"In order to do that, I need a complete farm inventory, the variable and fixed costs, receipts, and," she added, stressing the syllable, "your projections for next year's budget. A profit and loss statement is necessary too." She looked up. "Can you get that for me?"

He hunched forward and she sensed he was hiding a grin of amus.e.m.e.nt. "Yes," he replied in a mildly condescending voice. "Usually this is gathered at the year's end."

The subtle tease in his voice reminded her of his arrogance the first night she met him. Nora twisted her pencil in her fingers.

"Not this year," she snapped back.

C.W.'s face hardened as he sat back in his chair.

Nora sat forward in hers. She coupled her hands and leaned forward. "Look, Mr. Walker. I'm aware that we got off on the wrong foot. Somehow, I don't know why, you got the wrong idea about me and my intentions here."

She searched his face for some change but found none. Yet she knew she had his complete attention. "I was sincere when I said this isn't just a vacation home anymore. This place means everything to me." She flattened her hands on the table and took a deep breath. "I apologize for the inconvenience you've suffered and my earlier harsh words."

C.W. considered her words for what seemed an eternity. She'd never known a man to be silent for so long. Nora pinkened but stared him down, matching his silence with stubbornness.

"Mrs. MacKenzie," he said, his face grave and his voice low, "I a.s.sure you, there is nothing you need apologize to me for. Ever. It is I who should apologize to you."

Nora slowly leaned back in her chair and dropped her hands in her lap. Her lips parted slightly. C.W. had turned the tables. She'd never expected him to apologize to her.

"Let's call it even." Nora was sincere.

"All right," he said, easing into a wry smile. "As for your other requests, I can get that information for you. But all that will take some time. Seth's records are filed, shall we say, creatively."

"I understand."

"Since we're being frank here, Mrs. MacKenzie, let me say that I don't understand. It isn't gossip to know that you're loaded. Why are you so worried about money? Things have muddled along on this place for years. A check here to cover expenses, a write-off there." His tone spoke volumes.

Nora tightened her lips. She hadn't antic.i.p.ated this question, at least not so soon. The hardwood of her chair was suddenly very uncomfortable.

"Well, you see, Mike, that is, my husband had some outstanding debts that still need to be settled. Until then, the banks have put me on a restricted allowance."

His face skewered. "A restricted allowance? Just how restricted?"

Now it was Nora's turn to bristle. "Let's just say things will be tight for a while." She wasn't about to confide all her financial details.

"Well," he said, slightly lifting his shoulders. "Banks can be like that."

"Banks nothing," she said with unexpected vehemence. "One bank-one man-by the name of Charles Blair. He's responsible for this."

C.W. almost reeled back from the shock. "Charles Blair? Did what?"

"I don't know exactly but I intend to find out, and when I do-" Nora immediately clammed up. She waved her hand, as if to brush away any further thoughts or comments about the disagreeable subject. That was her past. Now she had her future to think about.

For the next half hour, she discussed in her best business tone the groundwork for her eight-week plan: what she needed to learn and what he could help her with. She ended her presentation with a brief plea for his cooperation, knowing she needed all the help she could get.

While he seemed willing enough, his replies were mono syllabic or mere nods of the head, as though he was preoccupied with some other problem. And when she concluded, he grabbed his coat and darted for the door like a schoolboy after the three o'clock bell.

Well, she thought with disappointment as she watched him hike down the mountain road at a clipped pace. What more could she expect? He was, after all, just drifting by.

There was nothing drifting about the way C.W. headed for a telephone. Thoughts were churning full speed in his head, propelling his long legs faster and faster down the mountain to the Johnston house.

Charles Blair connected to MacKenzie's downfall? What the h.e.l.l? He did no such thing! Why would she say that? It was too easy to write it off as mindless chatter. She was too sure-too angry-for that, and there was nothing mindless about Nora MacKenzie. He had been impressed with her long tables of figures and her ease with banking terms.

What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, he repeated.

When he arrived at the Johnston's pale green house, he knocked, called, then sighed in relief that no one was home. They'd opened the house to him from the day he arrived: the Johnstons were like family now. He met with Seth and the boys here daily, and Esther had simply a.s.sumed he'd be at the family table for meals, a hospitality he was careful not to abuse. He was aware the extended family couldn't easily absorb the burden of another mouth to feed.

Entering the house uninvited was never considered an intrusion. Today, however, he felt out of place. The task at hand made him a stranger. He walked straight to the phone that would connect him to a world he'd fled ten months ago. He stared at it, but could not touch it.

Sticking his hands in his pockets, he rocked on his heels while he reviewed his conversation with Nora. MacKenzie's widow was clear that Charles Blair was connected to her financial troubles. C.W. stared out the window. Charles Blair. Charles Blair was another man. He no longer felt akin to the name or the lifestyle of the prominent banker.

The distant perspective helped. A man named MacKenzie had chosen to kill himself before a man named Blair. For months he'd asked himself why? To be honest, he never seriously pursued it. It had always been too painful. He'd procrastinated. Now, however, Nora's presence set the clock ticking.

C.W. reached out again for the phone. His hand shook, like he needed a drink. That sordid image set his mouth in a grim line. Hard memories sp.a.w.ned determination that spurred him to action. Grabbing the phone, he quickly dialed a New York number. As the phone rang he took deep, cleansing breaths, mentally shifting gears. Within seconds, he heard Sidney Teller's crisp, Boston accent excitedly tell the operator he'd accept the charges.

"Charles! My G.o.d, Charles...I'd begun to think you were dead. Where the h.e.l.l have you been for ten months? Not a word. Not a word!"

C.W. paused, cupping the telephone receiver, and looked around the living room. It was five o'clock and Seth and the kids would be returning from the fields within the hour. Satisfied he was out of earshot, C.W. lowered his mouth to the telephone.

"Why were you worried? I told you I'd be gone for an extended leave. I left the bank in your hands-good hands, I hope."

"Oh yes, certainly," sputtered Sidney as he tried to recollect his poise. "But d.a.m.n it all, Charles. At the very least I expected a postcard from some Tahitian island."

C.W. smiled and sensed his brother-in-law's relief over the miles. "I'm all right, really. I needed the time to sort things out."

He was grateful Sidney had the grace not to press.

"How's my sister?" C.W. asked.

"You know Cornelia," Sidney replied. "She takes care of herself."

Sidney's reply disturbed C.W., but at the moment, he had business to address.

"Tell me, Sid. In a nutsh.e.l.l, what's going on with the MacKenzie estate?"

He heard Sidney's sigh over the wire. "For G.o.d's sake, Charles. Aren't you done beating that dead horse? Let it go."

C.W. resented the bitterness he heard in Sidney's voice.

"I have my reasons for asking," he replied.

"Hard to say. There is a big mess over his finances. No one is sure even yet how his estate has settled. The whole estate is shrouded with unusual secrecy. Bad loans somewhere, apparently."

"Not from our bank, I a.s.sume." C.W.'s voice rang with a warning that Sidney didn't miss.

"Of course not. Your instructions were explicit. No loans to MacKenzie. You called that one right."

C.W. sensed Sidney's discomfort on the other end of the line. Sidney was his sister's husband and his own right-hand man. At the Blair Bank they had been quite a team: Charles Walker Blair was the spearhead, the man of ideas. Sidney Teller was the detail man, his secretary of state. Together, they had brought the Blair Bank to its pinnacle of success.

In the past year, however, everything had changed. C.W. had changed. How much, he wondered, had Sidney changed?

C.W. let the silence linger well into the discomfort zone before quietly asking, "What is it, Sid?"

Another pause, then a clearing of the throat. "On the subject of loans... Something's wrong at the bank," he blurted. "I've been searching for you for months, but no one can find out where the h.e.l.l you are. You'd better come back. Right away."

"What's wrong, exactly?"

"Some bad loans have been issued. To a number of small firms. It all seemed straightforward on paper," he said in a rush, "but they've all come up short. Smells like sh.e.l.l companies, a front of some kind. And, Agatha's routing me."

"What's she got to do with this?"

"I'm not sure, but she's on the march, patrolling the rank and file, shooting out memos, holding court at the board meetings." He paused. "It's been tough."

C.W. frowned. That Agatha would force an attack against himself and Sidney was no surprise. His brother-in-law and stepmother despised each other with a deliberateness that C.W. found distasteful. Agatha loathed only one person more than Sidney, and that was him. But he had been able to ignore their personal animosity. It was bad for business.

"Bad loans imply bad judgment," C.W. replied in a low voice. "Could bring the stock down. The directors will be held responsible."

"Exactly."

"Here's what I want you to do. I want the names of the companies we loaned money to. I want the exact dates. And, I want the names of the officers who issued them."

"Got it."

"One more thing," he added, on a hunch. "Sniff around the MacKenzie estate. Something is off there; I can feel it." He thought of MacKenzie's widow. Was that haughtiness he read in her eyes-or fear?

"When will you be home?" Sidney asked. There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice.

C.W. sighed. Home. Where was that? "Soon. I have a commitment to finish up first. In the meantime, don't let anyone know you talked to me. Keep a low profile but dig around. Find out what's not being said and report back to me."

"Sure, Charles. Where can I reach you?"

C.W. smiled. "I'll call you."

He hung up the phone but still felt the intangible tie to the bank. d.a.m.n this cursed business, he thought. All cuts and stabs. Would he never find a way to free himself of it? Or was he bound to the bank by birth as surely as some monarch to his throne?

No, he thought with cold sureness. He'd come too far to let the machinations of the bank bring him down again. He'd give Sid a few days to dig up some information, then he'd help his brother-in-law formulate an attack. If worse came to worst, he'd head back to New York, if only long enough to throw his support to Sidney and resign from the bank. He wanted out, that much was certain.

C.W. ran his hand through his hair and let out a ragged sigh. Leaning back against the wall, he let his gaze roam the small rooms of the Johnston house. It was a modest house that had seen better days. The walls stooped with age and were covered with faded rose wallpaper. The furniture was spa.r.s.e and poor, and the sofa's floral upholstery was worn bare in spots.

Yet, a bright handmade quilt was neatly spread across the fabric, and fall meadow flowers cheered up the dining table. Neat stacks of newspapers and split logs rested beside the warm wood stove. Near the front door, a long line of muddy work boots sat under a large collection of hanging jackets. Closing his eyes, he could still smell the scent of Esther's coffee and pancake breakfast from the kitchen.

G.o.d almighty, he thought, squeezing his closed lids tight. He'd give his fortune for what he found in this small, family home.

In Manhattan, in a tall building of ornate cement, up in the penthouse suite, Agatha Blair was just informed that Charles Blair had placed a phone call to Sidney Teller.

"Where did the call originate?"

"We don't have tracers on the line," replied the voice. "It's just bugged."

Agatha tapped her long red nails in irritation. Such incompetence. Did she always have to tell others how to do their job? Oh well, she muttered. What did it matter? As long as Charles Blair remained out of the picture for two more months.

Still, it rankled. What was Blair up to now? Sniffing around the MacKenzie estate after all this time. Could he be on to something? Or merely more guilt.

She pushed the intercom b.u.t.ton. "Ask Mr. Strauss to see me. Immediately."

As she waited, Agatha Blair considered again her hatred for Charles Blair. The entire Blair family, for that matter. Everything about them, from their clipped, perfect English, their patrician manners, their worldliness, their impeccable taste, all the things that came from growing up with privilege. Even this room, she thought. She was unaware that her lip curled in distaste.

It was a man's room, Agatha thought for the millionth time. Dark mahogany wainscotting and baseboards lent the room a denlike quality. On the walls were a.s.sorted paintings of indisputable value, but of little interest to her particular taste. She found the landscapes boring and the hunting scenes ridiculous with those long-nosed, long-eared dogs sniffing about.

This had been the office of the bank's president, Edwin Charles Blair: her husband. When he died a decade earlier, at long last she'd always thought, Agatha had moved in. She didn't change a thing. Not that she kept them in fond memory of her husband. No. Each dreaded painting, every masculine appointment, served to remind others not only of her position in the Blair Bank, but in the Blair family. A position hard earned, in her opinion. Despite what the family had thought initially, regardless of the opposition she faced during those years, she had clawed her way to this office and guarded this den as fiercely as any lioness.

Agatha leaned back in her chintz-upholstered chair, her single deviation toward femininity in this horrid office. It was a man's room, she thought again. And banking was still a man's game. She knew the rules and with skill and cunning had bent them, twisted them, and made them work for her.

The buzzer rang. Her hand tightened upon her cane for a moment, then she slowly released it and moved to the telephone.

"Send him in."

The door promptly opened and stocky, stern-faced Henry Strauss marched into the office. He crossed the room with purpose, and when he reached Agatha's desk he placed his hands upon it. A simple transgression. Not a threat, that wasn't Henry's style. More a reminder of his position and seniority in the bank.

Agatha's eyes remained on Strauss's hands. Fat, peasant hands, she thought with disdain. With delicious slowness she raised her eyes, past the bulging b.u.t.tons on his double-breasted suit, past the fold of flab that simply could not be contained by the starched b.u.t.ton-down collar, inching up beyond jowls far too fleshy for a man in his fifties, to his eyes. Yes, here she could alight without that nasty taste in her mouth. Even behind those heavy black gla.s.ses, Strauss's eyes still had that clear German blue, intense and fringed with thick blond lashes. Today, those eyes were angry, as she knew they would be. She considered whether to punish him for his rudeness. Perhaps not. Next time. This time it wasn't prudent to anger Henry too much.

"Sit down, Henry." She flipped her small fingers up twice, shooing him away. Henry cleared his throat, then obediently took one of the dull green leather chairs. Agatha's eyes gleamed.

"There's been a two point drop in MacCorp.," he said.

"I know. A trifle."

Strauss's expression did not change, but Agatha's sharp eyes noted that his nostrils flared.

"Maybe not for a Blair, but that represents a significant amount of money to a Strauss." His voice lowered. "I've risked everything. You promised me a killing on this stock."

Agatha could not contain her smile.

Strauss blanched. "Oh G.o.d, I didn't mean..."

"Of course you didn't. No one imagined poor MacKenzie would take such a drastic course."

Agatha forced herself not to reveal her anger at the memory. That fool MacKenzie almost screwed things up killing himself that way. Such a mess; too soon a scandal that rocked the bank. Yet, the Big Mac's suicide did have its advantages. Not even in her wildest dreams did she think that a man like Charles Walker Blair would have reacted so radically to the suicide. Like father like son.

Another smile. It was a long, thin slit in an unnaturally tight face. "It turned out rather well in the end, no?"

Strauss, a veteran of Wall Street slaughters, sat back in his chair, appalled. "Why? Because Charles flipped out? We cannot allow family rivalries to threaten the bank's stability. Again."

Agatha knew Strauss was testing, gauging her reaction. She maintained a cool surface over her boiling point.

"But of course. Although-" she paused, folding her hands together "-it is rather late for you to be discussing integrity, wouldn't you agree?"

Henry's pale, heavy features deepened in color as he looked at his fat hands. "Where the h.e.l.l is Charles anyway?" he asked, throwing his head up. "I can't believe all your private investigators can't find him. He's a G.o.dd.a.m.n Blair after all. You'd think the society pages would have tracked him down by now!"