Tears of the Renegade Read online

  With an air of idle musing, he said, “I know you’ve probably thought that I’ve spent the past few years bumming around the world, but I’ve been gainfully employed most of the time since I left Mississippi. I work for an oil company, as a sort of troubleshooter.” His pale eyes gleamed with amusement as he watched the parade of astonishment marching across the features of his cousin and aunt. He didn’t look at Susan at all.

  “I…smooth things out for them,” he continued silkily. “I don’t have a title; I have contacts, and methods. I’m surprisingly good at my job, because I don’t take no for an answer.”

  Imogene was the first to recover, and she favored Cord with a polite smile. “I appreciate that you’re very well suited for your job, but why are you telling us about it?”

  “I just wanted you to understand my position. Look at it as honor among thieves, if you prefer. Now, let’s get down to business.”

  “We don’t have any business with you,” Preston interjected.

  Cord flicked an impatient glance over him. “The Blackstones own a lot of land in Alabama, southern Mississippi, and Louisiana. I inherited my share of it, so I should know. But the land that I’m interested in isn’t part of my inheritance; if it was, I wouldn’t be here now. I know that several oil companies have approached you in the last ten years for permission to drill in the ridges, but you’ve turned them all down. Newer surveys have indicated that the reserves of oil or gas in the ridges could be much larger than originally projected. I want to lease the ridges for my company.”

  “No,” said Preston without hesitation. “Mother and Vance and I talked it over when we were first approached years ago. We don’t want any drilling on Blackstone property.”

  “For what reason, other than a vague idea that it’s too money-grubbing for a blue-blooded old Southern family like the Blackstones?”

  Susan sat very still, nothing in the room escaping her attention. A cold chill was lacing itself around her body, freezing her in place. The ridges weren’t exactly ridges; they were only ripples in the earth, clothed in thick stands of pine. She liked the ridges, liked the peacefulness of them, the sweet smell of pure earth and pine. But why was Cord asking Imogene and Preston about them? Didn’t he know?

  “It was nothing as silly as that,” Imogene explained calmly. “We simply didn’t feel that the chances of a significant oil find were great enough to justify disturbing the ridges. There aren’t any roads into them except for that one Jeep track; trees would have to be cut, roads made. I’ve seen the messes that drilling sites make.”

  “Things have changed in the last ten years,” Cord replied, carrying the glass of whiskey to his lips. “A lot more care is taken not to disturb any area, and, as I said, it looks as if there’s a lot more oil in the ridges than anyone thought at first.”

  Preston laughed. “Thank you for the information. We’ll think about it; we might decide to allow drilling in the ridges after all. But I don’t think we’ll use your company.”

  A slow, satisfied smile began to move Cord’s lips. “I think you will, cousin. Or you can face criminal charges.”

  Susan didn’t know what he was talking about, but she knew that he had led Preston to exactly that point. He had played the scene as he had wanted it, knowing what Preston’s reaction would be, and knowing all the time that he held all the aces. Cord Blackstone had a streak of ruthlessness in him, and her chill deepened.

  Preston had gone pale. Of course, she thought absently. Cord wouldn’t have made a statement like that without being very sure of himself. She noted that Imogene was also as white and still as a china doll, so Imogene also knew what was going on.

  “What are you saying?” Preston asked hoarsely.

  “My inheritance.” Cord smiled lazily. “I’m a Blackstone, remember? I own stock in all the Blackstone companies. The funny thing is, I haven’t been receiving my share of any of the profits. Nothing has been deposited into my accounts at any of the banks we use. I didn’t have to dig very deep before I found some papers that had my signature forged on them.” He took another sip of whiskey, slowly tightening the screws. He knew he had them. “I believe forgery and theft are still against the law. And we aren’t talking about pin money, either, are we? You didn’t think I’d ever come back, so you and Aunt Imogene have been steadily lining your own pockets with my money. Not exactly an honorable thing to do, is it?”

  Imogene looked as if she would faint. Preston had been turned into stone. Cord looked at them, totally satisfied with the effect he’d had. He smiled again. “Now, about those leases.”

  Susan stood, her movements slow and graceful, drawing all attention to her. She felt curiously removed from them, as if she were swathed in protective layers of cotton. Somehow she wasn’t surprised, or even shocked, to learn that Preston and Imogene had been taking profits that were legally Cord’s. It was a stupid thing to do, as well as illegal, but they had a different view of things. To them, what belonged to one Blackstone belonged to all of them. It was a feudal outlook, but there it was. The most trouble she’d ever had with Imogene had been when Vance died and it became known that he’d left everything to Susan, instead of returning it to the family coffers. That was the one mistake Cord had made, in assuming that Vance had left his mother and brother in control of his share. It was an uncharacteristic mistake, and one that he had made because he was a Blackstone himself, with all of their inborn arrogance.

  “You’re bullying the wrong people,” she told Cord remotely, her low voice cutting through the layers of tension and hostility. She felt the lash of his suddenly narrowed gaze, but she didn’t flinch under it. “If Preston and Imogene are guilty, then so am I, by association if not actual knowledge. But they can’t get you the leases to the ridges. The ridges belong to me.”

  Chapter Three

  She didn’t remember driving home. She’d walked out, not even pausing to get her coat, but hadn’t felt the cold in her detachment. The house was empty, when she got home, without any welcoming smells emanating from the kitchen, because Sunday was Emily’s day off. Susan knew that she’d find something in the refrigerator already prepared, if she was hungry, but she didn’t think she’d be able to eat again that day.

  She changed clothes, carefully hanging the garments in the closet, then immediately took off the casual clothing she’d just put on. She needed a hot bath, something to take away the coldness that had nothing to do with her skin, but was rather a great lump inside her chest. She threw some sweet herbs into the hot water and eased into the tub, feeling the heat begin to soothe away her stress.

  Why did she feel so stunned? Preston had warned her that Cord was ruthless; why hadn’t she believed him? It wasn’t even what he had done, as much as the way he had done it. He had a right to punish Preston and Imogene for taking what was, essentially, his birthright. If he had wanted to trade that for the leases to the ridges, that was also his right. But he had played with them, leading them step-by-step to the point where they would feel the shock the worst, and he had enjoyed the effect his words had had on them. There was obviously no love lost between them, but Susan didn’t believe in inflicting unnecessary pain. Cord had wanted them to squirm.

  When the water had cooled, she let it out and dried herself, sighing as she dressed again in the dark brown slacks and white shirt she’d chosen. The bath had helped, but she still felt that inner chill. She checked the thermostat and found that it was set at a comfortable level, but she didn’t feel comfortable. She lit a fire under the logs that had already been placed in the fireplace in the den, then wandered into the kitchen to put on a pot of coffee.

  The fire was catching when she went back into the den, and she sat for long, increasingly peaceful moments, staring at the licking blue and orange flames. There was nothing as calming as a fire on a cold day. She thought about the needlepoint she was doing, but discarded the idea of working on it. She didn’t want to sew; sewing left her mind free to wander, and she wanted to wipe the day from her mind,