Ryan's Hand (4 page)

Numbly, Cara spent the day doing as she had been ordered. She went to a dozen dress shops in order to make a dent in the staggering amount of money she had been told to spend, knowing that if she didn't, Ryan would send her out tomorrow on another expedition when all she wanted was to be with him.

By the end of the afternoon she had completed her purchases and the little Volkswagen—she had refused to drive Ryan's Ferrari—was filled to its bug top with boxes and bags. On her way back to Marblehead, she stopped by the library to speak to the woman who had been her supervisor for three years. The iron-gray head of the librarian nodded in understanding as Cara explained that she had to take emergency leave and didn't know how much time she would need. Should she resign now, Cara wanted to know, or could she take an indefinite leave of absence and return to her job when she was free to do so?

“We don't have to decide that now,” the librarian told her. “Call me at the end of the week when you have a better idea of how much time you'll need. Then we'll discuss your options.”

Driving to the town house, Cara thought that she had only one option: even if she lost her job and the few remaining debts remained unpaid for a while, she was not going to leave Ryan to die alone.

That evening Cara turned and pivoted before an admiring Ryan as she modeled the dozens of dresses, separates, and suits she had purchased that day. “Tomorrow,” Ryan told her tranquilly, “you're to have your hair styled. Also, afterward, you have an appointment with Boston's best makeup artist.”

Cara sighed. There was no point in arguing. Ryan was clearly enjoying his benefactor's role, and if it kept his mind occupied, then she would submit to anything.

Later in the evening, Cara prepared a meal from a diet prescribed for Ryan's condition, which she had found tucked away in a kitchen drawer. After dinner, with the brilliant flames throwing their reflections on the white marble fireplace, Cara played Ryan's favorite classical selections while he listened from the leather chair that now seemed to swallow him.

Eventually she saw sleep begin to take hold of the handsome features, and, trailing her fingers off the keys, called softly, “Ryan?”

He opened heavy lids, somewhat startled that she had spoken. “Yes, love?”

“Shall I stay again tonight?”

“Need you ask? Actually, I was hoping you would move in with me until I have to go to the hospital.”

Without hesitation, Cara replied, “Tomorrow I'll go get a few things from my apartment.”

In the week that followed, Ryan grew weaker each day, but still he was quick with a laugh or a joke. The weather still held, and he sent Cara out on another shopping spree. When she returned, she dumped the armload of parcels on his bed where he sat propped up reading and declared, “Now, Ryan, I've gone through that money you put in my account, and I'm not spending another cent for clothes. I have enough for years!”

“Good,” he said, eyeing her with approval from head to foot. Her hair had been cut shoulder-length and styled to emphasize the oval shape of her face. Artfully applied makeup enhanced her remarkable eyes, the exquisite beauty of her classic features. In the sable-lined coat she was a captivating mixture of sophistication and innocence, and Ryan said with satisfaction, “Now your appearance is worthy of you.”

One afternoon while they were sitting on the balcony and Ryan was comparing the endless expanse of the Atlantic to the plains of West Texas, the phone rang. Cara answered it, and after a brief pause, a male voice, deep and unequivocal, asked to speak to Ryan Langston.

“Who's calling, please?” she asked, intrigued by the voice but not wishing to disturb Ryan for a casual caller.

“His brother—Jeth Langston.”

For some reason, a chill swept her spine. “Oh!” she exclaimed involuntarily. “Just—just a moment and I'll get him.”

Cara watched Ryan assume a smile before he spoke into the phone. In a jaunty voice that belied the fatigue and pain that racked his body, he chatted genially with his brother while Cara returned to the balcony. When he joined her again, she turned on him accusingly, her voice breaking. “Ryan, you still didn't tell him, did you? For God's sake, why not?”

But Ryan was unable to answer her. Clutching his stomach, he gave a cry of intense pain and slumped to the floor of the balcony.

Cara ran for blankets and pillows and made him as comfortable as possible before going to the phone to call the number she had written beside it for just this moment. Then she went back to Ryan to await the ambulance.

The next few days were a nightmare of despair for Cara as she sat beside Ryan's bed, knowing that his life was ebbing away and that there was a brother in Texas who did not know it. Her one source of comfort was the soft-spoken law partner from Ryan's firm who had arrived at the hospital shortly after his younger colleague had been admitted.

The man, who appeared to be somewhere in his midthirties, had approached Cara with deeply distressed eyes and handed her his business card. “I am Harold St. Clair,” he told her, “a friend and colleague of Ryan's. His doctor had instructions to call me.”

Out of the maze of grief through which she wandered during the remaining three days of Ryan's life, one fact emerged clearly: Ryan had his business affairs in order. The firm, Harold told her, had been named to handle Ryan's estate. His personal effects would be sent to his brother in Texas. The firm would take care of the disposition of Ryan's town house and furnishings. It would see to the sale of the red Ferrari, unless, of course, she wanted it. It had been a stipulation of Ryan's that she was to have anything in the town house she desired.

Cara was aghast. None of Ryan's things were hers, she made it clear to the lawyer. Then she remembered the photograph on the mantel. “There is one thing,” she hurriedly amended. “A picture of Ryan and his brother. I—I'd like to have that.”

“Of course,” the lawyer agreed, making a note in his small leather book. He cast a contemplative glance at the averted profile of the girl. She was exquisite, no doubt about that. No wonder Ryan had completely lost his head over her.

In the three days, Ryan became lucid only once. Cara was sitting beside the bed, dozing. Harold had gone to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee. Ryan opened his eyes and looked at her. “Hi,” he said, and Cara, thinking she was dreaming, lifted her blond head.

“Ryan…” She smiled and drew her chair closer to the bed. “I'm so glad you're awake.”

“Thank you for not asking me how I'm feeling.” He gave her his ironic grin. “I wouldn't want to lie to you.”

“It's bad, is it?”

“Yes, very bad. I almost waited too late to ask you something.”

Cara's throat closed painfully. She reached for Ryan's cold, inert fingers, careful not to disturb the tubes taped to the back of his hand. “Ask me what, Ryan?”

“Do you trust me, Cara?”

“With all my heart.”

“Then would you promise to do something for me after I'm gone, even though I can't tell you now what it is? Think before you answer, love. I know that Yankee determination of yours well enough to know that once you give your word, the devil himself couldn't make you break it.”

“Is it important to you that I do whatever it is you're asking?”

“Yes. It means that I can rest in peace.”

“Well, then, I promise, Ryan.”

“Thank you, Puritan. You won't be sorry. You will be at first, and your courage will try to desert you, but don't you let it. See your promise through to the end. You'll be glad you did. I am confident of that.”

“How—how will I know what it is you want me to do?”

“Harold will give you an envelope after my death. I have left instructions in it. Remember always that I had only at heart the interests of those I…loved.”

The words trailed off. His lids closed in quiet finality. “Ryan, dearest—” But Cara knew that Ryan had slipped forever beyond the sound of her voice. Already the beloved features had assumed an eternal stillness. Tenderly, as the tears began to come, she lifted Ryan's hand to her cheek and cradled it there for a few private seconds before the door burst open and blurred images in white surrounded the bed. Someone in a business suit spoke gently in her ear and eased Ryan's hand away, then led her from the room.

“Jeth has to be told,” Cara said dazedly to the man whose arm was around her. “Someone has to tell Jeth that his brother is gone.”

“Shh,” Harold St. Clair spoke soothingly. “Don't concern yourself with that, Cara. The firm will inform him. It would be more appropriate for us to do so.”

A week later on the first day of March, Cara sat in Harold St. Clair's office. Sleet struck the windows, making the shapes of things beyond them gray and indistinct. In her lavender wool coat, the neck designed to reveal a matching dress beneath, she was like a splash of spring in the somber office, and Harold thought that he had never seen a more beautiful woman. “How have you been this past week, Cara?” he asked, observing her with his astute eyes.

“Empty,” she answered briefly. “Quite empty.”

“Yes, I can understand that,” the lawyer responded sympathetically, but in fact he did not understand at all. What had been the relationship of this lovely woman to Ryan? Had she been his mistress? Harold was now inclined to think not. This girl possessed an indefinable quality of sexual innocence, which made him believe that she had never warmed any man's bed. Yet Ryan had loved her above all the women in his life, of that he was certain. Why else would he have arranged his will against Harold's legal counsel and in direct defiance of his brother, whom Harold knew to be one of the most powerful men in Texas?

The lawyer's hands fidgeted with the legal document on the desk before him. Thank the saints that the two people it concerned would never meet. This fragile young thing in a clash with Jeth Langston, a man notorious for his ruthlessness, was almost obscene to contemplate. At least she would have the firm behind her as well as the courts. Together they would protect her from the vindictive rage that Jeth Langston was bound to be feeling at this moment.

“Cara,” the lawyer began, clearing his throat, “did Ryan ever discuss with you the provisions of his will?”

Her large eyes regarded him in surprise. “Of course not. Why should he?”

The lawyer returned her gaze with equanimity. “Because you have been remembered very handsomely in it.”

“What do you mean?” Cara was puzzled. Ryan would have known that she wanted nothing material from him.

“You have inherited Ryan's share of La Tierra Conquistada.”

Cara sat like a stone figure in the chair, her eyes riveted on the man before her, hoping to see something in his face that would betray his words as a horrible joke. “You can't mean that,” she said slowly in disbelief. “Ryan would never have done that to his brother.”

“I'm afraid that he has,” Harold answered her quietly, in that moment utterly convinced of the girl's sincerity. He would have taken bets of any amount that she had not known about the will.

“I'll give it back. I can do that, can't I?” she demanded earnestly, her voice rising. “I don't want any part of the ranch. It belongs to his brother. I can't imagine Ryan doing such a thing!”

“Before you make any decisions about giving up your inheritance, Cara,” Harold advised her, “I think you'd better read this. I was instructed to give this letter to you after I informed you of the will's contents.”

Wordlessly, her heart accelerating, Cara took the envelope. “I'll leave you alone for a few minutes,” the lawyer said, and pressed her shoulder as he left the room.

Her mouth dry, Cara opened the envelope and drew out a brief letter in Ryan's handwriting. She began to read:

Cara looked up from the letter at the sleet-encrusted windows, unaware that Harold St. Clair had returned to the room. “Cara?” He spoke her name close to her chair, and she jumped nervously. Conscious that the letter was exposed to his view, she folded it quickly and slipped it back in the envelope.

“Mr. St. Clair, does Mr. Langston, Ryan's brother, know the terms of Ryan's will?”

“I'm afraid so. I've been on the phone with his attorneys all morning. It was a great shock to him to discover that the original will had been altered in favor of someone other than himself.”

“And he probably thinks I used—undue influence is the correct term, isn't it?—to get Ryan to change the will?”

“I am afraid that is his opinion.”

“Can the will be contested?”

“Ryan was an attorney. He would never have drawn up a will for himself that could be contested.” Seated once again at his desk, Harold assumed an expression designed to ease her misgivings. “I imagine that you wish to either sell your share of the ranch to Mr. Langston or restore it to him once the estate clears probate. The firm, of course, will take care of all the necessary transference of ownership. No need for you to concern yourself with the—er—unpleasant possibility of confronting Mr. Langston or his attorneys.”

Cara Martin sat straighter in the chair and tried to sound braver than she felt. “I'm afraid I will not be able to avoid that confrontation, Mr. St. Clair. I'm going to Texas. I plan to live at La Tierra Conquistada.”