Leslie LaFoy Read online

  The Emerson Bank of Ohio was demanding immediate and full payment from the investors in the Todasca Canal Company. The project had been abandoned and the managers had taken themselves to parts unknown. The bank showed the MacPhaull Company as having a fifteen percent interest in the concern and thus owing twenty thousand dollars of the outstanding debt.

  Todasca had been Henry's idea. An old school chum had been the head of the firm and Henry had made an absolute pest of himself about it, eventually wearing down her patience. Against her better judgment she'd agreed to invest, just to get him out of the office.

  Her blood pounding, Lindsay went to the last letter. Heavy spring rains had combined with a rapid thaw and led to widespread flooding in western Virginia. The MacPhaull Coal Company managers had been forced to suspend operations until the mines could be pumped out and the lost and damaged machinery replaced. They roughly estimated the temporary loss of revenues at forty thousand dollars, the cost of salvaging and rebuilding at another forty.

  Her stomach leaden, she laid the stack of papers in her lap. She'd have to find the money to replace the machinery and get the mines operational again. There wasn't any other choice. The annual income from the mines last year had been close to a quarter of a million dollars, the revenues providing the fiscal foundation of the MacPhaull Company.

  With cup and saucer in hand, she took a steadying breath and said, “What are we going to do, Richard? We don't have the cash reserves to meet these expenses.”

  “The first thing we're going to do,” Richard answered briskly, “is put an end to Henry's renovations and Agatha's land acquisition.”

  “Agreed.” Despite knowing the soundness of the course, she inwardly cringed. The scenes would be horrible. Henry and Agatha had never learned the difference between wanting and needing.

  “Then there are a few properties we might consider selling,” Richard continued, obviously having given the matter a great deal of thought before she'd arrived. “Henry's yacht, for instance. And Agatha's cottage at the shore. Neither produces revenue; they just consume it. Both are expenses the company can ill-afford given the present circumstances. Selling will not only give us needed cash but free up future money that can be used to keep the revenue-producing ventures in operation.”

  Having her sister out of the house for several months every year was a bit of heaven Lindsay was reluctant to surrender. But times were hard, she reminded herself sternly. Sacrifices were necessary. So was practicality. “Agatha leaves for the cottage in a couple of weeks and it's too late to change her plans. She won't cooperate in the selling, and being in residence will put her in a position to undermine the effort. I suggest we postpone putting the property up until after she returns to the city this fall.”

  Richard rubbed his forehead. “Is Henry's yacht fair game?” he asked, his hope wary.

  Lindsay nodded. Everything was fair game. It was just a matter of timing. She'd been quietly selling off family heirlooms for the last three months to pay the household expenses. Last week had seen some of her mother's silver serving pieces, a Persian rug, and six oil paintings carted off to the auction house. “Henry won't be happy with the news. He'll resist until the bitter end and make it as unpleasant as possible.”

  “Henry is never happy anyway,” Richard observed, backing his wheeled chair behind the desk. “Neither is Agatha. They were born wailing and they've never stopped.”

  “That's uncharitable,” Lindsay observed quietly, “but largely true, I'm afraid.” She laid the papers aside, rose, and reached for the silver pot on the corner of the desk. She felt Richard's scrutiny as she poured herself another cup of steaming coffee.

  “The company holds title to all the family property, Lindsay,” he said softly. “It's within my power of attorney to buy and sell as the needs of the company require. Your brother and sister have no legal say in regard to the actions I take.”

  “I don't either, for that matter,” she pointed out.

  “At least you have common sense and a head for business, girl. That can't be said for Henry and Agatha.”

  She returned to the divan and, slowly sinking down on the cool leather, confessed, “At the moment, my common sense is feeling absolutely overwhelmed by the circumstances.”

  “That's quite understandable. The situation's grave, Lindsay. We're teetering on the edge of bankruptcy.”

  How long would it be before they tumbled? she wondered. President Van Buren had assured the nation that the effects of the Panic would be short-lived, that business would rebound in a healthy and timely manner. In the year between then and now, matters had only become worse. There was no comfort in the knowledge that the MacPhaull Company wasn't the only business frantically bailing in a desperate attempt to stay afloat. Older and bigger companies than theirs hadn't been able to withstand the weight of the slowly collapsing economy. Factories and shops and businesses of every kind had ceased operations. Men all over the country were unable to find even the most menial of jobs. Faced with the loss of their homes and no food, they were, by the thousands, taking their families West. The land was free for the taking out there, and eating was more a matter of accurate shooting than having gold or silver in your pocket.

  What would happen to her when she ran out of things to sell? she wondered. Would she have to go West like the others? What would Henry and his family do? Where could Agatha go? And Richard? Richard didn't have any family. Paralyzed from the waist down, every day was a challenge for him. To even think of him trying to make an overland journey to a new life …

  A soft knocking against wood brought her from the gloomy morass of her thoughts. Ben stood in the open doorway. At her arched brow, he said, “Mr. Vanderhagen is here and requests a few moments of your time. He says it's a very important matter.”

  The family attorney had come to them? If Otis Vanderhagen had thought it necessary to leave his office … The look of stoic resolve on Richard's face wasn't reassuring. Her stomach cold and knotted, Lindsay rose and smoothed her skirts, saying, “Please show him in, Ben.”

  With a crisp nod, Ben backed out of the doorway. He'd barely disappeared when Otis Vanderhagen all but rolled into the room. At nine in the morning he reeked of cigar smoke and hair tonic. Tugging his waistcoat down over his considerable girth, he called out their names in a deafening roar. Lindsay couldn't keep from wincing and looking for an avenue of escape.

  She started as she realized that a second man stood in the doorway. Filled the doorway, actually. Height and, at the shoulders, width. He wore a dark charcoal-colored suit, and while the lines of it were a season or two past truly fashionable, it clearly spoke of a good tailor, conservative taste, and a powerful physique. Heavy-heeled boots, she noted. They'd been polished, but no amount of lampblack would ever cover the scuffs on the insides of each. He held a large, relatively flat-brimmed black hat in his hands and the expression on his face told her he didn't want to be there. She knew how he felt.

  “Allow me to present Mr. Jackson Stennett,” Otis said too loudly, turning to wave the man farther into the room. “Mr. Stennett is a citizen of the Republic of Texas. Mr. Stennett, may I present Miss Lindsay MacPhaull and Mr. Richard Patterson.”

  He had dark hair and intelligent brown eyes, she noted as he stepped toward her. High cheekbones, too, and a solid, square jaw. Definitely handsome, Lindsay thought as he barely nodded.

  “Ma'am,” he said, the word rolling off his tongue in a way that was somehow both lazy and hard-edged.

  From somewhere deep inside her a voice whispered, and dangerous. Puzzling the notion, she watched Jackson Stennett step forward and extend his right hand across the desk toward Richard Patterson.

  “You're a long way from Texas,” Richard observed pleasantly, shaking the offered hand. “What brings you to this part of the world, Mr. Stennett?”

  Stennett took a step back from the desk and squared his massive shoulders. His chin came up and Lindsay thought she saw anger flash briefly in his eyes.

 
Otis Vanderhagen didn't give Stennett a chance to reply. Pulling a thrice-folded document from the inside pocket of his coat, the attorney thundered, “William's dead,” and thrust the paper toward Richard. “Mr. Stennett has presented a copy of a recently dated Last Will and Testament.”

  As Richard opened the document and began to read, Lindsay turned the announcement over in her mind, searching for her feelings regarding the news. Her father was dead. Seventeen years ago she would have cared. His death now was no more final than his departure had been then.

  She'd grieved his loss when she'd been eight years old, crying herself to sleep at night and offering God whatever He wanted in exchange for her father returning home. But her father hadn't come back, and her life had gone on without him. Now … She didn't have any tears left to shed for William MacPhaull.

  Jackson watched the emotions play across her face: mild shock, a wistful sadness, and then cool, deliberate detachment. His gut, already tight, clenched another degree as what had been a niggling suspicion moved closer to certainty. If Billy had done what he thought he had … Better to get it all out in the open and know for sure, he told himself. Shifting his hold on his hat, Jackson met Lindsay MacPhaull's gaze and said quietly, “My sincere condolences on your father's passing, ma'am. He was a good man.”

  She studied him, her blue eyes darkening, her heartbeat pounding along the slender column of her neck. After a long moment, she arched a slim brow and said, “Good men don't abandon their families, Mr. Stennett.”

  Jackson shifted his gaze to the window and gritted his teeth. Damn Billy to hell and back. How many more ugly surprises were out there waiting for him to find? First had been the revelation in the Will that Billy had lived his last seventeen years under an assumed name. The second had been Vanderhagen's announcement just over an hour ago that Billy had three children. And now to learn that Billy had burnt the bridges when he'd headed off to Texas. Jesus. A mess didn't even begin to describe what Billy had left behind.

  Anger crawled through Jackson's veins. Of all the godawful predicaments he'd ever been in, this one ranked right near the top of the list. Billy had given him the means of saving the ranch—provided he was willing to take a legacy that wasn't rightfully his.

  Jackson glanced back at the crippled man carefully reading the Will. Patterson obviously hadn't gotten to the part where Billy handed the family livelihood over to a complete stranger. When he did … Jackson considered the woman. Her porcelain skin, delicate features, and slim build—all wrapped up in pale pink silk and ivory lace— might lead a man to think Lindsay MacPhaull was one of those fragile flowers of womanhood. But she had Billy's eyes and Billy's way of studying a man. If she had Billy's temper, too, things were going to go to hell in a handbasket real quick.

  Jackson looked back at Patterson. The man's face was reddening by the second, the speed of his reading rapidly accelerating. Jackson silently swore, and braced himself. At the edge of his awareness, he heard Billy's daughter draw a deep breath.

  “This is preposterous!” Patterson cried, flinging the document down on the desk as though it had soiled his hands. The muscles in his neck corded, and Jackson had the distinct impression that, had he been physically able, Richard Patterson would have vaulted over the desk, swinging his fists to beat the band. A sound of fury strangled low in the man's throat and his face twisted with rage. He sputtered, pushed his upper body forward and up in the chair, and roared, “We'll chal—”

  His eyes widened like a crazed steer before rolling back into his head. And then he collapsed, his right side slumping and giving way like a tallow candle with an off-center wick. Spittle ran from the corner of his mouth as he fell back and over the arm of his chair.

  Lindsay watched Richard collapse, her heart slamming into her throat even as time slowed to a crawl. As though from a great distance, she heard herself shout, “Ben! Send for Dr. Bernard! Hurry!” Her feet seemed to move of their own accord, taking her behind the desk and to Richard's side. Wrapping her arms around his well-muscled shoulders, she tried to move him upright and failed.

  Tears welled in her eyes, blurring her vision. He couldn't be dead, she told herself. He couldn't. She needed him so badly. She wasn't ready to face it all alone. “Richard,” she whispered, the plea broken and ragged.

  “Step aside, ma'am.”

  Relief flooded through her. Everything would be all right. Jackson Stennett was calm, in control. His hand on her shoulder was warm and steady, his presence at her side large and solid and so very reassuring. When he guided her away from Richard, she didn't resist. Through her tears, she watched him effortlessly lift Richard in his arms and carry him toward the divan. Her presence of mind somewhat restored by Stennett's certainty and command, Lindsay dashed around and ahead of him to arrange a pillow to cradle Richard's head.

  “Now obviously isn't a good time to discuss business matters,” she heard Otis Vanderhagen bellow from behind them. “Perhaps we should return later.”

  Placing Richard gently on the divan, Stennett replied firmly, “Now obviously isn't a good time to leave Miss MacPhaull alone, either. Go on back to your office, Vanderhagen. If I need you for anything, I know where to find you.”

  “Are you certain? You'll need my assistance to—”

  “I can manage on my own,” Stennett assured the lawyer gruffly while quickly untying Richard's stock and removing his collar. “It's impossible to mangle this matter any worse than you already have. Go on.” He glanced up at Lindsay and quietly added, “We need to cover him. Can you find a blanket?”

  There was gentleness and compassion in his eyes. Lindsay nodded and dashed to the cloak rack for her pelisse. She was just turning back when Otis heaved a deep sigh and announced, “Ah, here comes Dr. Bernard up the sidewalk,” then chugged out of the room as fast as his fat little legs would carry him.

  “The bastard,” Stennett muttered as Lindsay reached his side. “Actually waddles and slithers at the same time.”

  Lindsay nodded in silent agreement as, together, they arranged her pelisse over Richard. He was so pale, so suddenly old and fragile-looking. Tears welled along her lashes again and she reached out to brush a lock of white hair off Richard's forehead. A tear fell onto his cheek and Stennett used the sleeve of her pelisse to carefully dab it away.

  Dr. Bernard entered the room, his black bag in his hand, and the tails of his unbuttoned coat flapping behind him. “What happened, Lindsay?” he asked even before he reached his patient.

  “He groaned and his right side gave out,” she answered as Dr. Bernard dropped to his knees at Richard's side. She quickly brushed her tears away, adding, “He's had a dull headache for two days and then he just slumped ov—” Her voice broke again and she couldn't swallow down the lump lodged high in her throat.

  “He was agitated at the time,” Stennett supplied, taking Lindsay gently by the arm and easing her out of the physician's way. “Actually, he was furious. He collapsed while trying to push himself up out of his chair.”

  Richard had been reading the copy of her father's Will, Lindsay remembered, numbly watching Dr. Bernard work on the too-still form of her mentor and friend. Something in the Will had … Her heartbeat quickened and she became acutely aware of Jackson Stennett's hand wrapped around her arm, of the warmth of his body next to hers. Stennett knew the contents of her father's Will. And in all likelihood, he knew very well what had sent Richard into a rage. Pulling her arm from Stennett's grasp, she took a step back and looked up into his coolly assessing gaze. Yes, he knew. She could feel the truth of it vibrating in the air between them. Jackson Stennett was dangerous; far more dangerous than he was handsome.

  Dr. Bernard sighed and pushed himself to his feet, saying softly, “It appears to be a stroke, Lindsay. A severe one.”

  The pronouncement struck her like a physical blow. She felt the air leave her lungs in a hard rush, felt her knees weaken and her legs tremble. Richard was going to die. Slowly, horribly. She saw the sad look in Dr. Bernard's eyes, s
aw Stennett start to reach for her. Anger and pride brought her chin up. Resolution drew her shoulders back. She locked her knees and willed herself to manage the situation with cool dignity. Richard would expect nothing less of her.

  “Given Richard's paralysis,” Dr. Bernard said quietly, “it's not unexpected. If you'll ask for his carriage to be brought around, Lindsay, and a couple of your staff for their assistance, I'll get him home.”

  “Don't bother the staff,” Stennett declared. Nonchalantly clapping his big hat onto his head, he added, “If you'll see to the carriage, Miss MacPhaull, I'll manage Mr. Patterson into it.”

  She was tempted to decline his assistance, but remembering the gentleness of his earlier care for Richard, she bit back the words. “We'll take him to my house, Dr. Bernard,” she declared, finding a measure of strength in the evenness of her own voice. Stennett wasn't the only one who could calmly command. “It's closer and I can take better care of him there.” She turned and headed toward the office door, calling, “Benjamin!”

  The clerk appeared as if by magic. As always, his demeanor was calm and his appearance absolutely unruffled by the commotion of the moment. He held his small traveling desk in one hand and a glass ink pen in the other. “I've already ordered the carriages around, Miss MacPhaull. And I sent a runner to tell Mrs. Beechum to prepare the guest room. What else may I do to help?”

  “You're a godsend, Ben,” she said, picking up her bonnet and gloves. She heard Stennett taking Richard back into his arms. “If you'd be so kind as to bring the chair out, I'd be most appreciative.”

  “He won't need it, Lindsay,” Dr. Bernard said gently.