She listened without a word, without movement. In her mind Savannah could see the man she'd once known and loved, clinging to the back of a bucking mustang, one hand reaching for the sky.
She could see him laughing, she could see him drunk. She could see him murmuring endearments to an aging mare, and she could see him burning with rage and shame as he turned his own daughter, his only child, away.
But she couldn't see him dead.
"Well, you've told me." With that, she turned toward the house.
"Ms. Morningstar." If he had heard grief in her voice, he would have given her privacy. But there'd been nothing at all in her voice.
"I'm thirsty." She headed up the walkway that cut through the grass, then climbed onto the porch and let the screen door slam behind her.
Yeah? Jared thought, fuming. Well, so was he. And he was damn well going to finish up this business and get a cold one himself. He walked into the house without bothering to knock.
The small living room held furniture built for comfort, chairs with deep, sagging cushions, sturdy tables that would bear the weight of resting feet. The walls were a shade of umber that melded nicely with the pine of the floor. There were vivid splashes of color to offset and challenge the mellow tones—paintings, pillows, a scatter of toys over bright rugs that reminded him she had a child.
He stepped through into a kitchen with brilliantly white counters and the same gleaming pine floor, where she stood in front of the sink, scrubbing garden earth from her hands. She didn't bother to speak, but dried them off before she took a pitcher of lemonade from the refrigerator.
"I'd like to get this over with as much as you," he told her.
She let out a breath, took her sunglasses off and tossed them on the counter. Wasn't his fault, she reminded herself. Not completely, anyway. When you came down to it, and added all the pieces together, there was no one to blame.
"You look hot." She poured lemonade into a tall glass, handed it to him. After giving him one quick glimpse of almond-shaped eyes the color of melted chocolate, she turned away to get another glass.
"Thanks."
"Are you going to tell me he had debts that I'm obliged to settle? If you are, I'm going to tell you I have no intention of doing so." The jittering in her stomach had nearly calmed, so she leaned back against the counter and crossed her bare feet at the ankles. "I've made what I've got, and I intend to keep it."
"Your father left you seven thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five dollars. And some change."
He watched the glass stop, hesitate, then continue to journey to her lips. She drank slowly, thoughtfully. "Where did he get seven thousand dollars?"
"I have no idea. But the money is currently in a passbook savings account in Tulsa." Jared set his briefcase down on the small butcher-block table, opened it. "You have only to show me proof of identity and sign these papers, and your inheritance will be transferred to you."
"I don't want it." Her first sign of emotion was the crack of glass against counter. "I don't want his money."
Jared set the papers on the table. "It's your money."
"I said I don't want it."
Patiently Jared slipped off his own glasses and hooked them in his top pocket. "I understand you were estranged from your father."
"You don't understand anything," she shot back. "All you need to know is that I don't want the damn money. So put your papers back in your fancy briefcase and get out."
Well used to arguments, Jared kept his eyes—and his temper—level. "Your father's instructions were that if you were unwilling or unable to claim the inheritance, it was to go to your child."
Her eyes went molten. "Leave my son out of this."
"The legalities—"
"Hang your legalities. He's my son. Mine. And it's my choice. We don't want or need the money."
"Ms. Morningstar, you can refuse the terms of your father's will, which means the courts will get involved and complicate what should be a very simple, straightforward matter. Hell, do yourself a favor. Take it, blow it on a weekend in Reno, give it to charity, bury it in a tin can in the yard."
She forced herself to calm down, not an easy matter when her emotions were up. "It is very simple and straightforward. I'm not taking his money." Her head jerked around at the sound of the front door slamming. "My son," she said, and shot Jared a lethal look. "Don't you say anything to him about this."
"Hey, Mom! Connor and me—" He skidded to a
halt, a tall, skinny boy with his mother's eyes and
messy black hair crushed under a backward fielder's
cap. He studied Jared with a mix of distrust and cu-
riosity. "Who's he?"
Manners ran in the family, Jared decided. Lousy ones. "I'm Jared MacKade, a neighbor."
"You're Shane's brother." The boy walked over, picked up his mother's lemonade and drank it down in several noisy gulps. "He's cool. That's where we were, me and Connor," he told his mother. "Over at the MacKade farm. This big orange cat had kittens."
"Again?" Jared muttered. "This time I'm taking her to the vet personally and having her neutered. You were with Connor," Jared added. "Connor Dolin."
"Yeah." Suspicious, the boy watched him over the rim of his glass.
"His mother's a friend of mine," Jared said simply.
Savannah's hand rested briefly, comfortably, on her son's shoulder. "Bryan, go upstairs and scrape some of the dirt off. I'm going to start dinner."
"Okay."
"Nice to have met you, Bryan."
The boy looked surprised, then flashed a quick grin. "Yeah, cool. See you."
"He looks like you," Jared commented.
"Yes, he does." Her mouth softened slightly at the sound of feet clumping up the stairs. "I'm thinking about putting in soundproofing."
"I'm trying to get a picture of him palling around with Connor."
The amusement in her eyes fired into temper so quickly it fascinated him. "And you have a problem with that?"
"I'm trying to get a picture," Jared repeated, "of the live wire that just headed upstairs and the quiet, painfully shy Connor Dolin. Kids as confident as your son don't usually choose boys like Connor for friends."
Temper smoothed out. "They just clicked. Bryan hasn't had a lot of opportunity to keep friends. We've moved around a great deal. That's changing."
"What brought you here?"
"I was—" She broke off, and her lips curved. "Now you're trying to be neighborly so that I'll soften up and take this little problem off your hands. Forget it." She turned to take a package of chicken breasts out of the refrigerator.
"Seven thousand dollars is a lot of money. If you put it in a college fund now, it would give your son a good start when he's ready for it."
"When and if Bryan's ready for college, I'll put him through myself."
"I understand about pride, Ms. Morningstar. That's why it's easy for me to see when it's misplaced."
She turned again and flipped her braid behind her shoulder. "You must be the patient, by-the-book, polite type, Mr. MacKade."
The grin that beamed out at her nearly made her blink. She was sure there were states where that kind of weapon was illegal.
"Don't get to town much, do you?" Jared murmured. "You'd hear different. Ask Connor's mama about the MacKades sometime, Ms. Morningstar. I'll leave the papers." He slipped his sunglasses on again. "You think it over and get back to me. I'm in the book."
She stayed where she was, a frown on her face and a cold package of raw chicken in her hands. She was still there when his car's engine roared to life and her son came darting back down the stairs.
Quickly she snatched up the papers and pushed them into the closest drawer.
"What was he here for?" Bryan wanted to know. "How come he was wearing a suit?"
"A lot of men wear suits.'' She would evade, but she wouldn't lie, not to Bryan. "And stay out of the refrigerator. I'm starting dinner."
With his hand on the door of the fridge, Bryan rolled his eyes. "I'm starving. I can't wait for dinner."