A Little Town In Texas. Bethany Campbell

just company loyalty. When I talk to him—”

      “You won’t. He won’t,” Cronin said. “If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it’ll only be to bite your head off. Fabian hates the press.”

      “I could try—” Kitt began.

      “Forget it,” ordered Cronin. “I repeat. Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. You’ll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors.”

      Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she’d turned her back on them long ago—with good reason. And there was the very real question of how objective she could be. This worried her. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn’t want this story.

      But then Cronin said the magic words. “Do a good job of this,” he said silkily, “and you’ll be promoted from staff writer to contributing editor.”

      Her misgivings vanished as if a lightning bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor? For a promotion like that, she would cover a story in the hottest part of hell.

      EVERY DAY AFTER WORK when the weather was decent, Kitt went for a run in Central Park. Then she showered, nuked a frozen dinner and settled down to read.

      She unplugged the phone because men sometimes called, and recently she wasn’t in a mood to bother with them. She was currently between boyfriends, a state she didn’t mind a bit. It was restful.

      Now, wearing her ratty bathrobe, she flopped onto her sofa and opened the folder on the Belyle brothers. True to Fabian form, the information about them was scant.

      There were actually three brothers, and their widowed mother had moved with them from Texas to New York. She’d worked for Brian Fabian as a cleaning lady or maid. Accounts differed, but he’d befriended her.

      All three sons had gone to law school, and all three had taken jobs with Fabian’s firm. Rumor said that Fabian had been a patron to them.

      Nick Belyle, the brother who’d defected, had gone to Harvard. Mel, the one being sent to fight him, had gone to Yale. Research had provided copies of their transcripts. Both had A averages. Kitt gave a grudging whistle of approval—these two should be able to wage a hell of a battle.

      Mel made the gossip columns from time to time, dating models. Fabianesque, that appetite for beautiful women. Otherwise, the brothers kept their private lives private. That, too, was in Fabian’s mode.

      Until Nick settled in Texas, he’d kept on the move for the corporation, living in a dozen different places. Mel stayed based in New York. His address was fancy. Very fancy.

      And that was it. There were a few boyhood and teenage snapshots of Nick. None of Mel. Also missing was any mention of either brother’s hobbies, clubs, political affiliations—nothing. Kitt closed the folder, wishing the research department had dug more deeply.

      She was going to have to do her own detective work and find the details herself—starting now. She would call Nora in Crystal Creek.

      Nora was her aunt, but the word aunt always sounded august and elderly to Kitt. Nora was neither. Nora was thirty-three, just five years older than Kitt. She was bright, funny, down-to-earth, and generous.

      Nora had made only one mistake in her life, and it had been disastrous. As a sixteen-year-old girl, she’d got pregnant and married a man who’d thrown all her dreams offtrack.

      Nora had grown up wanting one thing: to be a teacher. After her divorce, she’d sweated blood to finish college. She’d married again, a good man. She’d even taught for a while, but circumstances had seemed to conspire against her.

      Now, instead of teaching, Nora had a dead-end job. She worked fifty weeks a year, six days a week in a cow town café and managed a tatty little motel, too. Kitt shook her head at the waste.

      She dialed Nora’s home number. She listened to the phone ring and thought of Crystal Creek. It still seemed ironic to be going back, but perhaps, at last, it was time. A feeble ghost or two might still haunt her, but this would be her chance to lay them to rest.

      When Nora answered, she hooted with surprise to hear Kitt. “Kitt-Kat!” she cried. “Can you read minds? I was just thinking of you. I loved that piece you wrote about the little girl who plays chess.”

      Kitt thanked her, feeling the pinch of guilt. Nora followed Kitt’s career proudly and read every issue of Exclusive. She sent notes of praise and funny cards and newsy letters, but Kitt was usually too busy to answer at length. Now and then she dashed off a postcard or an e-mail. It was not that she didn’t love Nora, but…

      She paused, picturing Nora’s pretty face and blue-gray eyes. How often in the past had she turned to her, a girl barely older than herself, for comfort? Now she was turning to her again—but for reasons of ambition.

      Kitt took a deep breath. “Listen, Nora, I’m coming down there next week. On Monday. I hope it’s not too short a notice.”

      “Here?” Nora sounded delighted. “That’s great! I can’t wait to see you. Good grief, how long has it been?”

      “Twelve years,” Kitt said. Another guilty twinge stung her, and she tried not to think of her long absence.

      “Twelve years,” Nora said in wonder. “It’s not possible. It can’t be.”

      “The prodigal returns,” Kitt said, trying to make a joke of it.

      “It’s about time,” laughed Nora. “I was starting to think you got too citified. You wouldn’t claim us any more.”

      “I’ve got an assignment,” said Kitt, trying to sound casual. “To write about Crystal Creek. The current troubles. You know, that whole land grab thing with Brian Fabian.”

      For a moment, Nora went strangely silent. At last she said, “Write about it? I don’t know. Folks around here might not like it….”

      Kitt made her voice conciliatory. “We’ll talk about it when I get there, okay? The main thing is I get a chance to see you. It’s been so long…I mean, I can still come, can’t I? Even if I’m on assignment?”

      This time Nora didn’t hesitate. “You’re always welcome,” she said with warmth. “And I want you to stay with us. At Chez Slattery. I insist.”

      It was Kitt’s turn to pause. For the first time since that afternoon she had a strong rush of apprehension about the McKinneys.

      Nora was married to the McKinneys’ foreman. She lived within sight of the main house. For Kitt, it was uncomfortably close, too close.

      “That’s good of you, but I shouldn’t. I mean, if the people in town don’t like what I write, they could hold it against you.”

      “I know you’re always fair,” Nora said loyally. “That’s one of the best things about your articles. You put emotion into them, but they’re fair. Really, stay with us—please.”

      “No,” Kitt insisted. “It wouldn’t be in my best interest, either. If I stay with you, it’ll look as if I’ve taken sides before I’ve even started.”

      Kitt drew in her breath and held it. What she was saying was sound in journalistic principle. But she also could not bear spending a week or more living on the McKinneys’ land. Suddenly the ghosts of her past did not seem so few or so feeble.

      Nora sighed. “I can understand that. I’d certainly never want to compromise the integrity of your story. But you can spend time with us—can’t you? You can’t work all the time.”

      “You’ll be the first person I’ll come see,” promised Kitt. “I’ll drive straight to your house. Won’t even check into the hotel first. The old hotel—you said they remodeled it?”

      “You won’t recognize it. You know that you could stay for free at the motel, instead,” Nora said ruefully. “But