Clasping her hand, he pulled her down onto the now-empty bench. Milly felt a strange shiver of foreboding and found herself gripping his warm fingers tightly, like a child. It was weird, changing gears so suddenly from joy to apprehension—the emotional equivalent of someone cutting your elevator cable. She looked up at Dylan for elucidation, but he seemed as baffled as she was.
“What?” she said.
“It’s your dad,” said Bobby. “Your mom called the house an hour ago. He had another stroke, a massive one, in his sleep last night.”
Milly put her hand over her mouth as she felt the vomit rising up into it.
“They rushed him to the hospital.” Bobby gripped her hand tighter. “But his brain had been so severely damaged, there was nothing anyone could do. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. He died at eleven thirty this morning.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
For Milly, it was the worst Christmas ever.
Plunged into unimaginable depths of grief as she struggled to come to terms with the loss of the father she adored, she longed to be able to turn to someone, anyone, for comfort. But Cecil had been the glue that held her family together. Without him, she, Linda, and Jasper rattled around Newells like three odd parts of a defunct machine. They had nothing to say to one another.
Oddly, the funeral itself was the easiest part. Bobby flew in for it, so Milly wouldn’t feel alone, and Linda was able to temporarily keep her own tidal wave of loss at bay by hurling herself into the mammoth task of organizing everything. But as soon as it was over and the last of the guests had left, the gaping hole of silence left in the once happy, bustling household was even more deafening than before.
“I’ll have to stay, at least till New Year,” Milly told Bobby on the depressing drive to the airport two days after the funeral. Shivering in a bottle-green, skinny-rib sweater and cords two sizes too big for her, she looked gaunt and worn-out with stress. Between dealing with the horses, fielding the flood of condolence letters that Linda was too overwrought to look at, and trying to make sense of her own grief, she’d barely eaten in the last three days and it was starting to show.
“Take as much time as you need,” he said kindly. “The real quarter horse season won’t get going till the spring, anyway. You won’t have missed much.”
There was so much she wanted to say to him, so much she wanted to ask. It was only six months since he’d lost his own father, after all. He’d probably understand the maelstrom of emotions she was going through better than anybody.
And yet, somehow, the words always seemed to die on her lips. Deep down, she still felt close to him—closer than ever now, in a strange way, with her dad gone. But still the distance, the horrid formality that had grown up between them, refused to budge. Everything she said, or tried to say, sounded false. Forced. Wrong.
She wished he weren’t going.
“Call me,” she said lamely, as he heaved his case out of the trunk and stuck his head through the window to say good-bye. “And wish them all a happy Christmas back home. Especially Dylan.”
“I will,” he said, kissing the top of her head. She smelled of shampoo and horsehair. “And listen: Try not to let Rachel get under your skin, okay? This is about you and your family. Not her.”
“Yeah, I know,” she sighed. “I’ll try.”
But, boy, was it easier said than done.
As soon as she’d arrived back from California, Milly saw for herself just how successfully Rachel had replaced her at Newells. Her dad had been the only one who hadn’t fallen for her bullshit. But with him out of the picture, Linda was more vulnerable than ever, and Rachel had wasted no time in capitalizing on her weakness, moving in for the kill with all the silent ruthlessness of a black widow spider.
Under the pretense of being helpful—“Really, Mrs. LG, you mustn’t. Let me deal with the trustees; Jasper and I can take care of the banking for you. No, honestly, it’s no trouble at all”—within days she’d established a grip on not only her mother’s fragile heart but, more disturbingly, her financial affairs as well.
It worried Milly deeply. But the more she tried to warn Linda off, the more she seemed to alienate only herself.
“Honestly, Milly, I know you’ve always been a bit jealous of Rachel,” said Linda the last time she’d broached the subject, to Milly’s frank amazement. “But surely even you can make an effort to get over it now, for me? If it hadn’t been for Rachel’s help these past few days”—fumbling in her cardigan pocket for a handkerchief, she dabbed her eyes with it before blowing her nose loudly—“I don’t think I could have coped at all. I really don’t. And she’s been a tower of strength for poor Jasper.”
In the end there was nothing for it but to sit back and watch, while Rachel hijacked what should have been a subdued, private family Christmas. And the worst part was that she did it so well, covering her tracks, making sure she was nothing but sweetness and light whenever she spoke to Milly. It was infuriating.
On the evening after Boxing Day, Milly was upstairs in her room, desperately struggling to put the stud’s accounts for the last month into some sort of order. Math had never been her strong suit, and the bewildering array of papers, contracts, checks, receipts, and invoices that lay scattered willy-nilly over her bedspread now might as well have been written backward in Hungarian for all the sense they made to her.
“Can I come in?” Linda knocked tentatively a couple of times before sticking her head around the door.
“Of course.” Milly forced a smile, clearing a space in the sea of paperwork for her mother to sit down. “I’m not getting very far with this lot, anyway. God knows how Dad managed without an accountant.”
Smoothing down her tweed skirt—ever since Linda had noticed Julia Delaney’s fondness for tweed she’d tried to adopt something of a country theme in her own wardrobe—she sat down on the newly cleared corner of the bed and, to Milly’s horror, started to cry.
“Oh, Mummy.” Shoving the rest of the papers onto the floor, Milly clambered over the bed and put her arms around her. “Come on. Don’t. You know how Daddy hated to see you upset.”
“I know,” Linda sniffed. “You’re right. But it’s so hard. Everything reminds me of him. Everything.” Leaning over, she picked up a photograph of herself and Cecil with Milly at the last gymkhana she’d competed in before her accident. As usual, Milly was clasping a first place rosette and grinning from ear to ear, as was Cecil; while Linda looked awkward and out of place in a blue and green spotted shirt-waister and hat, both plainly far too dressy for the occasion.
“I need to get away,” she said, her eyes brimming over with tears once again.
Gently, Milly took the picture from her and placed it back on the dresser. This was the first time since her dad’s death that her mother had opened up to her. And though she hated herself for it, she couldn’t help but be relieved that for once it was her Linda had turned to and not tower-of-strength Rachel.
“I think that’s a great idea, Mummy,” she said, smiling. “A change of scene will do you a world of good.”
“Do you really think so, darling?” said Linda, visibly brightening. “Well, I must say, I’m terribly relieved. I thought you of all people wouldn’t understand. I mean, I know it’s your childhood home, so it’s absolutely understandable you’re fond of the place . . .”
Her brain was so addled from the accounts, it took a few moments for the import of what her mother was saying to sink through and hit home. But when it did, Milly found herself starting to shake. With an effort, she kept her voice level and calm.
“What are you talking about?”
“Newells,” said Linda, perplexed. “What did you think I was talking about? It’s just too full of memories for me, darling.” She sighed. “I need to move on.”
“You’re not—” Milly was so choked, she found it hard to get the words out. “You’re not seriously contemplating selling up?”
“Honestly, Milly, I don’t see any other option,” Linda mumbled. At
least she had the decency to look shamefaced about it.
“Why not?” The suspicion in Milly’s voice was rapidly morphing into open outrage. So much for their moment of mother-daughter bonding. “Dad’s life insurance alone should mean you can comfortably afford to stay. Newells has been in the family for generations.”
“Only three generations,” said Linda defensively. Why did Milly always have to be so difficult about everything? “It’s hardly a stately home. Besides, you know I haven’t a clue about the stud business. I’d never be able to keep it going.”
“But, Mummy, that’s nonsense!” said Milly, jumping to her feet. “I know the business. I could stay here and run it.”
Linda let out a tinkling laugh of derision. “Don’t be silly, darling. You’re not even eighteen till next month.” She glanced meaningfully at the accounts now strewn across the bedroom floor. “I know you loved daddy’s horses, but you haven’t the first idea about running a business.”
As this was undeniably true, Milly let it go. “So hire a manager,” she said, right back on the offensive. “It isn’t rocket science.”
“Darling, I do wish you’d listen to me,” Linda snapped. She simply hadn’t the energy to argue the toss with Milly any longer. “I don’t want a manager. I want a new start. A chance to get away from—” She swallowed hard, trying to repress the sadness that kept threatening to break loose and drown her. “A chance to get away from everything. I’ve never enjoyed the stud business. In fact, in all honesty, I’m not much of a horse person.”
At last, she admits it, thought Milly bitterly. Better late than never.
“I’ll be much better off in a nice little town house. Newells ought to belong to someone who loves horses as much as your father did. Someone who’ll carry on his good work.”
For the second time in ten minutes, Milly felt a gnawing sense of unease.
“Are you trying to tell me you’ve already sold the house?” Her voice was so quiet it was barely audible.
“Darling, the sooner these things are faced, the easier they are for everyone. It’s what your father would have wanted.”
“Who to?”
Linda developed a previously unknown fascination with her wedding ring, staring down at her hands and twisting it around and around on her finger like she was trying to tune in TV reception or pick up satellite messages from space.
“Who to?” Milly repeated, more loudly this time. “Who have you sold to, Mummy?”
“To me.”
Rachel, smiling smugly, appeared in the doorway with Jasper standing protectively behind her. She could scarcely have been a less welcome sight if she’d been wearing a black hood and carrying a scythe.
“Your ma decided to sell the house and the stud to me,” she trilled. “It’s for the best.”
“And since when do you have that kind of money?” asked Milly, clinging desperately to the hope that this must be some sort of sick joke.
“Well,” said Rachel, tossing back her blond mane imperiously. “I’m not at all sure that’s any of your business, Milly. But since you ask, I came into my trust on my eighteenth. I still have to clear all major purchases with the trustees, of course. But they all felt Newells was an excellent investment.” She looked down at her fingernails, as if bored by the whole thing, before adding nastily, “even though, understandably, your poor father had rather let things slide this year—”
That, for Milly, was it. In that instant, all the years of enmity and frustration came exploding out of her like water through a shattered dam. Launching herself at Rachel with an almighty scream, she took her completely by surprise, rugby tackling her to the floor. Straddling her, she pinned her arms down to the carpet and proceeded to lift her head up by the hair, slamming it down repeatedly on the hard floor.
“You bitch!” she spat, emphasizing each word with a thud of Rachel’s skull. “You fucking vicious, manipulative bitch!”
“Stop it!” Linda wailed hysterically, flapping her hands around uselessly like a broken windmill. “Milly, for God’s sake!”
But Milly clearly had no intention of stopping, and in the end there was nothing for it but for Jasper to wade in and try to pry her off. By the time he succeeded, Rachel’s face was already badly bruised and bloodied. Milly, still squirming and straining in his arms like a crazed animal, refused to be calmed.
“I swear to God,” she yelled, “this is not the end, do you hear me? I’ll get Newells back, and I’ll make you pay for what you’ve done to my family if it’s the last thing I do on this earth.”
“Stop it, Mill,” said Jasper weakly. “You’re being ridiculous. Rachel’s bought the house. She hasn’t poisoned anyone.”
“She has!” shrieked Milly. She knew she sounded hysterical, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself. “She’s poisoned all of you. But you’re both too blind to see it.”
“Milly!” said Linda, shocked. “Take that back.”
“It’s all right, Mrs. LG,” said Rachel, through a mouthful of blood. Now that Milly’s arms were finally pinned behind her back, she felt safe enough to speak. “I’m not offended, and you mustn’t be either. We have to understand. She’s grieving.”
Linda looked at Rachel with tears of gratitude, as if to thank her for being so generous and forgiving. While Milly, wide-eyed with hatred, was practically foaming at the mouth at this show of see-through sympathy.
Rachel had played out this scene a thousand times in her mind’s eye. But the reality was turning out to be more gratifying than anything she could have imagined.
As painful as it was now, her bruised face would heal. But what she’d taken from Milly—the hole she’d blown in her life—that could never be repaired. And they both knew it.
She had the career. She had Jasper. She had Linda. And now she had Newells.
And Milly? Milly had a return ticket to California.
The sooner she used it, the better.
Summer’s Christmas, though not perhaps as miserable as Milly’s, was also a pretty poor affair.
She knew it was wrong to feel happy about anybody’s death, and she tried hard not to think that way about Milly’s father. But she couldn’t help but feel a tinge of relief that Milly wouldn’t be spending Christmas at Highwood after all, hogging Bobby’s and Dylan’s attention and generally making herself objectionable.
Her relief soon dissipated, however, as Bobby increasingly spent the holiday mooching around the ranch like a bear with a sore head, alternately withdrawn and silent or strident and demanding as his moods shifted from bad to worse and back again.
“Try not to take it personal, honey,” her dad said to her kindly on Christmas Eve, taking her aside after Bobby had flown off the handle at her for some perfectly innocuous joke. “He’s got a lot on his mind, and none of it’s to do with you. This is the first Christmas since the boss died, remember?”
In fact, Hank was not behind Bobby’s bad mood—or only tangentially, anyway. If he thought of his father at all, it was as a constant, disapproving presence, a daily reminder of the mistakes he’d already made at Highwood and how he’d failed to live up to the Cameron name.
Bringing Todd in as a partner, he now recognized, had been a mistake. Not even his gorgeous new training stables could make up for the fact that he now had to ask someone else’s permission before he did anything on his own ranch. At first, Todd had been reasonably quiet, but as time went on, he’d become more and more involved and more and more demanding by the day, making frequent visits to the property and throwing his weight around with the ranch hands in a way that put just about everybody’s back up. He co-owned Highwood, and he wasn’t about to let Bobby or anybody else forget it.
What Bobby ought to do, of course, was turn to Wyatt. To admit he’d made a mistake and try to figure out a way they could undo it, together. But he was far too proud and far too stubborn for that. Hank would never have shown such weakness—never in a blue moon—and neither would he. He’d gotten them into this mess and he’d
get them out. Alone.
But the high road was a lonely and often depressing place to be. Having no one to share his troubles with (he couldn’t talk to Dylan in case it got back to Wyatt, and Milly, even if she hadn’t been in England, had problems enough of her own to deal with) he began to feel increasingly isolated. For years, all his life really, he’d dreamed of the day he would inherit Highwood and make it his own. But now that he was finally living the reality, he found himself more miserable and stressed than ever.
And underneath it all, the dull ache of his longing for Milly continued. She turned eighteen next month, which was something, but she was still terribly young. And now that Cecil was dead, the promise he’d made him to take care of his daughter seemed even more sacred. Almost like a dying wish. It made Milly even more forbidden to him than she had been before, a thought that did little to lift his battered spirits.
On New Year’s Eve, desperate to lift himself out of his funk, he’d agreed to go to a party at a neighboring ranch with Dylan and the girls.
He’d expected to hate it. But after a few beers, to his surprise, he found himself loosening up, and soon he was actually enjoying himself.
“Wanna dance?” A buxom redhead in the tiniest pair of hot pants Bobby had ever seen—and he’d seen a few—swayed over to the bar where he and Dylan were standing and boldly grabbed him by the hand.
“Sure.” He grinned. “Why not?”
The party was being held in a giant barn, a good half of which was set aside as a makeshift dance floor, complete with a huge, cheesy, seventies disco ball courtesy of Santa Ynez’s only traveling DJ. It was packed, with couples bumping and grinding away to Prince’s “Purple Rain” and singles propping up the bar (another makeshift affair of hay bales with an oilcloth hastily thrown over them, beside which were piled crate upon crate of Budweiser) hoping to find someone among the drunken throng to go home with, or at least to pair up with for that all-important midnight kiss.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” said the girl, slipping her thigh between Bobby’s legs and pulling his body closer into hers as “Get Off” started booming out of the speakers.