Sloan cursed himself for his haste to buy so many of his imported breeding animals at one stroke. It had shown poor judgment. The transportation costs alone had been staggering, but the time and price had seemed right. Now he was on the verge of losing the ranch that had been in his family for seventy years because of his foolhardiness to use it as collateral against a loan far less in value. His father would be holding his head in the grave. The next payment was due the first of October, but it would take a miracle to gather the money by then. Tomorrow, he must lay out the full stark truth to Samantha, then his sisters. The tragedy and shame of it sickened him to the pith of his soul. He and Samantha would have to live on Las Tres Lomas. He would be working for Neal Gordon, no matter what face his father-in-law put on their partnership. As fond as they were of each other, no ship could abide two captains, especially when one of them had sunk his own.
More immediate, though, was the necessity of getting rid of that blasted relic before the women cleaned out the Christmas closet tomorrow. If he didn’t, he might lose Samantha, too. He had almost swallowed his fork when they brought up their intention at the supper table. Why had he made such a fuss over that door? Fatigue, anxiety, and lack of sleep had caused him to lose control of himself. If sly Daniel had suspected before that something was hidden behind that door that Sloan didn’t want discovered, he would be sure of it now. Sloan hoped he’d bought his story of the angel, but to make sure, tonight when everybody was asleep, he’d remove the skull. Several problems faced him. Somehow he had to leave his bed without waking Samantha, take the skull from the cabinet without alerting Daniel in his room across the hall, steal down to the main floor without the stairs creaking, and where in blazes could he store the skull once he’d collected it?
Daniel Lane lay awake. It was past midnight. He wished he was in bed with Billie June, not for any reason but to keep watch over her. He missed her. He was worried about her. She was taking the likely foreclosure of the ranch harder than he would have thought. Little that she ate stayed down, and she’d become very quiet, reflective. Tonight he’d noticed the faint beginning of a wrinkle on her cheek, and rather than repulse him, he’d wished he could trace it with his finger. She was thirty-three, five years older than he, but sometimes he thought that if she’d been any younger, she’d have been too young for him. She was intelligent, sensible, and self-assured, but in some ways—innocent ways that were not his—she was still childlike. She could still find wonder in wonders, feel joy, believe, trust, love. He’d mortared over those dangers to human survival long ago, like concreting over an abandoned well for safety’s sake. But Billie June, braver than he, opened herself to such foibles of the heart with full understanding of their perils, as she’d surely understood and accepted when she fell in love with him.
Daniel arranged his pillows behind his back and sat up against the headboard, listening for the strike of the clock downstairs. It would be only a matter of time before Sloan Singleton would be at the door across the hall. The skull was in there. Daniel was sure of it, the proof that would have won his wife’s argument against drilling. It was almost too preposterous to think Sloan Singleton would have kept that skull—why would he?—but for whatever reason, it was a good thing he was getting rid of it. If Samantha should come across it tomorrow… Christ almighty, it represented the kind of betrayal that could end their marriage.
Daniel did not desire that for either of them. He could now plainly see that Sloan genuinely loved his wife—was insane about her. Daniel had come to know the rancher better, and—not taking into account the boy’s feelings for Samantha—he didn’t seem of the moral fiber to destroy evidence of her dinosaur field to ensure drilling on Las Tres Lomas. Daniel was now willing to believe that Sloan had a more vaulted reason for spiriting away the skull than the motive he’d accused him of, but would it outweigh the most obvious and less scrupulous one to Samantha? It would depend on their trust in each other, but Daniel was well experienced with the fragility of trust, and he’d have no part in breaking up a marriage meant to be. Mr. High-and-Mighty Big Britches could rest easy. Daniel Lane had no intention of exposing him to his wife.
Daniel had come around to another shocking realization as well. He didn’t want Sloan Singleton’s ranch. God, no! Four days ago, he arrived at the Triple S still obsessed with the aim of making it his life’s mission to wrest it from Mr. High-and-Mighty Big Britches, impossible though his dream was. Nothing was impossible if you had enough hate and will to make it happen. He’d thrived on the image of taking over the ranch, wearing Sloan’s spurs, riding his big stallion about the thousands of acres that were once Sloan Singleton’s. In the darkness, Daniel could feel himself blush from the infantilism of the idea.
Now Daniel couldn’t give a tinker’s dam about getting his own back from Sloan Singleton. What a waste of time and energy, and for what? Ranching had to be in your blood to make it work, or even if it didn’t work, and this past week of muscle-aching, gut-wrenching, never-ending toil had proved to him that it damn sure wasn’t in his. Sloan Singleton was welcome to the Triple S with his blessing and no threat from him, not that it might belong to the rancher much longer, and the tragedy of it was tearing Billie June up inside, the main reason—he had to admit it—his obsession had lost its fire.
A soft shuffling sound in the hall made Daniel sit up. He wouldn’t have heard it if he hadn’t been listening. He fastened his eyes on the narrow gap at the foot of his door, and sure enough, a shadow fell across the light cast by a hall sconce. Soundlessly, Daniel swung his legs off the bed, tiptoed to the door, and pressed his ear against it. All was quiet, but Daniel could almost feel a human presence on the other side of the wood. Sloan had stolen to the door to listen for a sound from Daniel’s room. Daniel held his breath. After a few seconds the shadow moved away. Daniel resisted confirming his suspicion, for if Sloan was at the closet, the slightest sound might startle him. It might cause him to drop something—the skull, probably—that would fall to the floor and shatter, and then all hell would break loose. He figured Sloan would have hidden the fossil far back and out of reach of the girls. By Daniel’s estimation, Sloan’s quest would be over in less than a minute. After another three, Daniel cracked the door slightly to catch sight of the sconce light shining on Sloan’s blond head as he hurried silently down the stairs carrying a wrapped bundle.
Good boy! thought Daniel. At least one concern was off his worried mind.
The next day, Friday, the skies cleared and the sun came out to shed its light upon the sodden pastures of Las Tres Lomas and the Triple S and grew hotter as the day progressed. It seemed like summer again. No clouds threatened the horizon, giving promise of a drying trend with high temperatures, not unprecedented in Central Texas. The owners and cowhands of both ranches, despite the work they knew awaited them, cheered in joy and relief. They’d anticipated cold, moist days following the departure of the rain to their northern neighbors that would delay the drying process. Daniel met his inspection of the drill site with less enthusiasm.
“Looks like the area will take part of next week to dry before we can get to work,” he told his boss, and felt disheartened when he was ordered back to Dallas and his draftsman table by Monday. Further disappointment awaited when Billie June told him she’d not return with him. He was to have no say in her decision, having no ground on which to argue.
“My place is here,” she told Daniel. “I have to help my brother and sister prepare to dismantle the house.”
That afternoon, with Samantha, Billie June, and Daniel gathered round, Millie May carefully drew out from the decorations closet a wrapped item and removed the covering of a small papier-mâché angel. An awed silence greeted the unveiling of the exquisite western figure. A cowboy hat of Lilliputian dimensions sat rakishly on its little halo, a tiny bandanna encircled its neck, and a coiled miniature rope hung from a wing. “There were little boots, too, but they disintegrated long ago,” Billie June explained, her choked voice echoing the sadness of
Christmas holidays that would never be celebrated in the house again. That morning, Sloan had called his wife and sisters into his study. They’d gone in with eyes hollow but dry. They came out crying, and Daniel had felt a queer heaviness in his chest.
Chapter Seventy-Two
On Thursday, September twentieth, Nathan appeared at the thick, iron-hinged front door of Las Tres Lomas with Zak and Todd Baker beside him. They’d ridden the train to Fort Worth and rented a horse and wagon, onto which they unloaded from a railcar the equipment necessary to map out the location of the oil rig to be erected at Windy Bluff. A telephone message, received at the Triple S, had been relayed to alert Neal of their arrival, and Samantha was waiting to greet them when the men alighted.
Todd’s obvious surprise made it clear that he’d expected Neal Gordon to open the door to them. In an officious tone to hide his discomfort at the strain that had come between them, he announced, “We’re here to begin, Sam. We’ll be heading out to Windy Bluff to set up camp.”
“Not before you have a cup of coffee and one of Silbia’s cinnamon rolls, I hope,” she said, the invitation directed at Nathan.
“Well, I don’t know that we have time,” Todd said. “We’re eleven days behind schedule already.”
“Ah, well, delays are bound to happen when little things like a death in your employer’s family and a hurricane occur, Todd,” Samantha said tartly. “In that light, surely a half hour’s more delay for coffee and rolls can have little consequence.”
Nathan cleared his throat diplomatically and removed his hat. “That sounds awfully tempting, Samantha. It’s been a long morning. We accept with pleasure, don’t we, Todd?”
“I suppose,” Todd said.
“Then come on into the house,” Samantha invited. “You too, Zak.”
The men stamped the mud from their boots and followed her inside to the great room. “Thank you for your kind note,” Nathan said to Samantha. “It meant much to my grandmother and especially to my father. He read it over and over.”
“Would it be inane to ask how they are?” Samantha asked, leading them to the lounging area.
“Not at all. They’re better than you’d expect,” Nathan said. “The tragedy has brought them closer, and they’ve drawn comfort from each other.”
“And you? How are you, Nathan?” Samantha asked gently.
“We miss her, Zak and I.” He looked down at his dog. “That’s why I brought him along. He’s… lost without her and I couldn’t go off and leave him.”
“Certainly not,” Samantha said, patting the shepherd’s head. “You men have a seat while I tell Silbia you’re here.”
They’d had time for a full cup of coffee, and Todd had made appreciable work of the cinnamon rolls before Neal arrived, summoned by Silbia, who’d had to go to the barn to fetch him after she’d served her guests. “You were to come get me the minute they showed up, not a second less,” Neal scolded his housekeeper.
“I’m sorry, patrón. I didn’t see the harm in serving your guests first.”
Well, he did, Neal thought irritably, his annoyance increased, which had begun when Samantha insisted on being on hand when the men arrived. He’d hoped to forestall needless conversation between Nathan and his daughter.
At the door to the great room, Neal paused when he saw Samantha and Nathan quietly talking, a dog lying at their feet. Todd sat stiffly apart, excluded, his posture shouting Let’s get on with it! Again, like buzzards returning to feast once more on long-dead carrion, guilt tore at Neal’s conscience. Samantha had told him of Nathan’s recent loss, and Neal had seen how deeply the little girl’s death had affected her. She’d ridden over to Las Tres Lomas the morning after she’d heard the news—how glad he’d been to see her!—but almost immediately, in relating the tragedy, she’d begun to cry. “Sweetheart,” he’d said, “you hardly knew the child. Why are you carrying on so?”
“I don’t know… I can’t account for it, but I feel so sorry for Nathan and his family, as if their loss is mine, too.”
Of course she’d feel that way, Neal had thought. The little girl was her half sister, Nathan her twin. Sam and Nathan had gestated in the same womb. Once again, seeing the pair together, Neal wondered at the hand that had brought them here today. But for Dr. Tolman’s letter—but for Samantha collecting the mail that day—Neal Gordon would have had no idea that the young man sitting in his house drinking coffee with his daughter was her brother or that the man who’d be drilling his oil well was her father. Daily, he would not have suffered the mouth-drying fear that Samantha would find him out and despise him for what he knew and had kept from her. What divine bliss that ignorance would have been. He made himself known.
Todd leaped up, his happy smile beaming An ally! Neal extended his hand to the men, warmly to Nathan, coolly to Todd. “Well, boys, are you ready to get out to Windy Bluff?”
“Yessir!” Todd said. “Can’t wait.”
Samantha smiled at Nathan and indicated the basket of cinnamon rolls. “I’ll have Silbia package those and bring them along.”
Startled, Neal said, “Bring them along?”
Samantha said, “I’m coming, too. I want to see where the platform will be laid.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to make sure the boundary is set up as promised and does not encroach farther on the site where I discovered my dinosaur skull,” Samantha explained. “Any objection?”
Neal said, tone innocent, “None. None at all, daughter.” Damn, he thought.
Daniel fretted. He was mad at his boss. Rather than being sweet back to the Triple S with Nathan and Todd, he’d been ordered to accompany a load of drilling material to Beaumont in the morning to replace Spindletop’s equipment lost during the hurricane. Damn it all to hell! He’d already been away from Billie June four days, having left her to return to Dallas last Sunday. He was bewildered at himself. In the past, he would have welcomed her absence from the city. He’d then be free to enjoy its more lascivious pleasures, but now he hadn’t the taste for them. He missed Billie June, and the evenings spent before the fireside within the Singleton enclave. Her house gave him the only experience of family and home he’d ever known. Besides, Billie June looked unwell, and he was concerned about her. He’d telephoned every day, encouraging her to see a doctor, and she’d assured him there was nothing wrong with her but anxiety over the future of the Triple S. “I don’t know what we’ll do, where we’ll go,” she said.
The calamity of that ancestral ranch, Billie June’s birthplace, passing out of family hands had begun to rub him raw. Singleton had nine more days to come up with the money, or the Triple S was gone. He and his family would be practically homeless. He and Samantha would move into the house on Las Tres Lomas—Old Man Gordon would love that!—but where would Millie May and Billie June go? What would happen to their household goods, their family treasures?
So, too sunken in spirit to go home to his empty apartment the last three nights, he’d worked late at his drafting table, putting the final touches on the blowout preventer designed to cap the flow of oil before it could shoot out the top of the derrick. The patent for it had already been granted, and he hoped it would be manufactured in time to be in use when the Windy Bluff well came in. That would please Samantha. Daniel was as convinced as Todd that it would be a gusher.
Tidying his draftsman table before he went home to pack, Daniel’s glance fell on his drawings. A sudden idea struck like a hammer blow. He stared at the design of the blowout preventer, and sheer joy, like an electrical charge, surged through him. By damn! He believed he’d just figured a way to save the Triple S! He left his workroom and hurried back to his boss’s office.
That afternoon, a box on which was printed LIBBY’S STRING BEANS was delivered to the curator of the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. There was no return address. Opening the box, the curator removed an object swaddled in cup towels and inspected it in drop-jawed surprise. He held a relic that he immediately iden
tified as the snout and jawbone of a dinosaur head. “Where did this come from?” he demanded of the staff member who’d set it on his desk.
“I can’t say, sir,” he replied, “but it’s a rare find, isn’t it?”
In San Francisco, California, at 505 Canal Street, the postman inserted the occupant’s letters in the opening of the metal mailbox and deliberately let the lid bang shut. The racket was enough to have startled the widow next door from her afternoon nap, but she was used to it. The postman smelled freshly baked cookies. He paused on the stoop before moving on down the steps, ostensibly to organize the collection of correspondence in his hand for delivery at other houses down the street. Immediately, he heard footsteps approaching from inside the house and smiled. As usual, his strategy had worked. The lady of the house opened the door.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Kilburn,” she greeted him, the roll of her r’s declaring her of Irish descent. “You’re just in time for my chocolate cookies, Mr. Mahoney’s favorite.”
Bridget Mahoney always mentioned her husband’s name when she fed him treats on his rounds lest he forget she was a married woman. She baked around this time every other afternoon, and the postman made a point of timing his delivery just when he thought the pan would be coming out of the oven.
“Oh, now, I don’t want to be a bother,” he demurred, as usual.
“Nonsense. Wait right here, and I’ll fetch you a few.”
“Then allow me to retrieve your mail for you,” the postman said, like always. “Wouldn’t want you to scrape your hand on the metal, now would we?”
When Mrs. Mahoney returned, they exchanged their offerings. “I see you have a letter from Texas, postmarked September thirteenth, seven days ago,” the postman said, chewing the cookie. “Amazing it got delivered with all the destruction to the rail system from that awful hurricane.”