Texas fury (33 page)

"I guess we do."

He'd just used up two hours and hadn't accomplished a thing. But the possibility of a new friend shouldn't be taken lightly, he cautioned himself.

The taxi dropped him off at the Dorchester. He registered, carried his own bag to the lift, and went to his room. He was tired. A shower, some dinner from room service, and a couple of whiskies would be all he needed to sleep. Tomorrow morning would be soon enough to do what he had to do.

The taxi Rand had hired for the day swooshed to a stop in front of the orphanage that had housed Chesney all her young life. It was a dismal place, all gray stone with tiny windows.

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He couldn't begin to imagine what a child's feelings would be when brought to this old, forbidding fortress. Chesney had lived here. His heart felt sore and bruised. How would he ever be able to make up for this?

The inside of the building wasn't much better. It was cold and damp. All the women bustling about wore heavy wool jumpers and thick sweaters. No one paid any attention to him. He wandered down the long hallway looking into austere rooms, most of them offices of some kind. He wondered how many homeless, unwanted children lived here. Hundreds probably.

The hallway branched off to the left and right. Rand chose the right. Classrooms. He peered into one through a small pane of glass. Twenty or so children, he surmised. Age five or thereabouts. So small to be so alone. All were dressed alike. He frowned. Did they dress the children this way on purpose so they would lose their identity? Were they numbers on a chart? Did they have real names or made-up ones? He wished he knew. On the other hand, they might be dressed alike so that no child would think he was better than another. He shook his head. He didn't know what he was thinking. Further down the hall he peered into another room. These children were older. To his eye they all looked alike, too. There were no blue jeans and sneakers here. He stood for a long time observing the class. Not one face showed any kind of animation. There was no sparkle. This clearly was not a place of sunshine. How these children would love Hawaii. Perpetual sunshine. Laughter and warmth. He felt sick.

How was it possible that warm-eyed Chesney with the gentle smile was a product of this place? If he'd lived here for eighteen years and then suddenly found out who his parents were, he'd raise hell. Chesney hadn't made one demand, hadn't asked for a thing. She walked into his life and walked out. He felt sicker by the minute.

Rand continued to walk up and down the halls. He wanted to leave these dreary surroundings but couldn't bring himself to walk out. Eventually, he came to a door marked Head. He knocked and opened it at the same time.

"Can I help you?" a pleasant voice inquired.

"I've come to inquire about Chesney Brighton," he said. Rand watched as the thin woman's eyes raked over him; he read dislike in her eyes. And why not?

"Yes, Chesney," she said, her voice no longer so pleasant.

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"I remember her very well. She was a wonderful child. Very obedient and never a sassy word out of her."

"What would have happened if she hadn't been obedient and she sassed you?" Rand asked quietly.

"She would have been punished, of course. We pride ourselves on deportment. Each child is made aware, early on, that the outside world is not a playground. We give the children a good education here. Each child has his or her duties, and of course, the older ones look after the younger ones. Chesney was very good with the little ones. She'd tell them stories and make them laugh. Chesney smiled a lot, but she never laughed—now, that's strange; I wonder whatever made me think of that.

"She comes back, you know. At Christmas she brought bags and bags of presents. The child must have used her entire salary for all those gifts. Chesney is one of the rare ones. Most of the others never come back, and I can't say I blame them." The woman stopped speaking and stared at Rand. "Are you the father?"

"I don't know."

"If you are, it's a little late to come calling. You were needed years ago. I don't see what good you can do now," the woman said sourly.

"I don't know either. I just found out. I don't think that will excuse me, but if I had known—"

"That's what they all say. I'm sorry if I sound bitter. You see, so many men and women come here when they get an attack of conscience. All of a sudden they realize their very own flesh and blood has been locked up here or turned loose in the world, and they're full of regret. I've told you everything I know about Chesney."

"She gave me her mother's address," Rand said. "I. .."

"If you decide to go round to see her, do it in the daytime so you don't disturb her family. Chesney told me she wasn't happy to see her. I felt so sorry for her. They all think there's a parent out there who is just waiting for them to show up on the doorstep. They want to be hugged and told they're loved. We try to hug and love them here, but it isn't the same. They know it, and they keep on hoping."

"Thank you for talking to me. I didn't get your name."

"Ardeth Wilkes. It doesn't matter if you know my name or not. You won't ever be coming back here."

"Good-bye, Mrs. Wilkes."

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"It's Miss Wilkes. I'm not married. This place and all these children are my family. Good day."

Rand leaned back and closed his eyes on the trip to Stepney Green. He'd never felt worse in his life. Flogging was too good for him. Right now he'd almost welcome death. He didn't want to talk to Chesney's mother.

"We're here, sport," the driver said cheerfully. "You said I was to stop at the corner, and this is the corner. I'll wait here for you."

It was a neat neighborhood. The houses were pretty much all the same, but different colors. Trees lined the sidewalks. Maggie would call it quaint. A workingman's neighborhood.

Rand swallowed hard before he knocked on the door. He felt light-headed and still a bit sick to his stomach.

Once she had been pretty. Now she looked tired and weary. Raising five children on a carpenter's salary hadn't been easy. She smiled, and Rand remembered. "I'm Rand Nelson," he said.

"I know. Come in."

"How did you know?" Rand asked. It could still be some kind of scam, he told himself, but he didn't believe the thought.

"A woman always remembers her first love. You were so dashing in your uniform. I gave the picture to Chesney. I don't know why I ever saved it. A romantic notion, 1 guess."

"You must have been surprised when she came to see you."

"I always knew she would someday. When I read that they passed that law, saying orphans had a right to, I knew."

"How did you feel when you saw her?"

"Awful. I wanted to take her in my arms and hold her. I wanted to tell her it would be all right, that she could come here and live with us. I couldn't do that. My husband would never understand. He'd leave me, and how would I ever take care of five children on my own? I was cool, polite. It broke my heart. I still cry when I think of it."

"You should have taken her in your arms—you should have pretended to act like a mother just that once," Rand raged.

The woman stepped back. "Just a minute. Who are you to come here and tell me what I should have or shouldn't have done? Where were you all these years? You fancy chopper pilots had your way with us girls and then left. I don't owe

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you or anyone else an explanation. You're lucky I'm talking to you now."

"I'm sorry. I had no right to say anything. I went to the orphanage this morning and I came away sick."

"I did the same thing the day after she came here."

"I gave you money. Why did you decide to—not to .. ."

"Have the baby? First of all, it's against God. There wasn't a doctor to be found who would do it, and I didn't want to starve. I used the money to buy a letter of transit on the black market. The Red Cross helped me get back to England. You didn't care. I remember that jaunty wave you gave me when you left. Until Chesney searched you out, you probably never thought of me once."

It was true.

"Besides, I loved you. I couldn't kill a child we created together."

"I did the best I could for her. I left little presents, not much, what I could afford, on her birthday and at Christmas. She told me she kept every single thing. On her birthday I always made a cake and told my family it was for an old aunt I haven't seen in years. It was all I could do."

"I didn't know," Rand said hoarsely.

"And if you had known, what would you have done?"

"I don't know that either," he said honestly.

"Why do I have this feeling you don't believe Chesney is your daughter?" the woman asked.

"At first I didn't believe it. I tried to remember. It seemed to me that I would have known somehow that I had a child. My wife told me only women have those instincts."

"Your wife is right. Is there something I can tell you, something that will prove to you that. . . you were the only one?"

"You don't have to prove anything. You were a virgin. You weren't the kind of young woman to ... to go with more than one man. I knew you were in love with me, and I knew nothing would come of it. I was going off, maybe get killed. I put it completely out of my mind. I don't even know when her birthday is."

"It's September ninth."

The woman's eyes were kind. "We shared a small, intimate joke and laughed about it together. I've kept all these memories alive. Shall I tell you or will you remember on your own?

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We used to talk about our childhood and some of the silly things we did."

"We talked about our pets, our friends. My cat."

"A toy cat. Sally Dearest."

Rand almost blacked out. The woman reached out to him and led him to a chair. Rand realized that they'd been standing all this time.

"You had a real cat with a real name," Rand said softly. "Whiskers."

"Yes. We are Chesney's parents, Rand—you and I. It will be up to you to do whatever has to be done. Will you agree?"

Rand didn't trust his voice. He nodded.

"And will you let me know from time to time how things are? You can address a letter to me in care of general delivery. If you're going to write, do it the first of the month so I don't have to run to the post office every day." Rand nodded again.

"Maybe she doesn't need us," he said. "She didn't ask for anything. She said she just wanted me to know she was real. That I had a daughter."

"She said the same thing to me. I don't honestly know if she does need us. It may be too late. She's an independent girl. I think you better leave now. Please, don't come back. If you need to get in touch, do it through the mail."

"I am so sorry," Rand said.

"I am too. It's up to you to turn it around and make it right, if you can. Good-bye, Rand."

Back in the hotel Rand sat with his head in his hands. His head ached from thinking. So many things to make up for. Could he handle it? With Maggie's help he could. On his own he wasn't sure.

Rand picked up the phone and called Arthur Mittington. They exchanged greetings. "Until I tell you to stop, I want you to send a check for five hundred pounds the first of every month to Chesney's mother. In care of general delivery. I don't know if it's wise or unwise on my part. I just know I want to do it."

"Then consider it done. Shall I enclose a letter?"

"Just the first time. After that just send the check."

"Should I offer you my congratulations?"

"I feel like I've been shell-shocked."

Arthur laughed. "That's exactly the way I felt when we had our first child. It wears off the fourth time around."

"I never much cared for children," Rand confided.

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"Not much you can do about it now. I regard them as a blessing of God. Try thinking along those lines. If I can help in any way, give me a call."

"I will."

Sawyer sat in the warm, sunny breakfast nook with her grandmother. She'd flown to New York from Japan for her annual checkup with the brain surgeon, who'd given her a clean bill of health. A quick visit to Billie and Thad was her reward. How wonderful it was to be here, to be with Billie, to have her health back! If only she didn't have a folder full of bad news to deliver. She couldn't put it off any longer.

The cat on the windowsill annoyed her. She'd never been a cat person, not that she was a dog person either. She said so to her grandmother.

"It's a good cat, I suppose," Billie said. "As cats go. But I'm used to Duchess and her pups at the farm. We never had cats. This one came with the lease, so we didn't have much choice. What bothers me is she walks around the counter-tops."

Sawyer eyed the feline suspiciously. "Why does it stare like that?"

Billie shrugged. "Ignore it, like I do. I'm so glad you stopped to visit. How long can you stay?"

"I have to leave tomorrow. I wanted to deliver this in person. This," she said, pointing to a thick folder, "will tell you where Coleman Enterprises stands."

"Why do I have the feeling wherever it is standing is a place it stood in once before?"

"Because that feeling is right on the money," Sawyer said grumpily.

"But Riley said—"

"Riley never looks at numbers, Grand. That's Cole's and my job."

Billie's throat tickled. She swallowed hard. "But Cole agreed with Riley."

"And I agree with Riley, too. We've just run out of money. There are a few things left to mortgage, but they aren't going to net us the kind of income we need. Sunbridge has not been touched. That will be the last thing to go." Sawyer threw her hands into the air. "We're a hair away from joining the bankruptcy crowd."

"I have some money from Billie, Inc. It's yours."

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Sawyer laughed ruefully. "It may have been presumptuous of me, but I already added in your share. Maggie's, too. Even a loan from Rand. I was going to ask you to call Cary and Amelia. Everything is on paper with them, so I'm not counting on any big loans. We've hit bottom."

"We've been here before, Sawyer."

"Yes, but with a dream and a marketable commodity. We don't have that now. When the loans and mortgages come due, there isn't going to be anything to pay them with."