Raising The Stakes. Sandra Marton
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trust a man who’d sip coffee when he could be sippin’ whiskey instead.” The old man grinned. “Or ain’t you a bourbon man, nephew? I can’t seem to recall.”
Gray smiled. Jonas recalled, all right. It was a standing joke that nobody would ever join the old man in a glass of the whiskey he favored. His sons preferred wine, beer and ale. Gray’s preference was for single-malt scotch, but the memory of those cold fingers pressing against his made him reconsider.
“I’m not, usually,” he said. “But I think some bourbon might be fine right about now.”
Jonas nodded and shuffled to the sideboard. Gray saw his hands tremble as he opened the bottle of Jack Daniel’s and warned himself not to let the signs of illness and age influence him. He’d come prepared to listen to whatever his uncle wanted to tell him, then to decline involvement and head home, and that was still what he intended to do. The last thing he wanted was to be dragged into sorting out some past mistake, real or imagined…unless Marta was right, and he was here to advise Jonas on his will. Hell, he wouldn’t do that, either. He wanted no part in any of this.
“Here we are,” Jonas said.
Gray took the glass, touched it to his uncle’s and sipped the whiskey. There was more ceremony to get through, this time involving a box of Cuban cigars, which he refused. He waited while the old man bit the tip off one, spat it into the fireplace and lit up.
“Ain’t supposed to drink or smoke, but what the hell’s the difference? I ain’t long for this world anyways.”
“You’ll outlive us all,” Gray said politely.
A knock sounded at the door. Jonas opened it, took a quick look at the tray in his housekeeper’s hands and waved her out.
“Lemonade,” he said, his lip curling with disgust, “and cake. You’d think there was a couple of kids in this here room.” He slammed the door and looked at Gray. “Where was I?”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“That ain’t what I was saying. I was tellin’ you there’s not much point in me avoidin’ a good shot of whiskey and a fine cigar.” Jonas eased into a chair, motioned to the other one. “But you’re right, I do have some talkin’ to do. I suppose Marta told you I’m dyin’?”
“Uh, well, uh, she said—”
“Come on,” Jonas said impatiently, “don’t play games! There’s just so much time a man has got, and I’ve used up most of mine. Remember what I said last night? That I liked the way you shoot straight? Don’t disappoint me now, boy. I’m dyin’. That’s all there is to it. And you know what? Dyin’s okay. I lived a long, full life.” He smiled, took a puff on the cigar and exhaled a cloud of smoke. “Had me five fine wives, four strong sons, built me this ranch and had me enough good times for a dozen men.” The smile faded and he sat forward. “But the closer I come to the end, the more I’ve been thinkin’ that not all them good times was exactly good, if you catch my drift.”
What was the old man getting at? A confession? A cleansing of the soul? Gray cleared his throat.
“Yes, well, all of us do things we’re not proud of, from time to time. I mean—”
“Damnation, boy, get that panicked look off your face.” Jonas scowled darkly. “I told you, If I wanted a pulpit pansy I’d have sent for one. I ain’t about to drop a bunch of regrets in your lap and ask for absolution.” He paused, took a long breath, then got to his feet. Slowly he walked to his desk and picked up a paperweight. “You ever notice this, Graham?”
Gray rose and followed his uncle to the desk. Jonas held out the paperweight. Gray took it from him and, as he hefted it, he realized it wasn’t a paperweight at all. It was a chunk of rock, pitted, rough and heavy, mottled with snaky streaks of what he figured was some kind of mineral deposit.
“No,” he said slowly, “I guess I never did. What is it? Granite?”
The old man chuckled. “Hold it to the light.”
Gray moved to the window and lifted the rock toward the glass. A beam of sunshine struck it, turning the mineral streaks into dazzling ribbons of bright yellow.
“Gold?” Gray said, looking at his uncle. “Is that what this is?”
“That’s what it is, all right. Gold ore.” Jonas took the rock from Gray’s hand and closed his fingers around it. “Took it from a mine in Venezuela, more’n half a century ago.”
“I didn’t know you’d been a gold miner,” Gray said, with a little smile. The old man was right. He had, indeed, led a long and interesting life.
“I been a lot of things.” Jonas opened his fist, looked at the rock, then put it down. “I was a young man back then. Already made me a pile of money in longhorns and some other things nobody else thought would pay off so when my pal, Ben Lincoln, asked me to go fifty-fifty on a mine in South America, I figured why not give it a try? The mine was s’posed to be played out but Ben had reason to believe otherwise.”
He paused for a long moment and stared blindly out the window. Gray felt the hair rise on the back of his neck. It was almost as if the old man saw something out there that nobody else could see.
“So we took ourselves down to Venezuela and then up the Orinoco to this mine in the jungle somebody had worked an’ then abandoned.”
He paused again, this time for so long that Gray moved toward him. “Uncle?” he said softly.
Jonas looked at him. “Yeah. I’m just thinkin’ back.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he said briskly, “turned out Ben was mistaken. We found some gold, but not enough. So Ben and me, we decided to end the partnership.”
Gray took another look at the rock. It was an interesting story, but what did it have to do with him? Jonas was still talking, something about him and Ben Lincoln, how they’d gone their separate ways and he’d come back to build Espada. Gray shot a surreptitious glance at his watch. An hour had gone by. If he didn’t get out of here soon, he wouldn’t make that flight to New York.
“Dammit, boy, how about payin’ some attention here?”
Gray’s head came up. A muscle knotted in his jaw. “You know,” he said, as carefully as he could, “I don’t like being called `boy.’ And I have been paying attention. I’m here, aren’t I, when I should be meeting with a client—and I still don’t know why in hell I came. What do you want, Jonas?”
“I’m getting to that.” The old man hesitated. “Ben died a long time back. A few months ago, I heard—I heard he had some kin. A granddaughter.”
“And? What does any of this have to do with me?”
The old man’s eyes met his. “I’ve owed a debt to Ben all these years, and I’m a man always pays his debts.”
Gray’s eyebrows lifted. “It’s a little late to worry about repaying this one, isn’t it?”
“Ain’t never too late to do the right thing, Graham. You live as long as me, you might just figure that out for yourself.”
“What kind of debt?”
“A debt, dammit,” Jonas said irritably. “What’s the difference?”
Things were starting to make sense. His uncle owed money to a man who was dead. For all he knew, he’d cheated Ben Lincoln out of some gold. Maybe he’d gone back later and found the mother lode. Maybe he’d done it without ever telling Ben Lincoln. Or maybe he’d palmed a couple of aces when they played cards. Knowing Jonas, anything was possible.
Now, with death looming ahead, he was having an attack of conscience. He wanted to make things right and he didn’t want his sons or even his own lawyer to know about it for fear it would tarnish his image. Gray thought of telling him that there wasn’t anything that could do more damage to an image like his, but what would be