Paradise County (5 page)

Strange to think that it took no more than a small rise in interest rates, a few bad investments, and a suicide, and it was gone, all gone, a billion-dollar empire fallen in upon itself like a house of cards. Bankruptcy was such a hideous word. She had never, ever thought it would apply to her family, or their business. Haywood Harley Nichols, her father’s wholly-owned health-care firm, had been building hospitals and nursing homes and HMO’s all over the world for almost half a century. But her father’s lawyers—no, her lawyers now—informed her that
if
they were lucky and were able to sell everything for a decent price, there might be just enough to pay all her father’s debts, with a little left over.

If not, bankruptcy seemed the only other option. Which would leave nothing at all for herself, her sister, and her current stepmother, as her father’s heirs, to divide. Mercedes, her father’s sixth wife and his widow, had been having serial hysterics at the prospect of impending poverty since learning the truth shortly after the funeral.

Alex had a feeling that if her emotions weren’t so numb, she might be having serial hysterics herself.

There was a black four-board fence surrounding the field in which the barn stood, and a red metal farm gate separated the driveway from the barnyard. Reaching it, Alex dropped her gaze from the blue beacon to fumble with the latch. The metal was painfully cold to her fingers; she couldn’t seem to get them to work properly no matter how hard she tried.

Hearing footsteps approaching on the other side of the gate, Alex
glanced up to see the man she presumed was Joe Welch striding toward her down the graveled walkway that led up to the barn. His brown work boots seemed to have no trouble finding traction on the gravel.

“Mr. Welch?” she inquired when he was close enough. Her voice was low and husky, with the curiously flat intonation she seemed to have developed since the funeral. It sounded exactly the way she felt: lifeless.

“That’s right.” His voice was deep and just touched with a slurring Southern drawl that under other circumstances she might have found intriguing. As he reached the gate their eyes met, and she saw that his were blue, a light, bright shade of near aqua set off by a fringe of black lashes. They were unsmiling, and, she thought with a gathering frown, unwelcoming as well.

“I’m Alexandra Haywood.”

“I know who you are.” His voice was as unwelcoming as his eyes.

He had unlocked the gate without effort and now pushed it open, inviting her wordlessly inside. Walking around the gate into the barnyard, her ankles wobbling a little as her high-heeled boots crunched through the thick gravel, she held out her hand to him with the automatic good manners bred into her by years at the most exclusive boarding schools. His mouth tightened as he glanced down at her extended hand, and she got the impression that the gesture did not please him. But he took her hand and shook it. His hand was big, enveloping her own much smaller one, and his skin was faintly rough and very warm. Alex shivered involuntarily as he released her cold fingers. Warmth was something she could not seem to get enough of these days. Sometimes she didn’t think she would ever be truly warm again.

“Have we met?” she asked, wondering again if he could possibly have an inkling of why she was there. He seemed almost hostile toward her—or perhaps, she thought, he was that way toward everyone.

“At your father’s funeral.” He closed the gate and latched it again.

“Oh.” There seemed to be nothing to say to that. If he had been there, she didn’t remember him, which surprised her, because he was the kind of man she would have thought one automatically remembered. But then, she didn’t remember much about that day. She folded her arms over
her chest and tucked her hands beneath her elbows to ward off the biting chill as she looked up at him. “I’m sorry. I don’t remember. Everything from that day is such a blur… . But thank you for coming. Philadelphia’s a long way from Simpsonville.”

He nodded in acknowledgment. “I’m sorry about your father, Miss Haywood.”

Alex had heard those words so often over the last five weeks that she felt as though they were permanently engraved on her heart.

“Thank you.”

He stood just inside the gate looking at her. As the land sloped upward, she was at a slightly higher elevation than he was, but still he dwarfed her. The sheer size of him, and the fact that he remained unsmiling, could have been intimidating if she’d been the type to be easily cowed.

“I presume you’re here to see me?” She
wasn’t
imagining his unfriendliness. It was there in his voice.

“Yes.”

“Come on up to the barn then. I’m in the middle of something.”

He started walking up the slope, his boots crunching over the gravel. She fell into step beside him, her gait just a bit unsteady as her heels sank into the inches-deep rock. Seeing her difficulty, he slid a hand around her elbow to provide support. She could feel the size and strength of that hand clear through her jacket. His grip was both impersonal, and hard.

Four

I
have to admit, you’ve kind of caught me by surprise, turning up here like this. What can I do for you?”

Her ankles wobbled as her feet sank into the gravel. His grip tightened in response. Alex took a deep breath, drawing in the cold, damp air along with the smell of mud. Gritting her teeth, she pushed away the ever-threatening fog of grief and reminded herself of her purpose. Her voice was determinedly brisk when she spoke.

“I realize it’s Saturday, and I apologize for encroaching on what is very probably your personal time, but—there are some matters concerning the farm that need to be dealt with as soon as possible. The girl who answered the phone at the number I have for you said I could find you up at the barn behind your house, and I should just come on over. So I did.”

“Horsemen work seven days a week, Miss Haywood, so you don’t need to worry about encroaching on my personal time. And you most likely were talking to my daughter, Jenny.” His voice was dry. They had nearly reached the barn now, and Alex was surprised to hear the urgent beat of Black Sabbath emanating from somewhere inside. Hard rock music didn’t seem compatible with this man, somehow—but of course
there was that teenage boy who still watched them from the barn door to consider. Probably the music was his.

He continued, “If you’d left a message, I would have come up to Whistledown to see you. Saved you chasing me down.”

“That’s all right. I felt like getting out. And since I’m only planning to be here over the weekend, time is a factor.”

They reached the barn. The boy moved out of the doorway, and Alex stepped inside. Welch released her elbow and followed her, rolling the door shut behind him with a loud rattle. The air was warmer in the barn, but only marginally. A line of battered light fixtures overhead gave off a meager amount of illumination. A smell, earthy but not unpleasant, greeted her. Perhaps a dozen horses looked out from the twenty or so stalls that she could see. To her left was a raw plank wall in which was centered a closed door, and to her right was a large open area. In the open area a big red horse, so skinny she could see every single one of his ribs, was tethered by a long leather strap to an iron ring affixed to the wall. Although his coat was dull and he looked half-starved, he was eating from a hay-filled manger, and a curry brush and comb lay on an overturned bucket near his feet. Still munching a mouthful of hay, the horse had his head up and was watching her with liquid brown eyes. Alex moved toward him automatically, drawn by his gaze and the obvious signs of his neediness. Two men, a slender one in a tan hunter’s coverall and a stockier one in jeans and a black leather jacket, stood near the horse’s hindquarters. Both turned to look at her as she approached, watching her with as much open interest as the animal had displayed.

Alex ignored them as she reached the horse and stroked his big head, then sought Welch out with her gaze. He stood at the mouth of the open area looking at her, the boy at his side.

“Is this animal ill? Why is he so thin?” she demanded, her voice raised to be heard over Black Sabbath’s dirge-like chorus. It was very possible that the animal belonged to Whistledown Farm, and was, thus, technically hers. But whether he was hers or not didn’t really matter. She loved horses, and could not bear to see them mistreated.

“Turn the music off, Josh,” Welch directed. With a sullen twitch of his mouth the boy headed toward a yellow boom box on a bale of hay
near the door. Welch moved to join Alex and the horse, one hand reaching into his pocket. When he withdrew it, he was holding a peppermint, which he began to unwrap. The music stopped abruptly and for a moment the sound of crinkling cellophane filled the void.

“My own personal theory is that horses run better when they’re hungry,” Welch said, voice and expression bland, meeting her gaze as the boy reappeared beside him. Alex’s eyes widened in outrage. The boy spoke up hastily before she could reply.

“We just got him in here this morning,” he said, shooting Welch a reproachful glance before looking at Alex out of eyes of the same luminous shade of greenish-blue as the older man’s. “The man Dad bought him off of swore there’s nothing wrong with him. He said he’s just naturally sorry-looking.”

The horse was stretching his head out toward Welch now, eager for the candy. With a mocking glance at Alex, Welch gave it to him, patting the too-thin neck as the animal crunched and the scent of peppermint filled the air. Indignant at being made fun of, Alex glared at him. If he noticed her ire at all, it didn’t seem to bother him.

“I can’t believe ol’ Cary talked you into payin’ thirty thousand dollars for this fellow, Joe,” the man in the leather jacket said. Alex glanced at him. He was about six feet tall, more homely than handsome with auburn hair brushed straight back from his brow, twinkling brown eyes and squashed-looking features that somehow matched his stocky frame. He and the other man had been watching and listening to the proceedings with interest. Now they were looking at the horse. “What’s his name, Victory Dance? I reckon you
will
dance if you get a victory out of him.” His gaze shifted to Alex and as their eyes met he grinned suddenly. “By the way, hel
-lo,
sweet thing! You doin’ anything for the rest of my life?”

Taken aback, Alex’s eyes widened on his face. Beside him, his cover-alled friend grimaced and walked around to the horse’s other side as though to distance himself from the conversation. The horse snorted, bobbing his head up and down and nudging Welch’s arm, clearly asking for another peppermint.

“The fool with the big mouth here is Tom Kinkaid, our local sheriff,”
Welch said brusquely to Alex, reaching into his pocket as he spoke and extracting another peppermint, which he proceeded to unwrap. “He’s about as smart as he acts, but it’s an inborn condition and he just plain can’t help it, so I hope you’ll be kind enough to overlook him. Tommy, this is Alexandra Haywood. You know, Charles Haywood’s daughter.”

“Oh, jeez,” the sheriff said, making a face. The scent of peppermint was once more strong as Victory Dance crunched into the candy. “Sorry about your father, Miss Haywood.”

Alex nodded acknowledgment, and held out her hand to him. Kinkaid shook it. But instead of releasing it immediately, he hung on to it and grinned at her again. “If the rest of my life is out, I’d still like to take you to dinner tonight.”

“Thank you, but no,” Alex said firmly, pulling her hand free. She glanced up at Welch, meaning to request a few minutes of his time alone so she could say what she had come to say and be done with it. Before she could get the words out he spoke again.

“While we’re making introductions, that’s Ben Ryder, our local dentist, over there behind the horse, and this,” he rested a light hand on the shoulder of the boy beside him, “is my son Josh.”

There were handshakes all around and a murmured exchange of words.

“Dad, can I
go?”
Josh asked impatiently as soon as the introductions were finished.

Welch focused on his son. “You get all those stalls mucked out?”

“Yeah.”

“Horses fed and watered?”

“Yeah.”

“Tack all clean and put up?”

“Yeah.”

“Am I ever going to catch you smoking another cigarette?” There was a sternness to Welch’s face and tone that would have made Alex quake if she’d been a kid and they’d been directed at her.

“No sir.”

“Then I guess so. Put Victory Dance up, then you can go on back to
the house and help Jenny and Grandpa with that school project Jenny’s working on.”

Josh’s eyes widened on his father’s face. “Dad!” he protested. “I’ve been grounded for a week! I did everything you told me to! I won’t smoke any more cigarettes, I promise!
Please
let me go!”

Welch frowned as he seemed to consider. Then he nodded once.

“Okay. Put Victory Dance up and you’ve done your time. Tell Eli I said it was okay for him to drop you off over at Burke’s on his way to basketball practice.”

“Yes.”
Josh pumped his fist. Turning, he moved to untie Victory Dance. Alex patted the big red horse one more time before he was led away.