When there was no answer, she cracked the panels and looked inside. The girl was in her bed, fast asleep--or at least pretending to be asleep--and she wasn't in lingerie. She was wearing a Hotchkiss T-shirt and was on her side facing the door, those eyelashes of hers, which were every bit as long as Samuel T.'s, down hard on her cheeks.
Amelia frowned and twitched her brows, and then she rolled over onto her back. And then continued onto her other side.
With a deep sigh, she appeared to sink back into her rest.
Gin backed out of the room.
Probably better to get herself cleaned up before she tried to talk sense into anyone.
Back in her own suite, she proceeded into the bathroom and took off the dress she'd slept in. Wadding it up, she threw the thing away and then got into the shower.
She was running a monogrammed washcloth up her arm when the giant diamond on her left hand winked in the overhead light.
From out of nowhere, she heard Samuel T.'s voice in her head:
You've got to take care of yourself.
FORTY-SIX
"You're engaged?" Chantal demanded as Lane shut the trunk of the limousine.
"Yes," Lane answered. For what was it, the hundredth time?
The whole engagement thing had been the woman's theme song as she had played fruit fly from hell while everyone else had packed as much of her clothes, make-up, and costume jewelry as would fit in the limo's big extended body. And now she and Lane were alone but for the driver--who was in the vehicle with the doors all shut and his face buried in his cell phone. Like he didn't want to catch shrapnel.
Good luck getting a tip out of her, Lane thought.
"Really, Lane," Chantal said as raindrops started to fall yet again. "You couldn't wait until the ink was dry even on our separation papers--"
"I should have married her in the first place," Lane cut in. "And you are not in a position to be indignant about anything."
As he pointedly looked down at her lower belly, Chantal smiled with as much sweetness as a nine-millimeter pistol had. "When is the will going to be read?"
"My father's?"
"No, the pope's. Of course your damn father's!"
"It already was. There was no provision in it for you or your child. If you want to contest it, go ahead, but that's going to be about as lucrative as your professional career--oh, wait. You don't have one, do you. Not one that's legal, at any rate."
She jabbed a finger in his face. "I'm keeping this baby."
"Unlike mine, right?" He ignored the pain in his chest. "Or are you going to make that trip to the clinic in Cinci again when you find out there's no money in it."
"Maybe I only wanted your father's child."
"Probably. Actually, I don't doubt that that's true." He opened the limo's rear door. "The executor of the will is Babcock Jefferson. Look him up, give him a call, get in line--and sue the estate or not. Whatever works for you."
As she got in, she said, "You'll be hearing from my attorney."
"Boy, those words roll right off your tongue, don't they. And I look forward to the call--as long as it'll keep you off my property. Bye now."
He shut the door on whatever she was going to say next and took the time to give the driver a wave. Then Lane went back into the house. As he closed Easterly's heavy panels, he had no idea what time it was.
It felt like one a.m.
Heading deeper into the mansion, he found John Lenghe and his grass shorts in the game room. But the guy wasn't flexing his fingers over the two decks of cards on the felt poker table. He wasn't racking balls on the antique pool table. He wasn't playing chess against himself at the marble top with the hard-carved pieces nor was he fiddling with the backgammon board.
Lenghe was over at the far wall, staring at the painting that had been hung dead center in the middle of the incredible oak paneling.
Spotlit from above, the depiction of the face of Jesus Christ was done in tones of ivory and deep brown, the downcast eyes of the Savior so realistic, you could practically feel the divine sacrifice he was about to make.
"Not bad, huh," Lane said softly.
Lenghe wheeled around and clutched his heart. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wander. Well, I did. But I figured you and that lady could use some privacy."
Lane came into the room and paused at the pool table. The balls were in the rack and ready to go, but he couldn't remember the last time anyone had put a cue stick to them.
"I appreciate that," he said. "And your help. You cut the time that debacle would have taken in half."
"Well, without meaning any disrespect to the lady, I can kind of see why you might encourage her to find happier lodging somewhere else."
Lane laughed. "You Midwesterners have the nicest way of putting down someone."
"Can I ask you something?" Lenghe pivoted back to the painting. "This nameplate here . . . it says . . ."
"Yes, it is a Rembrandt. And it's been authenticated by multiple sources. All the paperwork on it is somewhere in this house. In fact, last year a private collector who came to the Derby Brunch offered my father forty-five million for it--or so I heard."
Lenghe put his hands in his pockets as if he were worried that they might make contact with the oil painting's surface.
"Why is it hidden all the way in here?" The man glanced around. "Not that this isn't a grand room or anything. I just don't understand why a masterpiece like this wouldn't be displayed more prominently, maybe in that pretty parlor up front."
"Oh, there's a good reason for it. My grandmother, Big V.E. as she was called, didn't approve of gambling, drinking, or smoking. She bought the painting overseas back in the nineteen fifties and installed it here so that anytime my grandfather and his good ol' boys had a hankering to be sinful, they had a reminder of exactly who they were letting down."
Lenghe laughed. "Smart woman."
"She and my grandfather collected Old Masters paintings. They're all over the house--but this one is probably among the most valuable even though it's on the small side."
"I wish my wife could see this. I'd take a picture on my phone, but it wouldn't do it justice. You have to stand in front of it in person. It's the eyes, you know?"
"She's welcome here anytime."
"Well, my wife, she doesn't like to travel. It's not that she's worried about flying or anything. She just hates to leave her cows and her chickens. She doesn't trust anyone with them or the dogs. Not even me. Those animals and those birds are her babies, you know."
As Lenghe refocused on the masterpiece with a wistful expression on his face, Lane frowned and put a hip on the pool table.
"You really like it, don't you," Lane said.
"Oh, yes."
Lane palmed the white cue ball and threw the thing up in the air a couple of times, catching it as he thought.
"You know," he said, "there have been some changes at the Bradford Bourbon Company since you and I saw each other last."
Lenghe looked over his shoulder. "I read about them in the paper. New interim CEO, an outsider. Smart move--and you want a numbers cruncher if you're going to exert control over the finances. And I should have congratulated you right away, Chairman of the Board."
Lane bowed his head. "Thank you. And yes, we are developing a plan that optimizes cash flow. I think I see a path out of our black hole, thanks to Jeff."
As thunder rattled the French doors, Lenghe nodded. "I have faith in you, son."
"My point is, I think I can safely say that if you give us only two months of grain on account, we should be okay. We'll give you favorable terms, of course. But really, after what Jeff is proposing to do, that should keep us going."
"So are you saying you don't want to throw cards with me, son?"
"Not at all." Lane narrowed his eyes. "Actually, I have something else you might be interested in playing for."
*
Thanks to the thunderstorms that were bubbling up over the flat stretches of the Plains states and drifting over Indiana and Kentu
cky, the heat of the afternoon was mercifully sapped.
And that meant Edward was enjoying the work he was doing out at the Red & Black.
No broom on the end of a stick, though. Not this time.
As rain began to fall once again from the purple and gray sky, and lightning made more shows of strength, he lowered the hammer in his hand and wiped his brow with his free arm. It had been . . . years . . . since he'd tended fences, and he already knew, going by the aches in his shoulders, that he was going to pay for this folly for days afterward. But as he looked down the five-rail, brown-painted track that cut through this pasture, and as he counted the number of nails he'd added and loose boards he'd secured, a flush of simple pride went through him.
Yes, he'd been at it for only an hour and he was about ready to quit. And indeed, a real man would have been working the fields for eight or ten at a clip.
But it was a start.
Right before the ending.
As he limped back to the Red & Black pick-up with his bag of supplies, he thought about the vodka he'd brought with him but had left in the cab.
He was going to need just a little more. But not much.
Getting behind the wheel, he shut himself in and took out his flask. One sip. Two sips. Then he washed it down with Gatorade like it was medicine. If he had another two days, given the way the DTs were easing, he was probably going to be fine. He wasn't sure things were going to hold until then, however.
Starting the engine, he began the trek back to the cottage, bumping along the cropped bluegrass, catching the attention of a hawk that was up in one of the shade trees by the water trough, flushing a couple of sparrows from a nest on a low-hanging branch.
Edward was careful to memorize everything about the gentle rolling land . . . and the way the fences cut man-made lines into the fragrant green expanse . . . and how the looming majesty of the red and gray slate-roofed barns made him think of his grandfather. As sweat rolled down between his shoulder blades, he still didn't put the air-conditioning on in the cab. Anyone who had ever done physical labor knew that once hot, stay hot. Short-term relief in your truck was just going to make your body temperature problems worse when you had to get back out into the heat.
Plus, it felt good to perspire.
As he came up to Barn B, he parked the pick-up in the rear and got out with the sack of nails and his hammer. Both seemed to have gained about fifty pounds of weight since he'd started. Hell, since he'd put 'em in the cab for the ride home.
Entering through the rear bay, he heard voices, a man's and a woman's, and he paused.
Shelby and Joey were standing in front of Neb's stall side by side. Shelby was talking about the stallion, clearly--likely about how they were going to handle the newest wave of bad weather with him. And Joey was agreeing with whatever she was saying, probably about how it had been a good idea to put the hood back on Neb's head and keep it there.
Smart move. Exactly what Edward had been of a mind to do as well.
Joey said something. She said something back.
Shelby looked at Joey. Looked away.
Joey looked at Shelby. Looked away.
Leaning against the barn's sturdy beams, Edward put the sack down, crossed his arms over his chest . . . and smiled.
Only to abruptly straighten.
While he was watching the two of them . . . there was a figure all the way down at the open bays of the front end of the barn.
Watching him.
*
"Wait. What did you say?"
Back in Easterly's game room, John Lenghe had turned around from the Rembrandt, and going by the expression on the man's face, Lane probably could have dropped a smoke bomb in the center of the pool table and the guy wouldn't have noticed.
Lane nodded at his grandmother's painting. "Let's play for that."
"You can't be serious."
"Why? Because it's worth at least forty-five million dollars and that's too much at stake."
"Not at all. Because why would you want to ever part with it."
Yeah, only a billionaire could say that with a straight face. And mean every word.
You really just had to smile at stuff like that, Lane thought.
"So you would be interested." He held up a palm. "Provided, of course, that I give you a chance to review the documentation, the insurance policy we have for it, and talk to your wife. And yes, I know that you're going to want to check with her, but keep in mind, if you beat me, you get to bring it home to her."
Lenghe rubbed his strong jaw, his huge biceps curling up thick. "Let me get this straight. I put up forty-five million. You put up the painting."
"It has to be forty-five million plus whatever capital gains I'd have to pay. I need to clear the forty-five. I can call a tax person right now and give you the exact figure. And that painting is not part of my father's estate. It is an asset owned by my mother, gifted to her by her mother when Big V.E. moved out and my mother became the mistress of Easterly. So I can get you clean title."
"Won't your mother--"
"She's never been attached to it. She's a Maxfield Parrish person. Her mother's taste has always been too heavy, in her opinion."
Yes, there might be an issue of capacity on his mother's side, but that really wasn't going to be a problem: All he needed was for Samuel T. to back date a power of attorney for her, in favor of Lane--something his old friend would do in a heart beat.
Lane summed it all up just so they were clear with each other. "Forty-five million plus long-term-capital-gains cost against that painting. Five-card, Texas Hold 'em. Same number of chips. We play mano a mano until one of us is out. I give you all the documentation we have--and if for any reason you get it valuated and it's worth less than what I need, I'll throw in as many other paintings as I have to to make up the difference." Lane pointed at the painting. "I will tell you this, though. The MFA's curator of Old Masters was at that Derby Brunch last year. My father asked the guy whether he should sell for forty-five and the answer was no, because it was worth about sixty."
John turned to the painting again.
"It will never be of less value," Lane said. "Your money couldn't be in a safer place. Or a more beautiful one. Assuming you win against me."
It was a while before the man pivoted back toward Lane.
In a grim voice, like he really wished his answer could be different, the Grain God said, "I better call the wife. And you better get me that paperwork."
FORTY-SEVEN
Sutton had been between meetings.
Really.
She had been between meetings and had just, you know, decided to drive from the Sutton Distillery Corporation headquarters in downtown Charlemont, all the way out into Ogden County.
Where her Mercedes had, of its own volition, taken a left-hand turn onto a perfectly paved lane that happened to be the entrance to the venerable Red & Black Stables. After which the sedan had followed the way through the fields, past the perfectly appointed barns . . . and onward still to the little caretaker's cottage where Edward had been staying.
After she had pulled into the shallow parking space she had used before, she had gotten out with the intention of . . . well, hell, she hadn't gotten that far. But she'd walked up to the door, knocked, and when there had been no answer after a couple of tries, she had pushed her way in.
As she had looked to the chair in the center of the room, she had half expected to find Edward upright and unconscious, dead from so much: the injuries, the alcohol, the bitterness.
But no.
Feeling like she had been saved from making a fool of herself, she had backed out, shut the place up, and decided that if she got right back in her car and hit the gas, she could still catch a workout before the dinner meeting she was having with Richard Pford about new distribution contracts for Sutton products. Which was not something she was looking forward to. The man was about as charismatic as an abacus, but there were millions of dollars on the table and there were going to be at
least four lawyers and three members of her senior management with them.
So, yes, a workout was exactly what she needed--
The sight of a Red & Black truck pulling up behind the nearest barn had caught her eye. And when Edward had gotten out and gone inside without seeing her, she'd been torn.
In the end, she had walked over to the front bay in spite of the rain.
With the light coming in from behind her, she had seen a woman standing by a stall down farther than halfway, talking with somebody . . . and Edward had stopped and was staring at her, his arms linked over his chest, his body leaning against the opening's supports.
The expression on his face . . .
Well, it was nothing Sutton had ever seen before. Warm. Tender. Slightly wistful.
And all of that made her refocus on the female. She was short and built very strong, her thighs tightening her jeans, her boots worn, her blondish hair pulled back in a practical ponytail. It was hard to judge the features from just a profile, but her skin had been kissed by the sun and she positively radiated youth and health and competence in her environment.
From time to time, she turned to the man next to her.
She didn't seem to notice Edward.
Edward certainly didn't notice Sutton--
As if he had read her mind, his eyes shifted and he straightened. And at the same moment, the woman and the man she was with discovered they were no longer alone and got all startled.
Sutton ducked out the open bay so fast she nearly lost her footing, thanks to her stilettos--and wasn't that a reminder that whereas the woman in front of that stall was clearly in her element, Sutton was lost out here, no more capable of riding a horse in her current Chanel suit than mucking out after one in her Louboutins.
And this was Edward's new life. He'd always had an interest in horses, but now he was breeding and racing his stock in earnest.
That woman, that naturally beautiful, physically fit woman, was perfect for the farm. Perfect for the new him.
Sutton, with the Mercedes she was heading to, and her board appointments and her corporate strategies, was everything about his old existence.
She shouldn't have come.
"Sutton!"
As he called her name, she was tempted to go even faster for her car, but she was worried he'd try to follow her and hurt himself.
Stopping in the rain, she almost couldn't bear to turn around: She had been thinking about him non-stop since they had been together, but meanwhile, he had been out here, with that woman--and even if he wasn't currently "with" her? Going by that look on his face? He was going to be.