him at the edge of the field. He was rubbing black oil off his hands. “Don’t think you exactly made a convert today.”

“She may never fly again. Of all the days to have this happen, why did God pick today?”

Hack sighed. “God had nothing to do with it. Come see what I found.”

As he bent over the engine, Hack pointed at the oil seal. “That seal didn’t fail by itself. It had help in the form of an ice pick or a pocketknife. Just enough of a hole so it wouldn’t leak onto the hangar floor or show up in the preflight. It would hold for a little while, then it would split all at once. Bang. No oil pressure.”

“You mean somebody actually did this?”

“Somebody who knew at least a little something about planes. Your average teenage vandal would have poured sugar or coffee grounds into the gas tank. The engine wouldn’t have started in the first place. This took sophistication. Like the young lady said, if you’d been over the mountains, you’d have been in a pickle.”

“Why would someone do this?”

“You made anybody in town mad?”

Paul felt the hackles rise at the back of his neck. “Not that I’m aware of.”

“I better check the other planes. Whoever did this may have gone through the hangar with an ice pick. You don’t want to dust crops without an engine.”

“You’re right about that. When could it have happened?”

“Anytime. Someone could have parked down there on the other side of the railroad tracks after I’d gone to bed and walked through the field. Not something I’d choose to do with the copperheads waking up from the winter. I wouldn’t see a flashlight in the hangar from inside my trailer.”

“So it could happen again.”

“Not that way. While you were gone I called my cousin Johnny and asked him to lend me one of his coon
dogs. Anything comes within smelling distance of this place after dark, that hound will go crazy.”

“Why haven’t you had a dog before?”

Hack shrugged. “My old dog died about a year back. Didn’t have the heart to replace him.” He looked up.

Paul looked at the grim set of Hack’s jaw, the narrowed eyes, and saw why he had been a good bomber pilot. Hack Morrison made a bad enemy.

“Now I think I may just go buy me a couple of real junkyard dogs to eat up any strangers I sic ’em on.”

“Who can I get to fix the Cessna?” Paul asked.

“Me, for one. I assume you can help. I got a couple of buddies at the airport downtown who moonlight. Going to take us a coupla weeks to pull the engine and the prop, tear the whole thing down and find out if there’s any other damage. Not gonna be cheap, either.”

“It’s got to be done. When I find out who did this, I may just feed him to that hound dog.”

On the drive back to Rossiter, Paul turned the event over and over in his mind. He hadn’t made anybody angry, had he? Not as Paul Bouvet. And nobody knew he was really Paul Delaney. Or had someone uncovered the truth?

“A
LL
I
ASK
is that you give flying another chance,” Paul said as he stood at Ann’s door that evening.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Look, I know you were frightened. I was thinking that if maybe Hack gave you a few lessons so you’d know—”

“No! I mean, I don’t think so.”

“May I come in?”

“It’s been a really long day, and it’s going to be a very hard week.”

“Maybe I could make it easier.”

“I just want to soak in a hot tub and go to bed.”

“My plan exactly.”

She managed a smile. “Alone. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Will you still come to Trey’s with me Wednesday?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I? They live on the ground, not up in the air.”

So on Wednesday evening with a bottle of really good wine in the back seat and Ann beside him—Dante was home alone for the evening—Paul drove to Trey Delaney’s house.

“Good God,” Paul said reverently. “No wonder he didn’t want to live in the old mansion.”

If the Delaney house was smaller than Tara, he could have tucked Tara into one corner of this shining Georgian palace with its enormous columnar portico.

“I guess Uncle David built it when times were good in the cattle business.”

“I should say. Is that a tennis court?”

“Uh-huh. The swimming pool is behind the house, and the riding stables and arena are over that way, far enough so that the flies and smells can’t permeate the house. Trey rides over in a golf cart.”

Gleaming white fences edged the driveway. Beyond them, black Angus cattle grazed serenely. For the first time Paul realized just how rich Trey Delaney must be. To lose all this would be devastating. But Trey had no reason to fear Paul Bouvet, flyer with a busted wing. Certainly no reason to sabotage his plane.

When the white-coated butler opened the front door and ushered them through the house to the back terrace, Paul felt as though he’d stepped into a stage set.

When he met Sue-sue, he realized she was the one who’d set the stage. She wore enough gold jewelry to weigh her down if she fell out of a boat, a diamond wedding band and an engagement ring with a diamond so big it probably had a name. Like the Hope or the Kohinoor.

His fiancée had taught him to notice things about women he would never have picked up on before. Sue-sue came forward in the perfect little spring dress, wearing expensive Italian sandals on already tanned legs. Her shoulder-length blond hair looked freshly cut. He had to admit Sue-sue was gorgeous. Her trim body showed no evidence of her two pregnancies. “The kids are spending the night over at their grandmama’s,” Sue-sue said. “They’d just love to meet you, I’m sure. Maybe next time.”

If there was one.

Sue-sue was the perfect hostess, Trey the hearty host. The conversation turned on the upcoming University of
Tennessee basketball season and next year’s football. It was about the smallest small talk Paul had indulged in for years. He noticed that Ann slipped easily into her social role, although she gave him a sly wink.

No wonder Trey was a bit of a lunkhead. His wife probably never read anything more stimulating than this week’s women’s magazine. Then, just as he was beginning to feel smug and superior, Sue-sue turned to him and asked, “May I hit you up for a donation to our arts group? I’m president of the state board, and we’re trying to set up this year’s ‘opera and ballet in the schools’ programs.”

“Don’t say yes,” Trey said heartily. “She’ll have you down to your socks before dinner’s over if you give the woman an inch.”

“You enjoy the ballet?” Paul asked Sue-sue.

“Absolutely. Trey does, too, don’t you? He’s not so keen on opera, but he likes Puccini and he loves musical comedy. We go to New York at least once a year to see the shows, and we try to make the Edinburgh Festival at least once every three or four years. We haven’t been to Stratford in Canada since little Maribelle was born. Trey says he’s too busy in the summer.” She turned to Ann. “Why don’t you and I go this year? It’s probably not too late to get tickets. My treat.”

He saw Ann’s smile tighten. “I can afford to pay my own way.”

“Oh, Lord, honey, I never meant you couldn’t! Just that it would be wonderful to have somebody as knowledgeable about theater as you to go with me. And we could shop till we drop.”

The conversation became more general, and soon Paul found himself discussing the relative merits of the Tate Gallery in London and the Frick in New York. He also discovered that Sue-sue had a degree in political science
from Swarthmore. So much for stereotypes. Obviously, Trey’s wife wasn’t nearly as empty-headed as she seemed to be.

Over dessert, Paul asked Trey, “You promised to tell me about the bear.”

“Which bear?” Sue-sue asked.

“The bear on the front porch of Trey’s office.”

Sue-sue raised her eyebrows. “Oh, that awful thing.”

“Not awful, honey,” Trey said. “That bear has a history.”

“I’d like to hear it, if Sue-sue doesn’t mind,” Paul said.

“Oh, go ahead. Ann and I are going to go get the coffee and clean up the kitchen, anyway, aren’t we, Ann? Then y’all can join us in the living room.”

The men were left alone for their after-dinner drink. The brandy Trey offered was excellent.

“Now ol’ Smokey Joe stood out in front of an old drive-in on the road to Whiteville,” Trey said. “Used to be a wooden Indian, too, but nobody knew what happened to it. One night my granddaddy and a bunch of his fraternity buddies up for the weekend were drinking and hoo-rawing and Granddaddy decided it would be fun to steal that bear.” He chuckled and shook his head. “So they did. Piled him in the back of Granddaddy’s convertible and hid him in the summer kitchen.”

Paul realized Trey was a born raconteur. His liking for the man increased.

“Didn’t take the sheriff thirty seconds to figure out who’d done it,” Trey continued. “The man who owned the drive-in refused to press charges, so the bear went back home and Granddaddy and his friends spent the rest of the weekend picking up trash alongside the highway as punishment.

“After that, of course, it became a tradition to steal ol’
Smokey Joe at least once a year. He always showed up back at the drive-in a couple of days later, of course. Finally the owner just gave up and didn’t even call the sheriff when ol’ Smokey Joe turned up missing.” Trey shook his head and sipped his brandy. “Hard to believe it, but my granddaddy must have been a caution when he was young.

“Anyway, the owner died, and the man’s son decided to sell the place. He called my daddy, because by that time Granddaddy was dead, and offered to sell him the bear.” Trey chuckled again.

“Daddy said he’d buy him, but he wanted to steal him one more time. So he and Buddy and my great-uncle Harris Pulliam drove over there at two in the morning, left a check in the man’s mailbox and stole Smokey Joe for old times’ sake. He’s been chained to the front porch of my office ever since.” Trey shrugged and finished his brandy in one gulp. “The younger generation hasn’t heard that story and I don’t want ’em to. First thing I know, they’ll be stealing him again right off the front porch at the office.”

The story reminded Paul that he was and would always be a complete outsider in this family. His father would remain a stranger no matter how much Paul learned about him. This culture, this heritage, that was bred in Trey’s bone would forever be foreign to
him.
Paul managed a grin. “Great story.”

“Now, shall we join the ladies?”

About an hour later, as Ann and Paul were finishing their coffee and making a move toward leaving, Trey turned to Ann. “You haven’t been hunting with us since January. Shame on you.”

“No time. First I was in Buffalo digging my way out of snowdrifts, then I went to work on this job.”

“This Saturday is the last hunt of the season. You have to come,” Sue-sue pleaded. “Saga’s fit and ready to go.” She turned to Paul. “Do you hunt?”

When he said no as politely as he could, he heard Ann say, “But you’re going to try it, aren’t you?”

“I hadn’t planned on it.”

Her grin was devilish. “You made me go flying. Getting you up on a horse in return is the least I can do.”

“We’ve got a lovely crossbred gelding who’d be perfect for you,” Sue-sue said.

“His mama was a Belgian draft horse,” Trey continued. “He’s quite placid. He wouldn’t flinch if you set off a bomb under his feet.”

“You could ride second field,” Ann said. “All you have to do is sit in the saddle and walk along with all the other old fogies.”

“I don’t have the proper clothes.”

“Heck, you can borrow some of mine,” Trey said. “It’s an informal hunt, anyway. You and I look about the same size. What size shoe do you wear?”

Paul told him.

“Perfect. My boots will fit you, and I know my britches will. Say you’ll do it.” He gave Paul a smile that had a great deal of challenge in it. “Can’t be a real part of the community otherwise, you know.”

In the end Paul agreed to ride the unflappable horse, took home a pair of Trey’s riding boots, some boot hooks to pull them on, a boot jack to get them off, a pair of britches and a velvet hard hat to protect his head should he fall off.

“Which you won’t do,” Trey said. “Nobody falls off Liege.”

As they drove away from the house, Trey and Sue-sue’s
arms around each other’s waist, waving them goodbye, Paul said casually. “I hate you.”

“Can’t imagine why. I don’t get mad, I get even. You scare me, I scare you back. Seriously, you’ll have a wonderful time, I guarantee it.”

S
ATURDAY MORNING
dawned clear and chill with a brisk wind blowing out of the north. The weather report said the temperature would only reach fifty-five degrees.

Ann showed up at seven in the morning with coffee and sweet rolls hot from the café. “I’ve come to help you dress,” she said.

She looked fantastic. Despite the fact that Trey had said informal, she wore what Paul assumed was the entire costume, including a stiff white shirt with a white stock wound around her lovely throat and pinned with a gold pin.

They took their breakfast out on the porch, despite the cold. “Know what the stock is for?” she asked. “It’s to use as a sling or a tourniquet.”

“That makes me feel really comfortable.”

“Don’t be grumpy. Tally-ho.”

The area around the Delaneys’ pristine stable block was full of trucks, SUVs, horse trailers, horses and riders.

Paul’s heart sank. Over at the side, four or five carriages sat ready to depart, their horses already hitched. “Can’t I ride in one of them?” he asked plaintively.

“Nope.”

Trey and Sue-sue were nowhere in sight. To Paul’s untutored eye, Ann’s horse, a tall bay gelding that Ann said had once been a race horse, danced and snorted like a dragon. Paul’s own horse was immense. “The things I do for love,” Paul whispered.

“Give me a leg up,” Ann said. They had arrived late,
largely because he had hung back as long as possible. Both first and second fields had begun to move off across the field. “You use the mounting block to mount. I’ll ride with you until you feel comfortable, promise.”

He climbed onto his horse clumsily and fitted his feet into the stirrups.

“Okay?” Ann said, and walked away from him. After her horse had taken half-a-dozen steps, she stopped him and jumped down. She called to a nearby groom. “He’s lame.”

“Si, señora,”
the groom said. “Yesterday he was sound, but he’s lame on his front leg again this morning.”

“Okay, Marco. Better untack him and put him away.” She turned to Paul. “You lucked out. I can’t ride.”

He slipped out of the saddle. “Sure you can. He may not be a fire-breathing dragon, but I’ll bet my horse isn’t lame.”

She looked at the Belgian with longing.

“Go on.”

“What will you do?”

“I heard that,” said a tall, gray-haired lady in a feathered hat. “He can ride with me in my Meadowbrook cart. I hate driving alone.”

Ann’s face became wreathed in smiles. “Paul, this is Mrs. Adler. She follows the hunt in her carriage.”

“Uh, how do you do?”

“At the moment, I’m in a hurry. Climb aboard, young man, and hold on tight.”

Ann had already mounted and was trotting toward the fast-vanishing hunters.

After ten minutes with Mrs. Adler, Paul devoutly wished he’d stayed aboard his Belgian. Her big gray horse had a ground-covering trot. The ground, however, was
bumpy. Mrs. Adler seemed determined to catch the main body of the hunt before they were out of sight.

Paul knew how Ann must have felt clinging to his aircraft for dear life. He swore that if he survived the morning with Mrs. Adler, he’d never go near a horse again.

As they topped the rise, he heard the call of a hunting horn. “They’re away! Come on, Delta.” Mrs. Adler popped her reins against the flanks of her horse. A moment later he broke into a canter.

Several times he was sure Mrs. Adler would fly right out of the cart, but she always landed back in her seat with a thump, the reins secure in her gloved hands. He clutched the sides of his seat and prayed.

Below him he could see the hunters galloping across a broad meadow divided in several places by barbed-wire fences. “They jump barbed wire?” he yelled at Mrs. Adler.

“Don’t be ridiculous. There are wooden jumps let into the fence at intervals. Watch.” She pulled the cart to a halt within hailing distance of the other carriages. He was afraid he’d have to pry his fingers loose from the edge of his seat.

Below him the hounds were running full out and the riders weren’t far behind. He spotted Ann on the Belgian flying over the ground. This was the placid horse they intended him to ride?

The hunters began to pour over the jump like gravy out of a boat. Ann was close to the tail end of the group. She galloped down to the fence, the Belgian left the ground, and without warning something went wrong. One minute Ann was in the saddle, the next she was flying off the right side of her horse to land out of sight on the other side of the fence.

Paul stood up and shouted her name.

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Adler whispered.