A Little Town In Texas. Bethany Campbell
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“No,” Cal repeated, then swore. “She’s lived here since I was born. Since before I was born. Hell, she’s family—she can’t up and leave.”
“I’m no happier than you are,” J.T. said. In truth, he felt as if somebody had chipped a piece out of his heart.
“Hell,” Cal said in frustration. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared moodily out the window of J.T.’s study.
J.T. gave a gruff sigh. Lettie Mae Reese, the cook, had given her notice this morning. In two weeks she would celebrate her sixty-second birthday. When she’d told him that she meant to retire, tears had brimmed in her eyes.
J.T. picked up a pencil and threw it down again. Hell, when she’d told him, tears had brimmed in his eyes. Lettie Mae had come to work at the Double C when J.T. had married his first wife, Pauline, years ago.
He could not recall a major holiday or birthday without Lettie. He could picture her when she first came to the Double C, a young black woman so thin that her smile seemed wider than she did.
When Pauline had died, the only person who’d seen him cry was Lettie Mae. He’d stood in the kitchen and suddenly burst into sobs, making a noise like an animal in hopeless pain. She’d embraced him and held him fast, until he could stop. His outburst had been brief but violent, and afterward neither of them ever spoke of it.
Lettie had stood by him through everything, including his second marriage to Cynthia. When he became a father again, at fifty-five, Lettie Mae had looked at his new daughter as if the child was as precious as her own. “J.T.,” she’d said, “you sure haven’t lost your touch. After all these years, you still make a mighty good-looking baby.”
Cynthia used to snuggle in his arms after lovemaking and repeat the words as their private joke. “J.T., you sure haven’t lost your touch.”
Cynthia hadn’t been able to use that joke much in the past few months. Lord knew that J.T. liked sex, but by bedtime, he was so tired the need to sleep overwhelmed him. Then he had nightmares about bulldozers eating Claro County, chewing up the very graveyards and the bones of his ancestors.
Cynthia said she thought the stress was getting to him. This morning she’d said, “J.T., I know how much you love this country. But you’re letting it eat you alive. Maybe the time has come for you to ease up.”
Ease up? At first he’d been shocked. But was she right? J.T.’s lawyer, Martin Avery, wanted to quit lawyering and retire. His doctor, Nate Purdy, wanted to quit doctoring and retire. Even that old warhorse, Bubba Gibson, J.T.’s friend from boyhood, was starting to make threats about turning his ranch over to somebody younger.
Everybody else was retiring. Why not him? The ranch hadn’t done so well lately. J.T. was even slightly in debt—to Cal, his own son. Borrowing money from his own child had made J.T. feel somehow diminished.
Cal still stood staring glumly out the window. “Is Lettie Mae gonna stay in Crystal Creek?”
With a jolt J.T.’s mind came back to the crisis at hand. He set his jaw. “I don’t know. She’s going to visit her cousin in Santa Fe. See if the climate helps her arthritis.”
Cal turned, his face troubled. “Daddy, I can’t imagine life without Lettie Mae here. What are you gonna do?”
“I’ll find a replacement,” J.T. almost snapped. In truth, he didn’t know what he would do. When Lettie Mae went, it would be as if the best years of his life had taken formal leave of him.
“Well,” Cal said with conviction, “what we gotta do is give her a party. Biggest damn party in the history of Crystal Creek.”
While I go up into the attic and hang myself, J.T. thought morosely.
Maybe Cynthia was right. The ranch, the changes in Crystal Creek, the battle with Fabian that could drag on for years—maybe he should retire and try to get his life back.
But if he retired, what would become of the Double C? Tyler was consumed by the business of the winery. Lynn, J.T.’s grown daughter, only cared about raising racehorses, not cattle, and her husband wasn’t a rancher. He was a dentist, for God’s sake.
As for Cal, he had bigger enterprises than a ranch, and he still had his same old footloose streak. He’d been checking out investments all over Australia, and soon he’d head for South America. No. Cal was not one to be tied down to a piece of land.
Cal said, “Let’s put the gals in charge of the party. That’ll give ’em something to worry about besides this damn Bluebonnet Meadows. Lord, what a name. Why didn’t they just call it Cutesie-ville?”
“I don’t care what they call it,” J.T. said grumpily. “I just wish it’d disappear. Hole in the Wall was good ranch land once. I was just getting used to it being a dude ranch.”
Cal shook his head and smiled. “It was a dude ranch for ten years. You don’t adjust to change real fast, do you, Daddy?”
J.T. scowled at him. “No, I don’t. And now I hear this Fabian’s sending Belyle’s own brother down here. Shelby Belyle told Lynn. Plus Nora says we’ll have a reporter on our hands. Not local. Big-time.”
Cal leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “A reporter could be an advantage to us. Exclusive is a national magazine. It could stir up national sympathy.”
“Sympathy? That and a dollar’ll buy you a cup of coffee,” J.T. said. “But don’t try it without the dollar.”
“The pen is mightier than sword,” Cal observed.
“Fabian isn’t using a sword,” J.T. retorted. “He’s using Uzis and flame-throwers and stealth bombers.”
Cal raised an eyebrow. “How good is this lawyer that’s coming?”
“Mel Belyle? I hear he’s good. Very good. And motivated. He’s got a score to settle.”
Cal uncrossed his arms, hooked his thumbs in his belt and strolled to the fireplace. “How about the other one? The lawyer that deserted Fabian? And married the local girl?”
J.T.’s forehead furrowed. “Nick? He’s good, too. And he’s on our side. But he can’t do much. Fabian’s got him hog-tied.”
“Exclusivity clause?” Cal asked. “Confidentiality clause? Corporate secrets, that kind of bull dooky?”
J.T. gave his son a long, scrutinizing look. It always surprised him when Cal said something knowledgeable about business or law. J.T. sometimes felt that Cal’s wealth was a strange illusion, and that his younger son was still a rambling kid, without a serious thought in his head.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “That kind of bull dooky.”
Nick Belyle had revealed company secrets, and it had cost him. He lost his pension, his company stock, and he would probably never work at the corporate level again.
Nick was hardly poor—he could easily live on his savings and his own investments for years. He could also open a private practice, which he intended to do, right here in Crystal Creek.
What Nick could not do for one full year was get involved in any sort of business that ran counter to Fabian’s. That included the Claro County Citizens’ Organization. Nick wanted to help—but he couldn’t even give free advice. If he did, Fabian could have him fined and disbarred.
“So Martin Avery’s handling most of the legal eagle stuff right now?” Cal asked.
“Some of it,” J.T. said. “With the help of some Dallas lawyers. But Martin’s tired. He says this case is out of his league. He said—he said that he wanted your advice. That maybe you knew some high-powered people—but not too high-powered. I’m not made of money.”
Cal nodded, his expression serious. J.T. had another surge of an emotion he couldn’t identify—or didn’t want to. It didn’t seem fitting