True Colors. Diana Palmer
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not innocent people,” she pointed out.
“I’m innocent of a few things,” he argued. “I never shot anybody twice.”
She looked toward the ceiling. “My bodyguard, the saint.”
“Keep that up and I’ll go back to the government,” he promised. “They treat a guy right.”
“I’ll bet they never bought you kidskin moccasins and your very own Jacuzzi,” she said haughtily.
“Well, no.”
“And they don’t give you three weeks’ paid vacation and offer you free hotel rooms and carte blanche at restaurants,” she continued.
“Well…”
“And they don’t hug you like I do,” Blake exclaimed, throwing his arms around Mr. Smith’s thick neck as hard as he could.
Mr. Smith chuckled, returning the hug. “Got me there,” he admitted. “Nobody in the CIA ever hugged me.”
“See?” Meredith asked smugly. “You’re well off and don’t know it.”
“Oh, I know it,” he said. “I just like to watch you squirm.”
“One of these days,” she began, pointing a finger at him.
“That’s our cue to leave, Blake,” Mr. Smith said, turning with the boy in his arms to head for the door. “She’s good for an hour on that subject.”
Meredith hid a smile and went back to her packing.
TWO DAYS LATER she arrived in Billings on the bus. She could have flown, but that was an admission that she had money. A bus ticket was considerably cheaper, and besides, the bus station was located next door to the office of Harden Properties, Inc.
She waited for her suitcase, her hair loose around her shoulders, wearing a pair of jeans and a faded denim jacket over a sweatshirt. She wore a pair of scuffed boots she’d used for riding back home, and she’d left off her makeup. By and large, she looked very much as she had the day she’d taken the bus out of Billings six years before. Except that she had a different secret now, one she was going to enjoy keeping until the proper time.
In an office building just catercorner to the bus station, a man sitting at a desk happened to notice the movement of passengers disembarking. He got out of his swivel chair and moved to the one-way window, staring down with dark eyes that seemed to burst with mingled emotions.
“Mr. Harden?”
“What is it, Millie?” he asked without turning.
“Your letter….”
He had to force himself to turn away from the window. Surely not, he thought. That couldn’t be her, not after all these years. He’d seen her in crowds before, only to get closer and find another face, the wrong face. But he felt as if it were Meredith. His heart began to beat with the fierce rhythm she’d taught it. He felt alive for the first time in six years.
He sat down, his tall, fit body in a dark blue suit so striking that even his secretary of many years stared at him. He was thirty-four now, but sometimes his lean, deeply tanned face seemed older than its years. There were lines around his eyes, too, and threads of gray in his thick, black hair. He had an elegant look for a man whose primary interest was agricultural properties and acquisitions and who had a ranch and spent time with cattle and horses.
“Forget the letter,” he said abruptly. “Find the address of Mary Raven. Her husband was Crow—John Raven-Walking, but they’re listed in the phone directory as Raven. They moved into town two or three years ago.”
“Yes, sir.” Millie left to find the address for him.
Cy continued to sit, turning to read some new contracts and an inquiry from one of his directors about a few mining leases he’d refused to cede to Tennison International. He looked at the papers without seeing them as memories flooded back, memories six years old of a woman who’d betrayed him and left town under a cloud of suspicion.
“Sir, there’s an obituary here,” Millie said as she returned thumbing through the local paper. “I saw it last week and meant to mention it. Well, I remembered, you know, about that Ashe girl who was involved in the theft six years ago.”
Cy bristled. “Her part in it was never proved,” he corrected.
Her eyebrows arched, but she was concentrating on the column and hardly heard him. “Yes, here it is. Mrs. Mary Raven, and here’s the address—they print it, you know. She was buried two days ago. No family is listed at all. I suppose they didn’t know about Miss Ashe at the newspaper….”
“Give me that.” He took the paper and pored over it. Mary was dead. He remembered her from the Crow reservation, where she and Raven-Walking had lived until the old gentleman’s death two years ago. Mary had moved into town. God only knew how she’d managed to afford a house on her Social Security. Cy hadn’t seen the house but knew about it because he’d seen her one day in Billings. He’d questioned her harshly about Meredith, but she wouldn’t tell him anything. She was frankly evasive and even a little frightened. He grimaced, remembering his desperation to find Meredith. The old lady had practically run to get away from him. He hadn’t followed her, but he’d been tempted to go and see her. Then he’d realized that it would accomplish nothing. He’d only upset her more. Besides, the past was dead. Meredith was probably married by now, with a house full of kids.
The thought hurt him. He sighed angrily. Well, she’d be coming back, surely. In fact, that could have been Meredith he’d just seen. Someone would have to tie up all the loose ends that Mary’s death created. He knew that Meredith was Mary’s closest living relative.
He sat back in his chair, scowling. Meredith was here. He knew she was. He didn’t know whether he was sorry or glad about it. He only knew that his life was about to be disrupted all over again.
CHAPTER TWO
IT WAS TOO MUCH to hope for that Cy would walk out of his office building and run headlong into her, Meredith decided as she watched the city bus head toward the Billings station. He might not even be in town. Like Henry, and now herself, business demanded frequent trips to business meetings and conferences. And for her to run into the object of her youthful desire today would require a ferocious kind of coincidence or a helping hand from fate.
She boarded the bus and got off several minutes later near the Rimrocks. Her aunt’s little house sat on a dead-end street sheltered by towering cottonwood trees. This house, thank God, held no memories for her. When Meredith lived here, Great-Aunt Mary’s home was a small matchbox on the reservation. When she dated Cy, they always wound up in the penthouse he kept at the Sheraton, the tallest building in the city. She ground her teeth, remembering. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come back here after all. With the city of her youth around her, memories hurt more.
She unlocked the door with the key Mr. Hammer, the Realtor, had sent her. September was chilly here in southeastern Montana, and the snows weren’t far away. She hoped to be long gone before they trapped her.
The house was cold, but fortunately Hammer had remembered to have the utilities put on for her. There was a gas stove with the pilot light already burning, and the electricity worked. He’d even been kind enough to leave her a few groceries. Typical Montana hospitality, she thought, smiling. People here looked out for each other. Everybody was friendly and kind, even to tourists.
Her eyes lingered on the old but functional furniture. Everything was done in Early American, because that was what Great-Aunt Mary liked. But she had kept many of her late husband’s treasures. The medicine shield and bag that he always displayed so proudly were on the one wall. His pipe, with its exquisite decoration, rested on another peg, as did the bow and arrows his own grandfather had made for him in his youth. There were several parfleche bags filled with secret things in a coffee table drawer. There was a huge mandala on another wall, and assorted