Rawhide and Lace. Diana Palmer

in an automobile accident three days ago, Miss Scott. I’m sorry to have to tell you that it was fatal.”

      “Oh.” She sighed. “Oh. I’m very sorry, Mr….?”

      “Johnson. Ed Johnson. I’m calling to inform you that he named you his beneficiary.”

      “Beneficiary?”

      She sounded stunned. He supposed she was. “Miss Scott, you inherit a substantial amount of cash in the bequest, as well as part ownership of the Staghorn ranch.”

      “I can’t believe he did that,” she murmured. “I can’t believe it! What about his brother?”

      “I don’t quite understand the situation, I admit, but the will is ironclad. You inherit. With a small proviso, that is,” he added reluctantly.

      “What proviso?”

      “That you live on the ranch.”

      “Never!” she spat.

      So Ty was right. He leaned back in his chair. “I expected that reaction,” he told her. “But you’d better hear the rest of it…. Miss Scott?”

      “I’m still here.” Her voice was shaking.

      “If you don’t meet that provision,” he said, his voice steady, even a little impatient, “your half of the ranch will go to Ward Jessup.”

      There was a long silence. “That’s Ty’s…Mr. Wade’s…neighbor,” she recalled.

      “That’s right. And, I might add, something of an adversary. He only wants the oil rights to Staghorn, you know. He’d sell off the stock. The ranch couldn’t survive with what would be left. There are several families whose sole support is Staghorn—a blacksmith, several cowhands, a veterinarian, a storekeeper, a mechanic—”

      “I…know how big the place is,” Erin said quietly. “Some of those people have worked for the Wades for three generations.”

      “That’s correct.” He was amazed that she knew so much about Staghorn.

      “I need time to think,” she said after a pause. “I’ve just come out of the hospital, Mr. Johnson. It’s very difficult for me to walk at all. A trip of that kind would be extremely hard on me.”

      “Mr. Wade has a private plane,” he reminded her.

      “I don’t know…”

      “The terms of the will are very explicit,” he said. “And they require immediate action. I’m sorry. I need an answer today.”

      There was another long pause. “Tell Mr. Wade…I’ll come.”

      Ed had to force himself not to grin.

      “There’s just one thing,” she said hesitantly. “How long must I stay there?”

      “No particular length of time was specified,” he told her. “That leaves it to the interpretation of the people involved. And believe me, Mr. Jessup will interpret it to mean until you die.”

      “I’ve heard that he’s quite ruthless.” She sighed. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it. I can be ready tomorrow afternoon, Mr. Johnson.”

      She sounded tired, and in pain. He felt guilty for pressing her, but he knew it couldn’t have waited.

      “I’ll pass that information along. Meanwhile, Miss Scott, I’ll get the necessary paperwork done. You’re quite a wealthy young woman now.”

      “Quite wealthy,” she repeated dully, and hung up.

      She was sitting on a sofa that swayed almost to the floor, in a ground-floor apartment in Queens. The water was mostly cold, the heating worked only occasionally. She was wrapped in a thick old coat to keep warm, and no one who’d known her six months ago would recognize her.

      Why had she agreed to go? she wondered miserably. She was in pain already, and all she’d done today was go back and forth to the bathroom. Her leg was giving her hell. They’d showed her the exercises, stressing that she must do them twice a day, religiously, or she’d never lose her limp. A limping model was not exactly employable, she reminded herself. But there seemed so little point in it all now. She’d lost everything. She had no future to look forward to, nothing to live for. Nothing except revenge. And even that left a bad taste in her mouth.

      She couldn’t see those people out of work, she thought. Not in winter, which November practically was. She couldn’t stand by and leave them homeless and jobless because of her.

      She stretched out her leg, grimacing as the muscles protested. Exercises indeed! It was hard enough to walk, let alone do lifts and such. Her eyes were drawn to the window. Outside, it was raining. She wondered if it was raining in Ravine, Texas, and what Tyson Wade was doing right now. Would he be cursing her for all he was worth? Probably. He’d been sure that she’d never set foot on Staghorn again, after the things he’d said to her. He wouldn’t know about the accident, of course, or the baby. She felt her eyes go cold. If only she could hurt him as badly as he’d hurt her. If only!

      She could stay here, of course. She could change her mind, refuse the conditions of the inheritance. Sure. And she could fly, too. All those people, some of them with children, all out in the cold…

      She lay back down on the sofa and closed her eyes. There would be time enough to worry about it later. Now, she only wanted to sleep and forget.

      * * *

      Ty. She was running toward him, her arms outstretched, and he was laughing, waiting for her. He lifted her up against him and kissed her with aching tenderness. He stared down at her, his eyes filled with love. She was pregnant, very pregnant, and he was touching the mound of her belly, his hands possessive, his eyes adoring….

      She awoke with tears in her eyes. Always it was the same dream, with the same ending. Always she woke crying. She got up and washed her face, looking at the clock. Bedtime already. She’d slept for hours. She pulled on a cotton gown and went to bed, taking a sleeping pill before she lay down. Perhaps this time, she wouldn’t dream.

      By early the next afternoon, she was packed and waiting for whomever Tyson sent to get her. Her once elegant suitcase was sitting by the door, filled with her meager wardrobe. She was wearing a simple beige knit suit that would have fit her six months ago. Now it hung on her, making her look almost skeletal. Her lusterless hair was tied in a bun, her face devoid of makeup. In her right hand was a heavy cane, dangling beside the leg that still refused to support her.

      At two o’clock precisely, there came a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called from the sofa, only vaguely curious about which poor soul Ty would have sacrificed to come and fly her down to Texas.

      She got the shock of her life when the door opened to admit Tyson Wade himself.

      He stopped dead in the doorway and stared at her as she got unsteadily to her feet, leaning heavily on the cane. The impact of his handiwork was damning.

      He remembered a laughing young girl. Here was an old, tired woman with green eyes that held no life at all, no gaiety…only a resigned kind of pain. She was pitifully thin, and her face was pale and drawn. She stared at him as if he were a stranger, and perhaps he was. Perhaps he always had been, because he’d never really let her get close enough to know him in any way but one.

      “Hello, Erin,” he said quietly.

      She inclined her head. “Hello, Tyson,” she said.

      He looked around him with obvious distaste, his silver eyes reflecting his feelings about her surroundings.

      “I haven’t been able to work for several months,” she informed him. “I’ve been drawing a disability pension and eating thanks to food stamps.”

      His eyes closed briefly; when they opened, they were vaguely haunted. “You won’t have to live on food stamps now,” he said, his voice rough.

      “Obviously