The Ransom. Maggie Price

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СКАЧАТЬ gaze flicked to the oak table in the alcove where Brad Jordan sat, a half-eaten piece of apple pie on the table before him. Beside the banker was a stack of receipts. Kathryn supposed Willa was trying to use her take-you-to-heaven pie to ply some goodwill from the man who now had his hand on the Cross C’s purse strings.

      Not his fault, Kathryn reminded herself when heat rose under her skin. Brad wasn’t to blame for what was in Sam’s will.

      Matthew lifted his chin and sniffed. “What smells so good?”

      Brad pointed his fork at his plate. “Willa’s apple pie.”

      Matthew’s face brightened as he peered around the center island. “Hi, Mr. Jordan!” He tugged from Kathryn’s hold and headed across the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

      Brad feigned a look of horror as Matthew climbed onto a chair. “You’ve got a serious case of the wet look, son.”

      While Abby settled beneath his chair, Matthew scratched his head. “Mommy made me take another shower.”

      “Two in one day?” Brad asked, meeting Kathryn’s gaze.

      “Couldn’t be helped,” she replied. “Matthew had a pound of prairie dirt on him.”

      Brad Jordan was tall and wiry with dark hair and intense eyes. The smile he now flashed at Kathryn was the same one that had once had handfuls of females at Layton High School melting. But the star quarterback had eyes only for head cheerleader Felicia Smith. Their wedding had been the social event of that long-ago summer.

      It was Brad’s father-in-law—a crony of Sam’s—who owned Layton National Bank. And it was Garner Smith who insisted the codicil be enforced with microscopic exactness. Brad had assured Kathryn he would work with her to make their transactions painless. She knew that wouldn’t be the case if she were forced to deal with Brad’s dour-faced father-in-law.

      She retrieved a carton of milk from the refrigerator. “Brad, did we have an appointment I forgot about?”

      “No. I had to go by the Double Starr this morning to discuss business with Clay Turner.”

      Kathryn tightened her grip on the carton. Dammit, the part of her that had loved Clay was hollowed out. So why did just the mention of his name put a hitch under her ribs?

      “Since I had to be out this way,” Brad continued, “I decided to drop off the check that you’ll present to the hospital board at the fund-raiser on Friday night.” He winked at Willa. “I got lassoed into having pie.”

      “In a movie, my daddy tied up a bad man with rope,” Matthew said. He smiled up at Willa when she served him. “Can I have some pie?”

      “I think your momma is taking you for dessert after you meet Dr. Teasdale.” She finger-combed his damp hair before moving back to the counter. “Kathryn, I almost forgot to tell you two things.”

      Kathryn rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension that the mention of Clay had settled there. “What things?”

      “First, Johnny needs to update you on what Doc Silver found when he checked that mare with colic. Second,” Willa continued, pulling a piece of paper from her apron pocket, “Shannon Burton called again. The Layton Times is sending her to the fund-raiser, and she wants to interview you about the wing you’re funding for the hospital.”

      “Thanks.” Kathryn took the paper from Willa. “I’ll talk to Johnny before Matthew and I drive into Layton.” As for the reporter, Kathryn knew Burton had written articles in the Times that put a harsh light on her missing Sam’s funeral. Marriage to the country’s top box-office actor had taught Kathryn numerous ways to deal with that type of reporting.

      Brad gave Matthew a considering look. “Are you going to see Dr. Teasdale because you don’t feel good?”

      “No.” Matthew took a bite of sandwich. “This is a…Mommy, what kind of ’pointment is this?”

      “An introductory appointment,” Kathryn said while opening a carton of yogurt. Even after two years, she still found herself gripped by a terrible panic when she thought about how ill Matthew had been when his kidneys had failed. After months of hospital stays and dialysis, a transplanted kidney had saved his life.

      Now, a daily dose of an antirejection med and an occasional checkup kept Matthew on a healthy, even keel.

      Glancing Brad’s way, Kathryn pulled a spoon out of a drawer. “Matthew and Dr. Teasdale are going to get acquainted today.”

      “I’ve got two girls of my own,” Brad told Matthew around a bite of pie. “They both go to Dr. Teasdale.”

      “Is he nice?”

      Brad nodded. “He’s so nice, he has permission to deputize little boys. And give out special deputy badges.”

      Matthew swiveled in his chair. “Mommy, can I be a deputy? And get a badge? Then I can arrest the outlaws in our tunnel.”

      “We’ll ask Dr. Teasdale.” Kathryn slid into the chair beside her son, and pretended not to notice the bite of pie Brad snuck onto Matthew’s plate. Yes, when it came to banking, she much preferred dealing with him than with his father-in-law.

      CLAY TURNER strode out of Layton City Hall into the fiery heat of the late afternoon sun. He was tall, nearly six foot four with a rangy, disciplined build more accustomed in the last few years to a rancher’s denim than the body armor and holstered weapons that were a part of his past. A well-worn Stetson shaded a tanned face that was lean and square-jawed. A scar slashed across his right cheek, disappearing into the dark hair at his temple. The scar was a reminder of a time he would never leave behind.

      By the time he’d crossed the town’s busy main street, Clay’s white dress shirt was damp with sweat and he was sucking in air as dry as old bones.

      He glanced at his watch, frustrated that so much of the day had gotten away from him. He’d spent the morning repairing fence near the road bordering the north side of Double Starr property. Fortunately he’d been able to continue working while talking financial business with Brad Jordan. Then he’d had to clean up and drive into town where he’d just wasted a couple of hours in a meeting of the Layton Municipal League, of which his uncle was chairman.

      While an agent for the U.S. State Department’s diplomatic security service, Clay had attended so many meetings he’d grown to hate just the thought of sitting through another one. But his uncle was out of town on ranch business and he’d asked Clay to attend in his place. Since Les Turner was also his employer, Clay couldn’t very well say no. So he’d crammed the tail of his dress shirt into a clean pair of jeans, lashed on a damn tie and driven to town.

      The tie was now loosened, his shirt’s upper buttons undone and its sleeves rolled up on his arms. He glanced toward the end of the block where a digital display scrolled beneath the bank’s sign. One hundred two degrees. Clay gritted his teeth. No man was supposed to live in these temperatures.

      Lucky for him he’d been as good as dead nearly two years.

      His eyes narrowed against a blast of hot wind and brutal memories. He feared he would hear his mother’s screams, his father’s shouts for the rest of his life.

      His parents СКАЧАТЬ