The Ballerina's Stand. Angel Smits

now in a private box at Glendale’s Alex Theatre, watching the Los Angeles Ballet with Pal Haymaker, he felt strange. Jason glanced sideways at the old man. How the hell had they gotten here?

      After he’d seen Pal that morning following DJ’s wedding, Jason would have laid money down that the old guy wouldn’t be able to make the trip. But that had been several days ago, and here he was. Cleaned up, in a custom-tailored suit, Pal looked every bit as out of place as Jason felt.

      The lights dimmed, and the old guy pushed to the edge of his seat. The oxygen tubing rubbing against the arm of the wheelchair was loud in the silence that fell as the curtain rose. No one else seemed to notice, so Jason breathed a sigh of relief.

      The music began, and a line of ballerinas came on the stage. Jason leaned back in his seat, hoping to find something to enjoy about the event.

      “There she is!” Haymaker said loudly and Jason cringed. The music, thankfully, mostly covered his voice.

      “Who?” Jason asked.

      “My daughter.”

      “Who?” It was a reaction more than a question. Jason stared at the man he’d known most of his life, a man who’d been Texas’s biggest pain in the ass for years. He had a son, well into his fifties, and a grandson who’d run around with Jason’s older brothers back in high school. Other than Mrs. Haymaker, there hadn’t been any other women in that equation, unless you counted housekeepers.

      “You didn’t think I had it in me.” Pal chuckled and dissolved into a fit of coughing. The nurse appeared out of the shadows with a cup of water and a little white pill. The old man waved her away and turned his rapt attention back to the performance.

      “See her there?” He pointed toward the left side of the stage, his arm trembling. “The redhead, like her mama. Second from the end.” More coughing. He took the pill.

      Jason looked. All the women were dressed identically in white toe shoes, tights and leotards. White gauzy tutus circled each slim waistline. A white band of fabric scraped their hair away from their faces, and the only color difference between them was the thick coil of hair at the nape of their necks. He saw a strawberry blonde. He’d never recognize her, or any of the other matching ballerinas, if they passed on the street.

      “Next act,” the old man wheezed. “Solo.”

      “Are you sure you’re up to this?”

      The old man didn’t look good, but the glare Jason received was as strong as ever. Haymaker sat back, watching, waiting. For the woman he believed was his daughter.

      As Pal struggled to breathe, Jason struggled with the ramifications. Pal had two heirs as far as anyone knew. His physical condition was quickly declining. The prognosis, according to the doctors, was not good.

      The reason Jason was here with Pal tonight had apparently just appeared. On Monday, when Pal had shown up at Jason’s office, he’d demanded Jason’s attendance here tonight. Jason had agreed just to get the old man out of the office before he keeled over.

      Pal wasn’t one to leave anything undone. A carryover from all those years on the Texas prairie, building the Double Diamond Ranch into one of the biggest operations in the country. Out on the range, unfinished work could mean life or death.

      Pal quieted and, for a minute, Jason thought he’d fallen asleep. He hadn’t though. His eyes were as alert as ever, drinking in every instant the young woman was on stage.

      Just as he’d said, in the second act, she came out into the spotlight alone. This time, she wore a black leotard, tights and toe shoes. No tutu, just a wispy, diaphanous skirt that formed to her hips. Her hair, though, was what caught Jason’s gaze. Long light copper curls hung down to around her hips, swaying with every move.

      Jason couldn’t tear his eyes away from the sight. He knew that if he saw her on the street, he’d definitely recognize her, and probably stop and stare. She was stunning. The dance beautiful—flawless as far as he could tell.

      Time stopped. Haymaker faded into the distance. Nothing existed except her beauty and perfection. Music wafted around him, slipping inside somehow. He felt his heart echo its rhythm. Beating. Stopping. Pounding.

      The emotions of the story came to life. Anger and pain ripped across the stage and tumbled into an anguished heap in the center of the floor. A single light remained. She didn’t move. He barely breathed.

      Arms, a multitude of bare arms, reached out of the darkness and lifted her limp body. Her limbs dangled lifelessly as the darkness swallowed her whole.

      Jason’s eyes stung, and he shook his head to clear his mind of the image and emotions. He looked over at the old man. Tears trickled down his pale cheeks.

      The audience shot to their feet. Jason could see the old man wanted to, his legs trembling as he tried to scoot forward. Jason reached out and put a hand on the bony shoulder. “I’ll do it for us both.”

      Jason stood and applauded hard and strong. She deserved the acclaim.

      The rest of the performance flew by, but there were no more signs of her, and Jason felt disappointed. The old man settled back, nearly dozing off, as if he knew the show he’d come for was over.

      With the lights on and the curtains down, Jason rose to his feet once again.

      “Call the driver,” Haymaker barked to the nurse.

      Jason frowned. “Aren’t you going to go see her?”

      Haymaker spun the chair around with surprising speed. “Hell, no. She doesn’t know I exist.” The anger was more mask than real. “I didn’t just invite you here for a show.”

      Jason had known that, but he’d learned years ago not to question a client until they were good and ready.

      “Then I’m charging for my time.”

      Pal grinned. “I expect you to. Here.” He pulled out an envelope from his jacket pocket. “Take care of this. Make sure it’s all California legal. Dallas will courier the rest of the file when the time is right.”

      There was no address, nothing written on the outside of the envelope. Jason turned it over and found it unsealed. He pulled out the pages. There were only a few. One handwritten. The scrawl was messy. It was Haymaker’s own hand. There was a birth certificate, with no father listed, and a detailed report from a private investigator. And a neatly folded copy of a will.

      Haymaker had been shrewd, as usual. He’d made sure every T was crossed and every I dotted. Jason skimmed the report, then the letter and will. The old man was changing everything. The “boys” as he referred to Pal Jr. and Trey, got to keep the ranch, but every investment vehicle, and every other blasted thing Pal owned was to be put on the auction block the instant he died, the money divided three—not two—ways.

      Except for a property in Northern California that, according to a separate report, had sat vacant for over twenty years. That was to be hers. And hers alone.

      “Back in Texas, you said you weren’t going to screw the boys.”

      Pal laughed, or what served as a laugh. “I don’t owe you or anyone an explanation, but I’ll tell you something, boy. My kin don’t have a clue what the hell I have. So dividing it up this way is more than they expect.” He looked away. “More than they deserve,” he whispered.

      By the time Jason looked up again, the nurse had wheeled the old man down the ramp to the exit. Jason knew a limousine would be waiting just on the other side of that door. He wanted to run down that ramp and catch the old man, to demand an answer to the question of “Are you crazy?”

      But he knew Haymaker. There was nothing crazy about the old man. Nothing.

      Jason glanced back at the empty stage. That girl down there had been beautiful, pure. Clueless. She had no idea she was about to become a very rich young woman.

      And damn it. He did not want to be the one