Aspen Gold (32 page)

Old Tom grunted in response. Bannon hadn't expected anything more. Ever since his father had handed over the reins to Stone Creek Ranch, he'd never commented on a decision Bannon made, withholding both approval and criticism. If Bannon asked his opinion, he gave it. If not, he kept his mouth shut.

"Any coffee at the house?" Bannon watched a trio of riders begin the final sort, satisfied that his instructions were being carried out.

"If there ain't, then Laura drank it all when she got home from school."

"The boys will finish up here." Bannon dismounted, feeling the stretch of muscles stiff and tired after a day in the saddle. Yet the ache felt good. "Why don't you go pour us a cup while I take care of my horse?"

"Sounds good." Old Tom eased his body off the fence.

Bannon gathered up the reins and headed for the barn, leading the bay. Halfway across the yard, he caught the soft sound of feminine voices. A turn of his head and he saw Sondra walking toward him. Laura skipped at her side, bareheaded, her coat unbuttoned and flapping open to reveal the wool plaid skirt, white blouse, and red sweater vest she'd worn to school. He slowed his steps, watching the two of them for a moment. Laura was talking, quite earnestly, to Sondra, no doubt reciting the little things that had happened at school that day. Sondra's head was tipped down in an attitude of interest.

Seeing them together like that, Bannon was reminded again that there was a good deal of affection between those two.

He frowned, conscious of a resentment he couldn't control. Laura had a need he couldn't fulfill--a child's love for her mother. Sondra was fulfilling it. But it was a love that belonged to Diana, not Sondra.

He continued to the barn, tiredness and that familiar depression sweeping over him. Inside the shadowed barn, he looped the reins through a wall ring and hooked a stirrup over the saddle horn to slip the cinch strap from its keeper.

"Hi, Dad." Laura's bright voice came from behind him. "Aunt Sondra's here."

Bannon glanced over his shoulder at the two of them. "So I see."

"We were just coming out to watch you sort cattle.

Are you done?" Separating from Sondra, Laura approached the bay horse.

"Yup." He tugged the strap free of the cinch ring as Laura stroked the bay's nose.

"How about your homework?"

She wrinkled her nose a little. "Almost," she replied, then said to Sondra, "This is Mighty Mouse. We call him that 'cause he's not very big, but he's fast and quick. He's got cow sense, too. Dad says there's no better horse for working cattle in the whole state than Mighty Mouse."

"I'm sure he's right," Sondra murmured, staying well clear.

As Bannon pulled the saddle and blanket pad off the horse, Laura asked, "Are you going to put him in one of the stalls or turn him out in the corral?"

"The corral." With the saddle and blanket pad in one hand, he opened the tack-room door with the other.

"Can I do it?"

"May I?" Sondra corrected.

"May I, Dad?" she called out when he disappeared inside the tack room.

"Bring the bridle back and hang it up."

"I will."

One-handed, Bannon heaved the western saddle onto its rack. The soft plod of hooves came from the barn's alleyway, accompanied by the croon of Laura's voice. A movement in the doorway drew his glance. Sondra stood in the opening, a dark figure in her flat-heeled boots, charcoal slacks, and black jacket.

Her face was the one pale thing about her, framed by the silk scarf that hooded her head and hid the silver-ash of her hair.

His glance briefly touched the smooth, classic lines of her features before he brought it back to the task at hand and turned the damp saddle pad woolly-side up, laying it across the saddle. "What brings you out this way?"

"I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd drop by. I spoke with Agnes this morning and she told me you wouldn't be in the office today."

"I had work to do here."

"So I gathered." She stepped out of the doorway as Bannon walked back.

"Is somebody interested in buying the old Johnson place?" he asked curiously, aware Sondra wouldn't have been in the neighborhood unless business was involved.

"Not that I've heard," she replied, then paused a beat. "Kit Masters asked me to come out."

"Kit?" Bannon halted, a frown of surprise narrowing his eyes.

Sondra saw it and lowered her glance, concealing any smugness from his probing eyes. "Yes, she's decided to sell the ranch and wants to list it with me."

"That isn't true." His voice was harsh, angry, with just a trace of uncertainty.

"It shocked me, too. When she asked, I almost refused. I knew you'd be upset. But--

she's determined to sell, and if I don't take the listing, some other realtor will."

"I don't believe you," he snapped in accusation. "She would have said something to me. Kit wouldn't sell Silverwood."

"Don't take my word for it. Ask her."

"You're damned right I will." Bannon left Sondra standing there, long strides carrying him out of the barn and across the ranch yard.

Laura came running up. "Where's Dad going?" She turned a bewildered look on Sondra.

"To see Kit Masters, I suspect." A small smile edged the corners of her mouth, the tiniest gleam of satisfaction lighting her eyes as Sondra watched Bannon climb into his pickup.

"He sounded mad."

Sondra didn't bother to deny that as the pickup roared off. "He just found out she's going to sell the ranch her father left her."

"She and Dad danced together at that party. Buffy showed me a picture of them in the newspaper.

Dad said she was a friend."

"She used to be." Sondra seriously doubted that they would be much longer. Nothing could have pleased her more.

"The paper said she was an actress."

"Yes."

"Gramps says the people from Hollywood are full of themselves."

"People often make a fuss over them. I suppose it's only natural that all the attention would go to their heads and make them think they were better than others."

"I guess."

"Are you going to walk me to my car? I have to get back to town."

"Sure." Laura reached for her hand, clasping it firmly.

A shiny new automatic coffee maker filled the counter space to the left of the sink.

Kit wandered to the other side and hopped up on the counter to sit with her legs dangling. Idly she plucked a carrot stick from the tray of raw vegetables Paula was arranging. She bit off the tip and chewed disinterestedly.

"Try some of this vegetable dip. It's delicious." Paula paused in her task to dip a broccoli floret in the dill-flavored sauce. "Even if I did make it myself."

She popped the coated vegetable into her mouth.

"No thanks." Kit toyed with her carrot stick.

"Kit Masters--refusing a tasty tidbit?

My, we are in a mood, aren't we?"

"Don't," Kit protested with a faint flash of irritability and jumped down from the counter, giving the rest of the carrot a toss into the wastebasket.

"It's the weather. It would give anybody the glums," Paula said, watching as Kit wandered over to a side window and plunged her hands in the pockets of her brown jeans.

"It's not that." She stared out the window at the premature dusk settling on the ridge top.

"I think I'm just angry that I have to sell the ranch."

And it bothered her that she'd started thinking it was her mother's fault. It was unfair to blame her.

It certainly hadn't been her mother's choice to have multiple sclerosis. Which only made Kit that much more ashamed of this vague, niggling resentment she felt. Maybe if they'd been closer--she cut off the thought and sighed.

"Personally, I vote for building a roaring fire in the fireplace and spending the entire evening in front of it, sipping hot toddies and grousing about life."

"Air it all out--and all that jazz," Kit said without turning from the window.

"Something like that. Did somebody just drive in?

I thought I heard a car."

"I don't know. I can't see from here." She thought she heard the faint, muffled slam of a door and frowned. "I wonder who that could be. I'll check."

"I'll bet it's Chip. He and John probably had another fight over the script and he's come to cry on my shoulder. I wish he'd stop being such a damn prima donna," she muttered, then called after Kit.

"Tell him I'll be right there."

Kit had taken one step into the living room when the front door burst open. "Bannon." She stopped in surprise.

He pushed the door shut with a backward shove of his hand, the glass panes rattling at the impact. Kit noticed two things

simultaneously: one, he didn't take off his hat; Bannon always took off his hat the minute he set foot in a house; and two, the look on his face--that granite-hard impassivity printed from cheekbone to cheekbone, the kind of expression made by muscles tightly set.

"What are you doing here? What's wrong?" She frowned.

"I'm here to find out if it's true," he replied in a voice that was too quiet, too controlled.

"If what's true?"

"That you're selling the ranch."

"You've talked to Sondra," she guessed and wondered why she hadn't anticipated that.

"Then it is true." If anything, his expression grew harder.

"Yes. I was going to tell you--"

"When? Before or after the bulldozers showed up?"

he challenged.

"Before, of course." She curled her fingers into the palms of her hand, trying to hold on to her temper. She hated his quiet anger, an anger that lost none of its impact despite the quietness of it. She wished he would curse or shout at her. She could have handled that better because she could have thrown it back. But Bannon never had fought fair.

"Why, Kit?" he demanded. "You told me you didn't want to sell it."

"I don't! But I have to. I need the money."

"The talk we had on my porch the other night

--the minute you heard this ranch could be worth ten million, you started seeing dollar signs." His dark eyes were black with accusation. No, it was harsher than that. It was condemnation she saw in them.

Condemnation mingled with disgust.

"I don't want the money for myself.

I need it for my mother." She moved into the room, too upset, too angry, too agitated to stand in one spot the way Bannon did. "You have no idea how expensive it is to keep her in that hospital," she said tightly, hurling the words over a shoulder. "She doesn't have any health insurance and the annuity of thirty thousand dollars a year her aunt left her doesn't even begin to pay all the costs."

"There are programs," he began.

"She doesn't qualify for any of them because her yearly income is too high. I know.

I've applied to all of them. I've filled out so many forms and applications for this agency or that program, I think I could do it in my sleep.

I even had a lawyer in L.a. see if there wasn't some way we could break my aunt's will, stop the annuity so my mother could qualify. We can't."

"There are other ways. Maybe if you worked--"

"What do you think I've been doing?" She picked up one of the sofa's pillows and threw it back down, barely--just barely--stopping herself from throwing it at him. "What do you think I'm doing here? Do you think I came for the fun of it? I'm here to work--to film a movie."

"So why the urgency to sell the ranch? From what I've read, it's a movie everyone predicts will make you a star."

"But I'm not one yet, am I?" Kit argued. "And I may never be one. Even if I did hit it big, would it last? Would I make enough to take care of my mother for the rest of her life?

Sure, you hear about Tom Cruise or Harrison Ford getting ten or fifteen million dollars for a picture. But what did Meryl Streep get for her last one? Or Glen Close, or any other top female star? You can bet they were lucky to get a tenth of what a top male star would get. Then their agent gets a chunk out of that. Plus, there's a manager, publicist, and secretaries who have to be paid.

Don't forget Uncle Sam wants his share, too. And what if it doesn't last beyond one picture? There's no such thing as security in this business. When you're hot, everybody wants you, and when you're ice, they won't even put you in their drinks." She gripped the back of the couch. "There are too many ifs--if I make it, if I earn enough, if I can stay on top for five years or more. I can't risk it. It's too big a gamble."

"But selling the ranch, Kit," Bannon protested tightly. "My God, your father must be turning over in his grave."

"That's not true. If he was alive, he'd be doing just what I'm doing so he could take care of Mother." That was her one consolation in all this, knowing he would endorse her decision. "Damn it, Bannon, you don't understand. Her bills already total close to one hundred thousand dollars. The doctors have told me she could live for another thirty years, but she's never going to get better.

She's never going to be able to leave that hospital.

The bills will never stop coming in. The way medical costs are constantly rising, the bills are just going to get bigger and bigger. I have to sell the ranch. It's the only way I can be sure there will be enough money to take care of her."

Bannon tipped his head down for a silent moment, then lifted it.

"Why didn't you tell me all this before, Kit?"

"Because it didn't concern you. It's my responsibility and my problem."

"But if I'd known about it, maybe I could have gotten the state or one of the environmentalist groups to buy it for a wildlife preserve. Not for ten million, but for one maybe or--"

"It's not enough," she cut him off. "I'm sorry for not telling you of my decision, but I am selling the ranch--and I don't care whether you like it or not."

His expression took on that tight, closed-in look again. "That's about as plain as you can put it."

He turned and walked out the door.

Kit stood behind the sofa, not moving, listening to his footsteps, the slam of the truck door, the growl of the engine. She wrapped her arms around her middle, hurting for herself--and for him.