I'll Find You Part 27

"The rest of them will have to be gotten rid of," she reminded him. "Isn't that what you said?"

He grunted his agreement, though her high-handed manner annoyed him. She should know better than to test him. "Whose boat did you use to take Teresa out?" he asked.

A hesitation. "You really want to know all the details?"

So, it was her. He'd thought so. "No."

"It'll be just you and me, right?" she questioned.

No . . . it could never be just one woman. Maybe he could have been faithful to Teresa, but not to anyone else. But she didn't have to know that. "Just you and me," he told her.

"I'm thinking about what I want you to do to me," she said suggestively. "Where I want it . . . how I want it. You get me?"

That woke up his slumbering d.i.c.k. "I get you."

She trilled with laughter. "Just as long as you're okay," she said as she hung up.

The reminder of his health sent his c.o.c.k into a quick downswing. d.a.m.n her. d.a.m.n them all.

It was definitely time to move on.

Callie awoke in the middle of the night, trying to capture the stray thought that had been circling around her fragmented dreams. She reached for her cell phone, the smartphone she'd left in LA when she'd taken off for Martinique, and reread West's last text, which had come in around ten P.M., her time. He was spending the night in Miami with Tucker. They'd missed a connecting red-eye flight to Los Angeles, and were staying at an airport hotel. Tucker had been asleep on his feet and West was getting him settled. They were scheduled to leave the next morning and would arrive on the West Coast around noon. Reading between the lines, Callie thought Tucker had to be dis...o...b..bulated over leaving everything he'd ever known. She wanted to call West, but figured it was best to let him call her.

Climbing out of bed, she walked into the kitchen, flipping on the under-cabinet lights. A Keurig machine sat on the counter, something Jonathan had purchased and she'd thought she'd never use. Now she pulled down a mug from the cupboard and set it under the machine's spigot. She selected a tiny bucket of decaf coffee, dropped it into its cylindrical, fitted slot, shut the top, and pressed the b.u.t.ton for the size of cup she wanted. Immediately, a stream of hot coffee began pouring into her mug.

Jonathan . . . she thought. That's what she'd been thinking about.

As soon as the brown liquid slowed to a stop, she picked up the mug and carried it with her into the den, switching on the desk lamp, which offered a circle of soft light on the mahogany desktop.

Instead of seating herself in his chair again, she walked over to the credenza and slid back one of the doors. Inside was a small box that held Jonathan's keys, his wallet, the Mercedes's registration, their proof of automobile insurance, a number of pens, change, and other small items: the personal detritus left from the accident that she'd collected and never put back in its proper spots. Callie had paid no attention to any of it, but now she picked up the ring of Jonathan's keys, wondering what they all went to. That's what she'd been thinking about. Secret places where he could hide money, or papers, or who knew what. Derek and Diane were sure there was a cache of something somewhere.

She took the keys to the desk, examining them under the light. There was a house key and the one for the Mercedes, and a defunct one for the safe-deposit box that had been drilled after his death and revealed a copy of the legal papers that left the house to the Cantrells. There were two other keys as well. One was to his father's office, which Jonathan had retained after his death and which Callie had paid for until the lease's end, about two months before she'd left for Martinique. The last key was a mystery. She'd thought it might be to the private bathroom within that office, but she'd never checked it.

Setting the keys down, she returned to the credenza, pulling out the box itself. A stack of envelopes fell out and slid onto the carpet. Bank statements from this last year that she'd glanced through and then shoved haphazardly back into the credenza.

She hadn't really examined them closely since she'd been home. In fact the latest month was still unopened. Jonathan had been gone over a year, and the joint account was solely hers now. There wasn't any other bank account that she knew of.

Picking up the stack, she brought it and the box to the desktop too. Pushing the box aside, she grabbed the unopened envelope of the bank statement, ripped off a corner, then slid her finger inside and tore it jaggedly open. Unfolding the doc.u.ment, she glanced over the charges, most of them from her time on Martinique. It made her heart beat fast to think about Tucker and West arriving soon. Her reasons for going to Martinique had all been about her past, but she'd found a future there, instead.

She smiled as she recognized the line of purchases, following her own progress via her debit card. Two-thirds of the way down she noticed a charge that wasn't hers and immediately zeroed in on it. "Security One annual fee."

"Well, that's wrong," she said aloud. She'd cancelled the house alarm system. It wasn't with Security One and they'd changed to wireless. And in any event, there hadn't been an annual fee. They'd paid by the month.

Fine. She'd call them in the morning and get them to reverse the charge. Stacking the envelopes, she set them aside, then picked up the ring of keys again and looked at the mystery one. She supposed she could give it to Derek and Diane, let them try to figure out where it went.

"No." Dropping the keys back in the box, she then gathered up the bank statements and shoved them back in the credenza. She was a little sorry she'd told Derek and Diane the house would soon be theirs. Though it didn't feel like home to her any longer, as time went on, she was getting less and less interested in leaving it. She just didn't feel like being that helpful, and the way she saw it, there was no set time she had to vacate. If they wanted to push her out and take possession, they could just go ahead and start legal proceedings.

Maybe she'd just let them do that.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Callie waited outside the TSA checkpoint, wringing her hands. Realizing what she was doing, she released her grip and shook her wrists. Geez, Louise. She had to relax.

Ten minutes later she caught her first glimpse of Tucker walking beside West. His head was down and he was taking giant, swinging steps. She could tell he was tired.

"Tucker," she called, though her eyes strayed to West, who saw her and started to smile.

That smile was devastating and she literally felt herself go weak at the knees. Oh, my G.o.d, she thought, her own smile spreading across her face.

"Calleeeeee!" Tucker called, immediately running toward her.

She swept him up. "I'm so glad to see you!"

"Moi, aussi. When do we see horse?" he asked.

"Ummm. Soon . . . ?" She looked to West for support and noticed the middle-age woman with the fixed smile who was walking behind West but staring at Callie.

As if realizing Callie was looking at her, she stepped around West who'd stopped when Tucker had jumped into Callie's arms. "I'm Talia. Laughlin," she added, reaching out a hand. "Tucker's grandmother."

"Oh, well, h.e.l.lo," Callie said, shaking her hand. What did this mean?

"Victoria sent Talia to escort us both," West explained neutrally. Callie couldn't get a bead on his feelings, but she thought he wasn't all that thrilled with the arrangement.

"Are we . . . all going to the ranch?" Callie asked.

"I'll have to join you there later," Talia said. "I want to go home first, but I also want to make sure this little man gets acclimated." She smiled widely at Tucker, who turned away from her, burying his face into Callie's shoulder.

A flash of annoyance crossed Talia's face, but then she was all graciousness again. West's hand brushed purposely, she saw, against Callie's as they headed toward baggage claim, and her skin felt electrified. They waited at the carousel and when Tucker pointed out his suitcase, Callie grabbed it at the same moment West collected his bag. Then she dutifully helped Talia as her monstrosity of a bag lumbered toward them. Talia pulled out her handle and wheeled her bag away, giving them a wave as she headed out to the taxi stand.

"My car's in the lot," Callie said. "And I brought a booster seat for Tucker."

"Booster seat?" Tucker screwed up his face in a question.

"Nothing you've had to date," Callie said, to which West snorted his agreement. "It's the law here," she added in case Tucker took objection to the idea. "A cool, special seat."

"Cool, special seat." Tucker held up his hand to high-five her.

Callie threw West a smile, realizing this had to be his work. He acknowledged that with a return smile. She found herself holding his gaze, felt her blood heat a little, and wrenched her eyes away first.

They'd already worked it out that she was going to drive to West's apartment where he planned to pick up his vehicle as well, and then she would follow him the two and a half hours it would take to reach Laughlin Ranch outside the city of Castilla.

"You'll have to give me directions, too, in case I lose you," she reminded.

"Sure. But you won't lose me."

Hoping there was a double entendre in his response, Callie led the way through cool October sunshine toward her Lexus with Tucker traipsing along beside her, regaling her with his impressions from their trip-the airplane was loud, the flight attendants gave him snacks, the people in front got mad when he kicked their seat, a baby cried and it hurt his ears-his hand in hers, his arms swinging. Even while she was attentive to him she was supremely conscious of West: his beard-darkened chin, the curve of his lips, the breadth of his shoulders. It had been less than two weeks since she'd seen both of them, but it was long enough to make their time in Martinique seem slightly surreal.

"Seeing you's been good for him," West said, glancing at Tucker meaningfully.

Only for him? As soon as she thought the words she wanted to kick herself. There would be time to sort out their relationship later. Right now Tucker was the main concern.

West directed her to his apartment, which was just outside of Santa Monica on Wilshire Boulevard and inside the Los Angeles city limits. It was a complex of about forty units and West's was a second-floor corner unit. As soon as they stepped inside he dropped his bag and she got a look around the cream-colored walls and brown carpeting, noticing the absence of furniture apart from a ma.s.sive television set and leather couch.

"I've been stuck in early post-college American," he admitted.

"You need a healthy stretch of HGTV."

He glanced at the television. "You'd think I'd have time to watch it, but it doesn't happen."

"Big TV," Tucker said, impressed. "We stay here?" He was already s.n.a.t.c.hing up the remote.

"Just long enough for me to change," West said, picking up his bag and heading toward the bedroom.

Callie eased the remote from Tucker's fingers and switched through the channels until she found Nick Jr.

"There'll be a TV at the ranch, too," she a.s.sured him. From down the short hall she heard the rush of the shower and had a mental vision of West's naked body under the spray.

"I want to see horses," Tucker reminded Callie.

"Me, too."

Callie had already stowed a small bag in the Lexus. She didn't know exactly what to expect from this first meeting with Victoria, but she'd packed for an overnight just in case. She knew Tucker would not want her to leave, and though she would like to stay with him as well, the decision wasn't up to her. The fact that West was taking his own car suggested he didn't trust they would be on the same schedule, either.

A few minutes later the shower shut off, and ten minutes after that West came out wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a cream-colored suede shirt. He looked so different that she couldn't take her eyes off him. "I didn't pack my ranch gear," she said. "Wait. I forgot. I don't own any."

He gave her his slow smile and she wanted to throw herself into his arms and kiss him madly. Spreading his hands, he said, "This is me."

"I like it," she said, and there was a whole wealth of meaning packed into her words that she hadn't meant to convey.

"You ready?" he asked.

"Where's your bag?" she questioned.

"I've got to come back tonight. Looks like I'm going back to my old job. Meeting with my lieutenant tomorrow." He threw a look toward Tucker, who was engrossed in Yo Gabba Gabba.

"Oh. I put an overnight bag in my car, just in case," she admitted.

"Good. I wanted you to." He hooked a thumb toward Tucker, and said softly, "It was kind of hard on the plane. He doesn't really know about Teresa, but he senses something's up."

Callie nodded, staring at the back of Tucker's head, wanting to drag him close to her.

It took a little bit of convincing to disengage Tucker from the television and herd him back to Callie's car. Leaning in the window, West gave her quick directions to the ranch, which mostly consisted of which exit to take off I-5. "All you really have to do is follow the signs," he said, then he headed to a black Explorer, backing it out of a numbered parking spot that was lined up beside others in a carport that stretched the length of the building. He aimed the Explorer toward I-5 and Callie followed behind him as they began the trip north to Laughlin Ranch.

Andre stood inside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the rambling two-story house with its rustic, wood interior and looked out onto the main acres of the ranch. Miles of fencing and a scattering of barns and outbuildings were visible as far as the eye could see. He could almost taste the wealth and had to hide how much he coveted all of it. By rights, it should be his and he intended to have it.

The old woman in the crisp white blouse, tan slacks, and sensible brown shoes with her frost-white hair and imperious manner regarded him like an insect on a pin. She was standing in the archway of the dining room, one gnarled hand clasped hard around the handle of her cane. One tiny push and she would fall over and clatter to the floor.

He couldn't stop laughing inside at the image.

"Mr. Stutz is on his way," she said for about the third time, as if that would scare him. "He's the man in charge of Laughlin Ranch."

"Since my cousin's death," Andre said.

"Since my grandson's death," Victoria corrected. "Whether he was your cousin or not is still in question."

"Take your DNA samples, check my identification, look at me. All I heard all my life was that I looked just like my father."

Andre met her gaze squarely. On the one hand, he felt like he should be nice to her. She was his grandmother, too, after all, and just because she and her husband had kicked his father out of the family didn't mean she would disown him. Now that he was back, he couldn't see why she wouldn't put him in Stephen's place. His father was her first born, Benjamin Jr., and it stood to reason that Andre would be next in line to inherit. Whatever bad blood had transpired among Victoria, Benjamin Sr., and his father shouldn't affect Andre's relationship with his grandmother now.

On the other hand, he hated her with an intensity he couldn't deny. His father, crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d that he'd been, had chosen his Tahitian wife and a life as an ex-pat, and therefore been rejected by Benjamin Sr., Victoria, and Laughlin Ranch, Inc. It was no way to treat family. His father had always acted like he'd made the choice and would do it again, but on the two occasions he'd actually flown back with Andre in tow, Andre had overheard him fighting with Ben Sr. who'd been adamant that Ben Jr. was disinherited forever.

"You do bear a resemblance," she allowed, and he thought it about killed her to admit as much. She moved into the dining room but he stayed where he was, looking out at the expanse of prime real estate that would be his, by hook or by crook.

When Andre's father had said he didn't care that he'd been disowned, Andre had believed him, too young to understand the pain beneath his father's cavalier att.i.tude. But Ben Jr. had cared, and even the worshipful flock that Ben Laughlin Jr. brought together on the Tahitian island of Moorea, the group of women who attended his needs and loved their priest with all their hearts, hadn't completely fulfilled him. He was their Messiah, and after his death, they looked to sixteen-year-old Andre to take his place. Andre had happily stepped into his father's shoes, but he hadn't been interested in a life of near poverty, so in the end he'd taken off, leaving his mother and the other heartbroken women of his tribe to mourn Ben Jr.'s death from cancer.

He'd planned to sneak away but his mother caught him before he could make his escape. He'd expected her to rail at him for running out, but all she said was, "You have a mission to fulfill. To take your rightful place. Go back . . . and make those people pay."

He'd promised her he would, though he'd taken a circuitous route before he found his way home. Too bad his mother had also died before seeing her son on his rightful throne; he'd gotten news of her death last year from one of his father's disciples when he'd placed his annual call to her on her birthday. That had made him want to take over the ranch immediately, but he'd had to wait. But now he was here and he wasn't leaving. Sure, Victoria had refused to let him in last night when he'd shown up on her doorstep, even after he'd explained who he was, but she'd allowed him to come back this morning. Allowed him . . . Things were going to change very soon.

He finally turned away from the window and walked into the dining room where she sat regally at the head of the table. "I don't know what you think is going to happen," she said in that crisp way he was coming to loathe. "Even if you are who you say you are, this is not your home. Your father-"

"My father made an error of judgment by leaving. On his deathbed he asked for you. He knew his father was gone, but that you were still here. He wanted to come back to you."

"I doubt that's true." She was firm.

"He came back twice, with me. I remember being here."

"Your name was Andrew, not Andre," Victoria said coolly.

"Andrew is the name on my birth certificate, in honor of my great-grandfather, but my mother always called me Andre."

"Your mother," she said, and something implied in her tone crystallized the hate inside him he needed to keep under control.

"Yes."

There was a rap on the back door and both he and Victoria turned their heads toward the kitchen, which was through a butler's pantry from the dining room. Andre heard the cook-c.u.m-housekeeper-c.u.m-all around a.s.sistant to Victoria open it, and a male voice call out, "Victoria? You there!"

"That's Cal now. Mr. Stutz," Victoria said, rising from her chair and thumping her way toward the kitchen. "I'm here," she sang out in a warm voice that implied she was close to the ranch manager. Another thing that would need to change.

Andre didn't follow her. Instead he moved from the dining room back to the great room with its soaring rafters, antlered chandeliers, and stretches of windows that framed the rolling gra.s.sland. He knew the cattle were kept far away from the house and that the ranch hands drove pickups to the barns and outbuildings. There was a picturesque barn on a slight ridge where horses had been kept when he was younger. He remembered riding them with Stephen once. He wasn't sure if there were still some there.