Page 5 of Prime Time

“I can do you one better than that. I’m going to the Ratliffs’. How’d you like a ride to the front door?”

Her hand had flown to her chest as though to still a rapidly beating heart. “You’re not serious! Oh, you’d be a lifesaver. I can conduct my business and call about my car at the same time. Are you sure you don’t mind?” she had asked, treating him to the full brilliance of her smile.

“Not atall, not atall.”

“Just let me get my purse and lock the car.” She had spun around on her bone pumps and trotted back to her car, thanking her stars that the man had been so easily duped. He hadn’t even asked what her business was.

Modesty had to be sacrificed for her to climb into the truck, but Mr. Houghton, as he had introduced himself, was a perfect gentleman and turned his head.

The cab of the truck was noisy, dusty, and smelled of earth and fertilizer, but now Andy was chatting to Mr

. Houghton inconsequentially as they pulled up to the electric security gate surrounding the Ratliff ranch.

The brakes wheezed as Mr. Houghton stepped on the pedal, but apparently Lyon had notified the guard of the arrival of the nursery truck. The gates swung wide on the blacktopped road, and they were waved through by a toothless guard wearing a cowboy hat. If he saw Andy or noted that she didn’t look like a gardener, he didn’t do anything about it. She breathed a huge sigh of relief as the truck rolled through the gate and she saw through the mirror mounted outside her window that it was closing behind them.

“I’ll just let you out at the front. I’m supposed to meet Mr. Ratliff around on the west side.”

“That will be wonderful,” she said, smiling. More wonderful than she had anticipated. Lyon would be busy for a while. Lyon? Had she thought simply “Lyon”?

The house was awesome and looked like it belonged in Southern California instead of on the Texas plains. Nestled in a grove of pecan, oak, and cottonwood, its sprawling proportions were redeemed by a certain grandeur. It was a two-story house, but this didn’t prevent her from getting the impression that its various wings seemingly stretched for acres.

The house itself and all the outbuildings were of white adobe and roofed with burnt-red tile. Four arches across the front of the house supported the wide, deep front porch where hanging baskets boasted ferns, petunias, begonia, and impatiens. The colors were vibrant. The shade was deep, and the white of the house was pristine and glaring by contrast.

“Thank you again, Mr. Houghton,” she said as he pulled to a grinding stop and then maneuvered the gearshift back into first.

“You’re quite welcome, little lady. I hope there’s nothing seriously wrong with your car.”

“I do too.” She jumped down from the cab, jarring both her teeth and the chignon on the back of her neck. She shut the door softly, so as not to attract attention, and was gratified when it closed with only a minimum of racket. Taking slow, careful steps, she stopped ostensibly to admire a basket of flowers. When the truck had rounded the side of the house, she stepped into the shadows of the front porch.

There was a wide window to correspond with each of the arches. Feeling like a criminal, she crept over to each one, cupped her hands against the panes of glass, and peered inside. The rooms had high ceilings, were well furnished and immaculately clean. There was a living room with an enormous fireplace and comfortable sofas and chairs, a study with bookcase-lined walls and a massive desk littered with papers, and a dining room. The last room had a terrazzo tile floor and wicker furniture. Through the window Andy could see that one of the side walls was solid glass. The room was filled with tropical plants. A ceiling fan circled overhead.

An old man was sitting in a wheelchair, reading—or was he sleeping? She went around the corner of the house to the other side and looked through the sliding glass door. He was reading. A book lay in his lap. His age-spotted hand turned the page slowly. A pair of wire-rimmed eye-glasses were mounted on his bony nose.

Andy jumped when, without even looking up at her, he said, “Come in, Mrs. Malone.”

Chapter Two

Shock paralyzed her. She couldn’t have said which surprised her the most, that the old man had known she was there in the first place or his benign expression as he looked up at her and smiled. She was as surprised by the father as she had been by the son. She had expected something like George C. Scott’s portrayal of General Patton. Where was the stern military bearing? The General Michael Ratliff of today exemplified benevolence. She had seen pictures of him, but they had been taken forty years ago and bore little resemblance to the frail old man in the wheelchair.

Her incredulity seemed to amuse him. “Come in closer where I can see you better, please, Mrs. Malone.”

Andy forced her legs to propel her through the opened glass door and, into the garden room. “Are you General Ratliff?” she asked hesitantly.

He chuckled. “Of course.”

“H—” she swallowed hard. “How do you know who I am? Were you expecting me?” She wondered briefly if Les had called to ask the general for an interview but dismissed the idea before it was full-blown. That wasn’t exactly Les’s technique. And besides that, no one talked to the general without first consulting Lyon. Lyon’s mind wouldn’t easily be changed.

“Yes, I was expecting you,” he said, with no further word of explanation. “Please sit down. Would you care for something to drink?”

“No, no, thank you.” Why did she suddenly feel like a school girl caught out in a mischievous prank? She sat on the edge of one of the wicker chairs with a high, fanned back and a bold print cushion. She tucked her envelope purse between her thigh and the armrest and tugged at the hemline of her skirt. Her back was erect. “You didn’t look up before speaking to me. How—”

“Military training, Mrs. Malone. I’ve always had ears like radar. My excellent hearing was the bane of my junior officers. They never could criticize me without my hearing them.” He chuckled again.

“But how did you know my name?” In spite of having been caught red-handed spying and trespassing, she was enjoying herself. It was a heady feeling to know she was at last in the presence of one of her country’s most illustrious war heroes. He was feeble of body, but his mind was razor-sharp. His eyes were rheumy, but she suspected that they saw more than he wanted people to know. Or was it his keen perception that made it seem that way? His sparse white hair was neatly combed, military fashion. He was dressed in an impeccably starched and ironed one-piece jumpsuit. “Have you ever seen my television program?” she asked him.

“No, I regret to say that I have not. I knew who you were because Lyon told me that he had met you in town yesterday.” He watched for her reaction.

She smoothed her features into a placid mask. “Oh?” she asked coolly. “Did he also tell you how rudely he behaved?”

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