She broke into a smile. "I'll be there. Bright and early."

His eyes lit up at her reply. "Good night. Nora."

The sound of her name floated slowly in the air between them. Their gazes locked and held. She sensed his urgency. He sensed her hesitancy. They both knew, with one word from her, he would stay.

"Good night," she replied. He nodded and left quickly, leaving her feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Cold air blew in through the door and woke her from her musing. She was doing it again, allowing her feelings for this man to muddle her thoughts. Whenever he looked at her that rush overpowered her. But rather than stay clear, she found herself seeking out his gaze, hoping that he'd be in the barn when she entered.

Get ahold of yourself, she scolded. He was just pa.s.sing through. He'd be gone in a month. Shaking the fuzziness from her head, she picked up her sandwich and ate every bite.

13.

C.W. LEANED AGAINST the newspaper stand and rubbed his hands. The gas-station attendant had been friendly and offered him a cup of coffee. The night was d.a.m.n cold but the coffee looked as thick as the oil on the floor and smelled as bitter. C.W. was particular about his coffee and bought a pack of gum instead. He pulled out his cell phone and stared at it. This was the first time he'd used the phone since he escaped his former life. His mailbox was full but he ignored that. Instead, he tapped in the number and the connection was made.

"You really know how to put one on the hot seat, Charles," Sidney opened.

"Really? And how is that?" C.W.'s voice was as cold as his hands.

"I've been pacing by the phone waiting for your call." He paused. "I expected you'd try me at home when I refused your call. Sorry about that, but I didn't feel safe talking to you from the office." He paused. "I think it's bugged."

C.W. didn't respond but swore under his breath. His whole body grew more alert. He straightened again and his hand tightened around the phone.

Sidney continued in a rush. "Your instincts were right again. Something is definitely up with MacKenzie's estate. Or should I say down. Word is-and this is very inside-that his estate's bankrupt."

C.W. sucked in his breath. Incredible. That an estate as vast as MacKenzie's could go under so quickly was astonishing. But finance was a dangerous mistress, one that was quick to turn on you. His mind sharpened.

"How did you learn of this?"

"Agatha."

Agatha Blair divulge inside information to an adversary?

"When did things start to crumble for MacKenzie?"

"Sometime right before he died."

That would fit, C.W. thought as MacKenzie's desperate face flashed before his eyes. The wind sung an eerie tune between the trees, and dry leaves scattered across the empty street. Under the triangle of yellow light, his hands appeared unnaturally white. C.W. raised his collar and looked off, shaking off the specter.

"Charles, you there?"

"Yes. Tell me now about these bad loans from the Blair Bank."

There was a long pause. "I'm not sure how to tell you this but to be blunt."

"Go ahead."

"Those bad loans...there are more of them than I originally knew. They total up to millions."

Sidney squirmed in one of Charles Blair's famous silences.

"Did you find out who approved them?"

Sidney almost stuttered. "That's the mystery. On paper, you did."

C.W. stiffened as though he'd just been stabbed in the back.

"That's absurd."

"Of course." Sidney's voice was cautious.

C.W. felt sickened as doubt and anger churned in his gut. He knew that even in his worse state, he would never be so careless about business. Yet could he fault Sidney for believing he had? As Samuel Johnson once wrote, "All argument is against it; but all belief is for it."

There was no doubt that whatever his self-defense, Sidney, and everyone else on the board of directors, would believe that Charles Walker Blair had fumbled completely.

And that was exactly what someone had intended.

He let out a long sigh as he stared at the green-and-white neon sign in the gas station window. "Who knows about this?" he asked.

"Virtually no one, yet. Just you and me."

"And Agatha."

"Yes."

As he figured. So this was a family matter. He needed to bottle this up, and quick.

"Keep it that way. Understood?"

"Yes, sir."

He knew Sidney was sweating now. And that was good. He'd been stabbed in the back and he trusted no one.

"Charles, we need you back here. Now."

You need me, he thought. If you set me up, you're playing a d.a.m.n good game. If you're innocent, then as my right-hand man, you're in as much potential trouble as I am. It was time for outside help.

"Sidney, listen carefully. We both know this thing could explode in our faces. Get Strauss in on this."

"If you think that's best." Sidney's resentment was clear.

"I do. But-" he paused to add emphasis "-under no circ.u.mstances let anyone else know you've talked to me. Especially not Agatha. My best advantage is my secrecy. I want them to think I'm out of the picture. I have a few leads here I want to follow up on. I'll call you again in a few days." He paused and considered the pressure Sidney would be under. "Buck up, Sid. We'll pull through."

He hung up the phone and exhaled a long, ragged breath. He'd have to go back to wage this war. He'd never leave the bank to his enemies. He was too much a Blair for that.

Two bits of information played in his mind as he walked to the Jeep and fired it up. One, someone had deliberately issued those loans under his name, someone close enough and powerful enough to push it through the right channels. Sidney or Agatha. The other was what Nora had let slip. That Charles Blair was responsible for MacKenzie's fall. Of course he was no such thing. But wasn't it interesting that she believed he was?

Driving home in the moonless night, he pondered the puzzle. Once or twice he veered too wide and hit gravel, but he made it back to the farm and up the road nice and slow. By the time he pulled the parking break at the big house, his instincts were making connections, playing wild cards with a loaded deck.

Maybe, if he was very, very clever, he could answer the question that rifled through his soul every morning and every night of the past year. Why did Michael MacKenzie kill himself in front of Charles Blair?

Sidney Teller paced the moss green carpet of his library for a long while after his phone call with Charles. His hands were held tightly behind his back. The comments of his brother-in-law, and more, his silence, gave him cause for concern. It was Charles's request-demand-for Henry Strauss's help, however, that really tore at his gut.

Sidney crossed to the bar and poured a liberal amount of scotch into the heavy cut-crystal tumbler. Two chunks of ice, stir, and the smooth solace flowed down his throat.

He had always known Charles Blair could be ruthless. He had seen him take apart businesses-and people-piece by piece with the cold precision of a surgeon, many times over the years. Others had feared his ability, had created legends about it, but Sidney had never feared. Not because he was married to Charles's sister. Well, maybe that accounted for part of it. Charles was devoted to his sister and fiercely loyal to his family.

No, that wasn't the reason. In all the years they worked together, Sidney had always felt that Charles trusted him. They were a team, in as much as Charles allowed himself to be a team player. So Sidney never feared Charles's wrath. He never felt Charles was the kind of man who would turn on him.

Until now.

As he took another deep swallow of scotch, Sidney considered the change in Charles. Perhaps it was time for a change in himself too, he thought. Sidney finished his drink in one swallow. The alcohol burned his throat on the long way down. In the outside hall he heard a slight scuffle. Sidney turned his head just as his wife entered.

Cornelia was deeply tanned under her short-cropped blond hair and wore none of her usual makeup. He preferred her without false color. Sidney thought her especially beautiful tonight but neglected to tell her so. Instead, he offered her a drink.

"Yes, thank you," Cornelia replied coolly.

As he poured her a scotch, neat, he said, "I thought you were off to Palm Beach."

Sidney presented her the drink, along with a chaste kiss on her cheek. Cornelia was tall, almost eye level with Sidney, and when he drew back, he saw immediately a new tension in her smooth, fair skin. A new brittleness in her soft blue eyes.

"No, darling," she replied. "I changed my mind." Cornelia took a small sip, licking her lips in thought. "I guess you could say I decided to stay." She raised her eyes and their gazes held; his probing, hers shielding.

Cornelia moved to the sofa and sat down upon the over-stuffed upholstery. "Come sit, dear," she said, patting the seat. "You look tired."

"I am, a bit." Sidney rounded the table and sat beside her, not before adding another dose of scotch.

Cornelia leaned far back in the sofa's corner to look at him better. Sidney was staring at his drink now, lost in the thoughts he could share only with the amber liquid. Cornelia felt the burn without touching a drop.

Ever since Charles had left, Sidney began closing doors. When he should have been opening them. The bank was in an uproar; it was no secret. Agatha was openly vying for control, creating division in the ranks and pitting one side against the other. Blair against Teller/Blair. Sidney was constantly under attack and trusted no one. That he didn't trust her either, hurt her, deeply.

He had withdrawn. She grew resigned.

So unlike the old days, when they had fought their wars together.

"Who was that on the phone?" she asked.

Sidney glanced over sharply then swirled his drink.

"Business."

"I don't suppose you'd care to talk about it?"

He shook his head.

Cornelia looked away. "Ahh, of course," she said, unable to disguise her bitterness.

He reached over and squeezed her hand. "Not this time, Nell." He looked at her anxiously. Cornelia's pale blue eyes revealed hurt. Sidney wished he could ask Cornelia about her brother, gauge her reaction to his comments; she who knew the mysterious Charles Blair so well. It was on his tongue to ask for her help. But Charles had been clear on the issue. "Discuss this with no one."

Across the sofa, Cornelia waited for him to say something. Her face was an open book, each small line reading, "Tell me."

"Not this time," he repeated, patting her hand. "I wish I could."

Cornelia quickly withdrew her hand and leaned away from him further into the cushions.

"I'm here," she said, forcing a sarcastic smile and raising her gla.s.s. "Whenever."

Miles away from the city, where the highest vertical elevations were the mountains, Cornelia's brother walked past the big house. The gravel crunched loudly under his feet, but Nora did not call out. C.W. continued on through the pasture, cutting a path through the tall gra.s.s. His steps cracked the long weeds, stiff from the frosty air, leaving sign and scent to the deer that man had pa.s.sed.

C.W. approached the small gray cabin in the woods that was now his home. Like the big house, it perched on a bluff. But rather than a panoramic view of mountain ranges, the view from the cabin was of rolling hills and Esther's Christmas tree meadow.

As quaint as the cabin was, however, it was not built for daily living. C.W. pushed open the door and groaned when he met air as cold as the outdoors. Esther's warnings came to mind, and he harbored second thoughts over Nora's invitation to stay at the house. No way, he decided. He'd freeze out here before he put himself in that kind of torture.

C.W. shut the door and crossed the one-room cabin to its sole source of heat: a potbelly stove. He cranked open the cold metal hatch and lit a fire with the logs Esther had neatly laid beside it. Before long, the kindling sparked and burst into flame, emitting a red glow that lit up the small room.

Esther had done a nice job cleaning, he thought as he surveyed his lodgings. Though it lacked a woman's touch. In the corner was a black iron double bed topped with his faded, avocado green sleeping bag and a worn patchwork quilt. A few paces away stood a small wooden table surrounded by two ladder-back chairs with crooked cane seats that looked like they'd endured years of service. No curtains, no rugs; just the bare necessities.

"Function, not aesthetics," he murmured, thinking of Nora's words.

It would take a while before the wood stove warmed up the room, so C.W. pulled one of the chairs close to the stove, sat back on its wobbly seat, and took out a stick of beef jerky from his coat pocket. It was so cold in the room that the plastic wrapper was brittle. He stretched his legs out before the stove, stuck one hand back into his pocket, and with his other ate his dinner.

As he stared through the open grate at the burning embers, the flames reached out like beckoning fingers, luring him inward to the realm of unbidden memories. Reluctantly he succ.u.mbed. Here, in the dark woods, in a dark moment, the ghosts of his past rose up to haunt him. He saw again the gun in MacKenzie's hand, the look of desperation in his eyes...and then blood everywhere. C.W. stopped chewing and cringed at the memory.

For months afterward, C.W. could not see past the blood. It was as though the drops that splattered across his face had left a permanent film across his eyes. Only in drink could he get past the red into black. Into a void so empty that he could lose himself. But never the pain.

That was when he'd really started to lose control. He grew jumpy and irritable. Suspicious of everyone. Nights were no better. His dreams were all nightmares, violent and horrid, and they persisted well into the day. He began to see Mike lurking in his drunken shadows. He started drinking around the clock, desperate to hide from the specter of his guilt. Days became nights then days again, rolling and rolling in a downward spiral. C.W. drank his way to rock bottom, ending up in a Vermont rehab clinic with nerves of shattered gla.s.s.

The doctors called it post-traumatic stress disorder. C.W. called it just deserts. After drying out, he followed his doctors' advice. He left his home, his work, all that he had once deemed important to concentrate on this isolated sheep farm of Michael MacKenzie. Here he did physical work to regain his strength and self-respect, he rethought his goals, and he tried to confront the ghost of Michael MacKenzie.

The doctors had been right and his exile was working. He had come to grips with his drinking, but he had yet to reconcile with Mike's suicide or his eventual return to New York. Now, after a year, he felt ready. It was time to move forward.

Moving forward, however, did not include turning back. C.W. had discovered, staring at the lifeless form of MacKenzie, that he had a conscience. He knew for certain that no million dollar loan was worth this one man's life. And knowing this, he was sure, dead sure, that he had to leave the banking business.

But how to leave? Reviewing his past as coldly as a banker would a ledger, he read without emotion that values such as compa.s.sion and pity had come up short. In the past months, he had dug deep to find those values long ignored, and once found, he had nourished them. Now, for the first time since a.s.suming the mantle of the bank a decade earlier, C.W. could look at himself and like what he saw. In his coc.o.o.n, he had definitely changed.

But again, how to leave? That was the question he had yet to answer. The heir of a financial empire did not simply walk away. Until he figured it out, he had to remain outside the hara.s.sments of his family. No one thought to look for him on the farm of Michael MacKenzie. Everyone knew he abhorred MacKenzie's showy style and underhanded schemes, and after the suicide, it was the last place they'd look. That had been the plan, and it had worked.

He took a deep breath and leaned back. Yet now MacKenzie's widow was here and the bank was in an uproar.

A seasoned general, C.W. removed his emotion like a discarded coat and proceeded to formulate an attack. This would be his greatest battle. His enemies surrounded him. He was fighting for his life.