Heiress (5 page)

"That sounds like Babs." His mouth quirked in a half-smile as Dean reached for the champagne bottle to refill his glass.

R.D. watched him closely, his forehead puckering in a frown. "This is probably going to sound like a dumb question, but. . . you do love the girl, don't you?"

"If I didn't, I wouldn't be marrying her." But one look at his father warned Dean that such an offhand reply wouldn't suffice. He wanted to know more. R.D. wanted him to open up and tell him how he really felt. That had always been difficult, if not impossible, but Dean tried. "I'm not sure I can explain it, but. . . when I'm with her, it's like the sun's always shining. She. . . makes me feel important—like I was someone special."

"Well, you damned well are. You're a Lawson."

Realizing that his father didn't really want to hear the truth, Dean recovered and managed to force out a laugh. "I meant in the way a woman can make a man feel important and special." Which was to say that, around his father, he sometimes felt like something less than a man. Lord knew he tried to be the son his father expected him to be, but too often he fell short.

A few minutes later, R.D. finished his drink and left the room. "Your father's quite a guy," Lane remarked.

"Yes. He is," Dean agreed. He loved him. That's what made it so hard, knowing he failed to measure up to R.D.'s standards. Lane was the kind of son R.D. should have had. "Yesterday he took me over to the company and showed me my new office. It's right next to his. He's really been looking forward to the day when I join the company full-time."

There wasn't any way Dean could disappoint him. But he knew in his heart he was no more cut out to be the head of a mud company than he was to be a lawyer. More than once he had wished that if R.D. wanted him to manage something, why it couldn't be the Arabian breeding operation here at River Bend. The horses were Dean's real love, and the one common bond he had with his father.

It all began when R.D. bought him a pony-sized horse, reputed to be Arabian, for his seventh birthday. The mere thought that he had a horse just like the one Valentino had ridden in The Son of the Sheik had been enough to capture Dean's imagination totally. He promptly dubbed his new horse Araby. As he galloped Araby beneath the pasture's moss-draped pecan trees, he used to pretend they were in the desert, racing across the sands. He even used to steal sheets from the clothesline to wrap around himself in an attempt to mimic the flowing robes Valentino had worn in the movie. No more did he have to ride that broken-down old mare and wear his legs out trying to kick her into a trot. He had a horse that could run like the wind—and followed him around like a puppy dog.

But R.D. had been impressed by that combination of spirit and docility—and remarkable stamina. While he was on the road, he started tracking down previous owners of the gelding and discovered that the horse was sure enough a purebred Arabian, sired by a stallion named Hamrah, imported from the desert by a man named Homer Davenport—a fact that absolutely thrilled Dean.

R.D. had bought the gelding on impulse, drawn by the claim it was Arabian. Years ago, when he was learning to read, his mother used to sit him down at the kitchen table and have him read aloud to her while she fixed the evening meal. They didn't have many books. As a change from the Bible, she used to let him read from the yellowed pages of an old journal kept by an ancestor, dated in the late 1850s. In one part, this Lawson ancestor had extolled the virtues of a young racehorse recently purchased from a man named Richards in Kentucky, marveling at its ability to gallop for miles and miles without showing any sign of tiring, boasting of its blazing speed, and admiring the beauty of its head, the largeness of its dark eyes, the proud arch of its neck, and the high carriage of its tail. The horse was an Arabian.

R.D. never knew what happened to that horse, but he suspected that like so many other things, it had been a casualty in the ensuing Civil War. So he'd bought Dean the small Arabian gelding and told him the story about the previous Lawson who had owned an Arabian, too.

But buying the horse had revived his own childhood interest in Arabians. During a business trip to the California oil fields, R.D. heard about the Kellogg Ranch and decided to attend one of their regular Sunday shows for the sole purpose—he thought—of obtaining a photograph of Jadaan, the gray stallion ridden by Rudolph Valentino in The Son of the Sheik, for his son. But R.D. was totally captivated by the horses he saw, especially the stallions Raseyn and Raswan. He had to have them—or if not them, then their offspring. At the time it meant nothing to him that both were imported from the Crabbet Park Stud in England, both sired by the Polish-bred stallion Skowronek. He just knew he liked what he saw.

Less than six months after Dean's seventh birthday, four more horses arrived at River Bend: three fillies and a stud colt. R.D. hadn't planned to get into the horse-breeding business, especially with his company currently suffering from growing pains, but he was. He reasoned that this way he was putting that one hundred acres of pasture land to productive use. Besides, it was just four horses, not counting his son's gelding. Little did he realize that in the early 1930s there were less than a thousand purebred Arabian horses in the whole United States, making his five rare indeed.

But the first time his friends saw R.D.'s dainty-boned, delicate-faced Arabian horses, they broke out in laughter. Texas was Quarter horse country. Next to those compactly built, powerfully muscled animals, his horses looked like pissants. By then R.D. had done some reading up on Arabians, but his friends weren't interested in his explanations that Arabian horses weren't a breed but a subspecies of horse with distinct anatomical differences, whereas the Quarter horse was a manmade breed, formed by the mixture of different blood types, including Arabian. Nearly all light horse breeds traced back to the Arabian: Thoroughbreds, Morgans, Saddlebreds, Tennessee Walkers, Standardbreds, and Quarter horses.

But the ribbing didn't stop. In defense of his Arabians, R.D. began riding them as soon as they were old enough and competing in open horse shows against their Quarter horses, usually entering nearly all the classes to prove the Arabians' versatility and stamina, frequently placing and occasionally winning. He let Dean ride them in the junior classes as well, to show that despite their spirited looks, they were gentle enough for a child.

Dean loved the show ring. And he loved the horses. They were his best friends, his playmates and confidantes. Riding them was the one thing he was good at; the proliferation of ribbons from those first shows and from subsequent all-Arabian horse shows proved it. Arabian horses were one thing he didn't have to take a backseat to his father on. In fact, he thought he knew more about them than R.D. did.

Over the years, the Arabian horse population at River Bend had grown from five to thirty-five, the bloodlines heavily weighted in favor of Crabbet imports of Skowronek and Mesaoud lineage. In Arabian horse circles, River Bend Arabians had earned the reputation of being among the best in the country. If R.D. would just give him the chance, Dean knew he could turn River Bend into the top Arabian horse farm in the country—maybe even the world.

True, he had received his law degree and passed the bar exam, and as of yesterday, he had been made a vice-president in the company. But those were meaningless titles. He wasn't a lawyer or an executive; he was a horseman. He wondered if he'd ever be able to get R.D. to understand that.

Lane lifted aside the French cuff of his shirt sleeve and checked his watch. "It's time we were going down. One of the duties of the best man is to make sure the groom doesn't keep the bride waiting."

"Knowing Babs, she'll keep us waiting." But Dean started for the door anyway, the thought of his bride-to-be bringing a smile to his face. In then back of his mind, though, he was wondering how he was going to convince Babs that they should cut their honeymoon in New York by a couple of days so he could stop in Illinois on their way back and look at some of the Egyptian-bred Arabians at Babson Farm.

A picket fence surrounded the small yard of the overseer's cottage, which was built in the same architectural style as the mansion but on a smaller and less elaborate scale. A pecan tree, gnarled and twisted with age, spread its broad limbs above the small house, its canopy of leaves providing shade from the unrelenting Texas sun.

A pair of white horses hitched to a carriage decorated with white flowers came to a prancing halt on the narrow dirt lane in front of the cottage. Their coats gleamed like ivory satin, a contrast to the ebony sheen of their hooves.

Benedykt Jablonski cast one last inspecting glance at them as he hopped down from his seat beside the driver, a stable groom decked out in a top hat and tails for this auspicious occasion. Ben struggled not to smile when he glanced back at him, certain he looked equally strange in the footman's uniform his employer, Mr. R. D. Lawson, had insisted he wear.

Ever since the actual preparations for the wedding had begun the day before, Ben had watched it all with growing awe. It had always been his understanding that only royalty went to such extravagant lengths, but here it was in America, on a grander scale than he'd ever seen. But how much had he seen in his twenty-five years of life? How much besides war, with its devastation and hunger, and the oppression of foreign occupation?

That was Poland; that was the past. This was America; this was his present. He was free, and his life here was good. Again he was being allowed to work with his beloved Arabians. And he was part of the young master's wedding, however small his role.

With shoulders squared, he strode through the gate to the front door of the cottage and rapped loudly twice. A heavyset man in formal clothes opened the door, glowering at him like an intruder.

Nervously, Ben cleared his throat. "For the bride, we wait."

The man stared at him blankly, the frown on his forehead deepening as if he didn't understand what Ben had said. Then he noticed the carriage waiting by the front gate and turned, calling to someone in the cottage—in a heavy Texan accent that Ben found equally difficult to understand—"Betty Jeanne, the carriage is here. Are you about ready in there?"

In the back bedroom, Babs Torrence anxiously turned to view her reflection in the mirror. "Momma, is it that time already? Am I ready? Have I forgotten anything?"

No. It was all there: the veil of Brussels lace, "something old" from her grandmother; the wedding gown of white satin, "something new"; the pair of pearl and diamond earrings, "something borrowed" from her mother; and the cerulean ribbon around her bridal bouquet, "something blue."

"You look lovely, darling. Absolutely lovely." Betty Jeanne Torrence discreetly shooed the maid out of the bedroom, then finally called an answer to her husband. "Tell them we'll be right there, Arthur, dear. And don't get yourself all in a dither. You know how it makes your face red."

But Babs didn't hear a word her mother said as she looked worriedly into the mirror. The satin gown, a Dior original, was the essence of femininity, with its high lace collar and heart-shaped neckline, the satin material curving snugly in to hug her waist, making it look no bigger than a minute, then flaring out into a floor-length skirt.

"Momma, this Merry Widow is hooked too tight. I just know it is," Babs complained for the fifth time about the strapless undergarment that was a combination of brassiere, corset, and garter belt.

"Nonsense," her mother retorted as she busily poked another pin through the veil to hold it more firmly in place, smoothing a stray strand of Babs's ash-blonde hair as she did so.

"It is," Babs insisted. "I just don't dare take a deep breath or I'll pop right out of it."

"Honey, if you have room to take a deep breath, then it's not tight enough."

"If this is a dream, I wish someone would pinch me," Babs declared and turned from the mirror, the gown and the petticoats beneath it making a soft rustling sound. "I can't believe Dean Lawson is really marrying me. Do you think he truly loves me?"

"He's marrying you. That's what matters," her mother insisted brusquely, then tempered her callousness with a smile. "You're going to take his breath away when he sees you coming down the aisle on your father's arm. Now, you remember what I told you about tonight?" Babs nodded, desperately wishing her mother wouldn't go on about her approaching wedding night. "It will all seem strange and awkward at first, but. . . you'll get used to it. And don't worry. I'm sure Dean will expect a few tears."

Her father appeared in the doorway. "Betty Jeanne. They're waiting for us." Smiling quickly, Babs turned, welcoming the interruption.

"And it will be worth it," she declared, gazing with pride at her daughter.

"I'm ready." Babs picked up the front of her skirts and hurried from the room at a running walk, brushing a kiss across her father's florid cheek as she went by. "Hurry, Daddy. We don't want to be late." As she emerged from the cottage, she stopped to stare at the carriage lavishly adorned with bridal-white flowers. She was reminded instantly of the Confederate Ball that marked the opening of Houston's debutante season. That night she had made her debut. That night she had met Dean. He had been the handsomest man there. She couldn't believe her luck when he asked her to dance, not once but twice. It wasn't until after the second dance that she found he was the Dean Lawson. By then, it didn't matter that her parents had been anxious for her to marry well; she was already in love.

She felt exactly like Cinderella about to climb into her coach drawn by white horses and ride off to marry her Prince Charming. All that was missing was the glass slipper. But she didn't care. She was about to become Mrs. Robert Dean Lawson, Jr.

There was a smattering of applause from the guests seated in the rows of chairs spread across the lawn when the carriage pulled up to let its precious passengers out. The lawn had been transformed into an English garden, with huge pots of white azaleas competing for attention with equally large tubs of yellow roses. Dividing the rows of chairs into two sections was a carpeted runner of pure white that led to the altar in the gazebo, its white trellises laced with more flowers. A stringed orchestra played the "Wedding March" as Babs started down the aisle on her father's arm with yellow rose petals strewn in her path. She could just as easily have been walking on air.