The Ransom. Maggie Price
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Cadillac beneath the massive oak that shaded one end of the porch of the two-story ranch house.
Home. The word leaped into Kathryn’s mind while she sat in heart-pounding silence beside the man she’d hired to handle her Texas legal affairs. Staring out the windshield, the knots in her stomach clenched tighter while she struggled to come to terms with her surroundings.
Bathed in afternoon sunlight, the house with its wraparound porch looked welcoming. For Kathryn, it had only felt that way when Sam was away in Austin dealing with senate business.
Always the wood had been painted white with butter-yellow trim. The wide porch had latticework at the eaves and long, sturdy columns. The swing—where she had sat so many evenings writing stories and spinning her private dreams that always took her far away—still hung from chains at the porch’s far end.
Racked by emotion, she swept her gaze across the immaculate lawn toward the distant barn, the stables, the out-buildings, all surrounded by post-and-rail whitewashed fences. In her ten-year absence she had forgotten the Cross C’s beauty—and only remembered her pain.
Her gaze returned to the house where yellow roses wound their way through the porch trellises. The bright blooms blurred in her vision while a nagging unease moved around the edges of her awareness, undefined, barely formed, a gray shadow.
She lifted a hand to her throat where a choking dread had settled.
“Something wrong?” Owen asked.
“I just…” Kathryn ran her other hand over the hip of her red linen slacks. “For a second it felt like someone stepped on my grave.”
Owen gave the house a considering look. “You haven’t said as much, but I have to figure your not coming home since that summer you left for college means not all your memories of the Cross C are good.”
That summer. If only she had been wiser, more mature, she might have avoided making a fool of herself. Even now humiliation crawled through Kathryn, as hot as the hunger she’d felt for a man who’d been rumored to have an unlimited number of willing women on speed dial. But she had wanted Clay Turner since she’d been a starry-eyed schoolgirl who was stupid enough to think she would be the one who could change him. And by the time she turned eighteen that crush had transformed into love. So she’d made sure to ride over to the Double Starr the day Clay showed up to work on his uncle’s neighboring ranch like he did every summer. She could still see him that day, leaning against the corral’s top rail, all tough and rangy and fit in a white T-shirt and faded jeans. Still see his dark eyes, focused like a laser on her as she sat astride her mare. “Well, look who’s all grown up,” he drawled.
There’d been no love in his gaze. Not even affection. Just dark, dangerous lust that slammed her heart into her ribs and zinged its way right to her toes.
And even though he made it clear he wanted only good times and fast rides, she leaped off the cliff.
As if pulled by some unseen force, Kathryn’s gaze shifted to the east. From talking to the Cross C’s longtime housekeeper, she knew Clay had moved to Layton two years ago after his parents’ tragic deaths at the hands of their kidnappers. He now managed the Double Starr, so it was inevitable they would cross paths.
Ten years had passed since she laid eyes on him. A decade, during which she had married another man, given birth to his son, agonized over Matthew’s health, won an Emmy for screenwriting and had her crumbling marriage to Hollywood’s “heartthrob” dissected by the tabloids. Yet the thought of seeing Clay again had a dark foreboding surfacing inside her with such corrosive force it seemed as if no time had passed to dull the pain.
“Well, there’s someone who’s anxious to see you,” Owen said.
Kathryn looked back toward the house. All the pain of the past winked away as she watched Willa McKenzie—short, stocky and clad in the usual gray dress and white apron—bustle across the porch. Just the sight of the housekeeper who’d raised and loved her had Kathryn’s heart swelling.
Willa was one of the good memories. And one of the people Sam had done a truly good, unselfish thing for.
Turning, Kathryn looked over her shoulder. Matthew hadn’t stirred since he’d fallen asleep almost before they’d driven out of the airport. He was a sturdy five-year-old with thick blond hair and brown eyes that sparkled with mischief. Now, though, he looked almost cherubic, stretched on the back seat in his jeans and Western shirt, his miniature dachshund, Abby, curled against his stomach.
No one would suspect he’d been near death two years ago.
She gave him a gentle shake. “Wake up, Matty. We’re here.”
Thick blond lashes fluttered off his cheeks. Yawning, he pushed up off the seat, fists rubbing his eyes. The movement had Abby stirring. The dachshund levered up on her short legs and shook her head, the sunlight turning her reddish coat a deep mahogany.
Willa pulled the car’s back door open and leaned in. “Is there anyone who can help me find a missing chocolate chip cookie?”
“Grandma Willa!” Grinning wildly, Matthew unhooked his seat belt then propelled himself into the housekeeper’s arms. Abby rocketed after her master.
Kathryn climbed out, wincing as a gust of hot wind and dirt hit her in the face.
“Welcome to Texas,” she murmured, shoving her sunglasses farther up the bridge of her nose.
“Bet I can find that cookie,” Matthew insisted to Willa.
Willa’s eyes sparkled. “Think so?” A wayward strand of gray hair that had slipped from the bun at her neck waved like wheat in the breeze.
Standing on tiptoes, Matthew poked a hand into one apron pocket, then the other. “Right here!” he exclaimed, pulling out a cookie the size of a man’s fist.
“How do you suppose it got there?” Willa slid a hand into a pocket on her dress and pulled out a rawhide chew bone. “Well, I’m carrying around all sorts of surprises today.” Abby barked, her entire body waggling like a bass on a hook. “Guess you’ll make good use of this,” Willa said before tossing the bone a short distance away.
Owen grinned at Kathryn, his denim shirt and jeans making him look more ranch hand than attorney known for his scorched-earth tactics. “They’ve done this before, right?”
“A standing routine,” she answered. “It started about the time I flew Willa out to California for Matthew’s third birthday.” Her heart brimming, Kathryn stepped into the housekeeper’s welcoming embrace.
“Lord, child, it’s good to have you home.”
Kathryn shot a furtive glance at the house. In a flash of memory, she pictured herself the last time she crossed the threshold, bruised, bleeding and lying on a stretcher.
No, she told herself and ruthlessly forced away the harsh image. She couldn’t allow herself to think about that. She’d returned to the Cross C because doing so was in Matthew’s best interest. She could do this for her son.
Inching back, Willa cupped a palm against Kathryn’s cheek. “Every time I see you, you look more and more like the pictures I’ve seen of your momma.”
To Kathryn, the parents who had given her life and died when she was an infant had only ever been faded names in the Conner family bible. With her grandmother already deceased, it was Willa who had raised her when Sam took in his only grandchild.
After giving Willa another hug, Kathryn slipped an arm around her waist. “Matthew has chattered for weeks about living on a ranch with Grandma Willa.” Kathryn glanced back toward the house. “Did our things get here?”
“I should say so. Pilar and I have spent days unpacking boxes.” She ruffled the boy’s blond hair while he munched on his cookie. “I expect you can wage a small war with all the tanks and toy soldiers.”
“A big war.” He glanced around in expectation. “Can I see the outlaw tunnel?”