Page 48 of A Legal Affair
In that time, she’d helped organize birthday and anniversary parties; had chauffeured carloads of youngsters to and from various school functions; had hosted visiting dignitaries, politicians and mobsters alike. She’d shamelessly eavesdropped on closed-door conversations, and had refereed more than a few nasty brawls. Twenty-one years ago, she’d witnessed the untimely death of Crandall’s wife, a sweet, tortured soul Rita had grown to love more than her own flesh and blood. The sorrow of that unspeakable tragedy had been eclipsed only by the joy of watching Caleb, who’d been a shy five-year-old when Rita first joined the household, come into his manhood. A finer, more upstanding son you couldn’t find, and Rita took a certain amount of pride in knowing she’d had a hand in that. She’d never married, and the two children she’d birthed had never amounted to much, drinking and cavorting with the wrong crowd until their wild ways landed them in prison up north. As far as Rita was concerned, the only son she’d ever known was Caleb, and that was just fine with her.
Now, gazing out across the rolling expanse of ranch land that Saturday afternoon, a deep frown marred the smooth line of her brow. “Have you ever seen anything like it?” she murmured, half to herself.
Standing beside her in the large sunlit kitchen, Ruth Gaylord shook her head. “Never.”
Mounted on a big sorrel horse, Caleb herded cattle through the pasture gate. The brim of his black Stetson shaded his eyes, but his mouth was set in a grim line as he attended to his task. His bare, muscled chest was covered in sweat and grime to the low waist of his filthy jeans. The jeans, along with his mud-caked boots, would never cross the threshold of the main house if Rita had anything to say about it—which she always did.
The day was winding down, the sun sliding toward the far side of the hills and casting the ranch yard into long shadows and tall silhouettes. Most of the ranch hands had called it quits for the day, dispersing to their rustic lodgings for dinner and much-deserved rest.
Only Caleb and the Native American foreman, Wyome, remained behind, corralling the few wayward steers and heifers into the holding pen. In the pasture beyond, the cattle that had been herded in during the course of the long day grazed quietly.
“What are you two gawking at?” Crandall Thorne demanded upon entering the room and seeing his housekeeper and nurse huddled together at the bay window.
“Come see for yourself,” Rita answered, with barely a glance over her shoulder.
Frowning, Crandall walked over and deliberately wedged himself between the two women. If they were gossiping about one of his laborers, he’d put a stop to it. Gossiping was one of the many things he had little patience for.
The sight of his son astride the sleek black sorrel made his chest swell with pride. It was branding season at the ranchand Caleb, his only heir, had arrived to lend a helping hand. To Crandall’s way of thinking, it was a sure sign that his son understood—and accepted—that one day these lands would belong to him.
Now if only he could convince Caleb to claim ownership of the law firm as well.
As Crandall watched, Caleb shifted in the saddle and urged his mount into a canter, moving as one with the magnificent animal as if he’d been riding horses all his life.
“Well, what’s the problem?” Crandall demanded, dividing an impatient look between the two women.
“He’s been at it since before the crack of dawn,” Rita informed him in hushed tones. “Vaccinating, clipping ears, branding the cattle. Working nonstop, like a man possessed.”
“Hasn’t stopped for more than a water break,” Ruth chimed in. “I know, becauseI’mthe one who took the water to him. Gave him a good tongue-lashing about the dangers of becoming dehydrated and suffering heatstroke. I don’t even think he heard me,” she added with a sad little shake of her head.
“A man gets henpecked enough,” Crandall griped, “he learns to tune a woman out.” But he, too, was a bit worried about his son. He’d arrived unexpectedly last night, and without uttering a word to anyone, had headed straight for the guest wing of the house, where he resided whenever he spent an extended amount of time at the ranch.
In silence the threesome watched Caleb a few minutes longer.
“Must be a woman,” Rita concluded.
“I think you’re right,” Ruth agreed, and the two women exchanged looks of unconcealed delight.
Crandall scowled. Though a secret hope sprang to life in his chest, he had to be the voice of dissent. “Thorne men don’tobsess over women,” he informed his meddling housekeeper and nurse in an imperious tone. “Never have, never will.”
Ruth and Rita traded knowing looks again.
“Well, you know what they say,” Rita began in a singsong voice.
“Never say never,” Ruth finished smugly.
Caleb spent the weekend at his father’s ranch, hoping to purge the memory of a forbidden tryst through hard labor.
When he arrived on campus bright and early Monday morning, he told himself he could handle seeing Daniela. Could hear her soft, husky voice without wanting to drag her into the nearest supply closet to have his way with her.
But as he would soon discover, his newfound resolve was not to be put to the test that morning.
At first he thought she was merely late for class again. But as the hour progressed without an appearance from her, he found himself distracted as he went through the motions of teaching class, calling students at random to recite cases—all the while taunted by one particular empty chair. As the minutes ticked off the clock and she remained a no-show, he went from feeling relieved to irritated, concerned and then, again, irritated.
When class was over, he detained April Kwan to casually inquire about her friend’s whereabouts.
“I haven’t spoken to her since Friday, Professor Thorne,” the girl informed him. “When I called her yesterday, some guy answered the phone and told me she was sleeping.”
Caleb kept his expression neutral. “If you happen to see her before Wednesday,” he said in a deceptively mild tone, “tell hershe might want to rethink the wisdom of skipping my class as early as the second week of the semester.”
