The Rancher and the Amnesiac Bride
Автор
Joan Elliott Pickart
Прочтений
16,4K
Глав
15
Chapter 1
The delightful dream Josie Wentworth was having followed her into the foggy state between sleep and wakefulness.
The vivid images in her mind were of her senior prom at Freemont Springs High School. She was wearing a pretty, frilly pink dress, a wrist corsage of gardenias, and her hair was swept up in an extremely sophisticated style.
She was dancing with a lanky, good-looking young man whose name the dream did not supply. A band played louder than necessary in a crepepaper-decorated gymnasium. She was having an absolutely wonderful time.
Josie stirred, opened her eyes and glanced around the bedroom, fully expecting to see the prom dress
in a heap on the floor, where she’d dropped it after the previous night’s festivities.
This was the bedroom where she’d grown up, she thought, then yawned. There was her desk, the overflowing bookcase, the dresser—with three drawers spilling forth various items of clothing—the posters on the wall, stuffed animals on a shelf.
But where was the expensive dress with shoes dyed to match? Why couldn’t she smell the aroma of gardenias from the now-wilting corsage?
Josie frowned. In the next instant she sat bolt upright in bed, her heart racing. A chill coursed through her as the last vestiges of sleep were shoved away by harsh reality.
She was not seventeen years old, she thought, pressing trembling fingertips to her lips. She was not a carefree child with license to reminisce at dawn’s light about the special dance she’d attended the night before.
She was a twenty-nine-year-old woman who had returned temporarily to her family home to sleep once again in a room where her biggest worry had been if the boy of the moment would telephone as promised.
She was Josie Wentworth, of the notoriously wealthy Oklahoma Wentworth Oil Works family.
She was the granddaughter of Joseph.
The older sister of Michael.
The younger sister of Jack.
And Jack was dead.
A sob caught in Josie’s throat and she willed herself not to cry, not again. So many tears she’d shed.
Such pain had ripped through her as she faced, time and again, the horrible truth that she would never see her beloved brother again.
“Oh, God, Jack,” she whispered, as the unwelcome tears filled her eyes. “What am I going to do without you? Why did you leave me?” She drew a shaky breath. “Jack—” tears spilled onto her pale cheeks “—be nimble. Jack be quick. Jack jump over...”
Josie shook her head and covered her face with her hands as the raw tears closed her throat.
Two weeks, she thought. It had been two weeks since Trey McGill had telephoned her, asking her to meet him at the Wentworth family estate, where Grandfather and Michael still resided.
Two weeks since a visibly shaken Trey had stood in the enormous living room and taken on the persona of the messenger of death.
He had been with Jack on an undercover mission for the State Department, Trey said. It had been carefully planned down to the most minute detail. Everything was in place. Nothing could go wrong.
But it had all fallen apart, Trey had related, his voice breaking. And Jack...Jack had been killed. His body never recovered. He was gone. Jack Wentworth was gone.
The days since had been a haze of misery for Josie. There’d been so many people to call with the shocking news. A memorial service had been held and she’d told herself over and over that the ceremony must give her emotional closure, despite there being no body to lay to eternal rest in the ground.
She was trying so hard to cope, to accept the loss of her big, strong, handsome brother. He had been her hero, always there for her, ready to comfort, protect or praise.
Josie dashed the tears from her cheeks and stared into space, a soft smile forming on her lips as gentle memories momentarily soothed her aching heart.
On her first day of school, she mused, she’d suddenly decided she wasn’t going to that scary building she’d visited with her granddad.
The teacher lady smiled all the time and had big teeth and fuzzy hair like a witch. The brightly decorated room she’d seen had been filled with noisy kids, and she didn’t like them at all, none of them.
She’d stood in the foyer of the house in her new saddle shoes and knee socks, hating the regulation uniform that was making her itch, and stuck her thumb in her mouth. She refused to budge.
“Let’s go, Princess,” Joseph Wentworth said. “I promised to drive you to school on the first day and walk you all the way to your classroom, remember? That’s exactly what I intend to do, so off we go.”
Josie shook her head, then two big tears splashed onto her cheeks.
“There, there, don’t cry,” Joseph said. “You’re a big girl now. My stars, you’re five years old and so gnown-up. This is a very special and important day for you. Don’t you want to show the other children your new shoes?”
Josie sniffled, frowned, then shook her head, her thumb still firmly in her mouth.
“Wonderful,” Joseph said, throwing up his hands.
“What should I do? Carry her kicking and screaming into the school building?”
Eleven-year-old Jack set his books on the floor and kneeled in front of Josie.
“Hey, Peanut,” Jack said, “listen to me, okay? You and I are going to have a secret code. If you take your thumb out of your mouth, I’ll tell you what it is.”
Josie studied her big brother for a long moment, then out popped her thumb.
“All right,” Jack said, drying Josie’s tears with his fingertips. “Here’s the deal. When you get scared or upset or lonely, at school or anywhere else, you just say the poem that was written about me and I’ll hear you, no matter where I am. You won’t see me, but I’ll be with you. That’s what our secret code will do. Do you remember the poem?”
Josie nodded. “Jack be nimble. Jack be quick. Jack—”
“That’s the one,” he interrupted. “Do you understand how the secret code works?”
“You’ll be with me no matter what,” Josie said, nodding. “Even if I can’t see you.”
“Yep.”
“Jack?” Josie said, her bottom lip trembling. “Will the secret code work forever and ever?”
“Forever and ever,” he said. “I promise.”
“’Kay. I’m ready to go to school now, Granddad.”
Joseph Wentworth chuckled. “Jack, you’re destined to be a politician when you grow up.”
“No,” Jack said, getting to his feet. “I’m going
to be a Navy SEABEE. I’ll be the best one the navy has ever had.”
“I don’t doubt that for a minute,” Joseph said. “But after you’re a famous SEABEE, I’ll be waiting for you to take over the running of Wentworth Oil Works. Now hurry along, you two. We don’t want to be late.”
“Jack be nimble,” Josie had whispered as they left the huge house. “Jack be quick....”
Josie shook her head slightly to erase from her mind the scene that had taken place so many years before.
“Forever and ever, Jack?” she said, her own words feeling like physical blows in the quiet room. “Oh, God, Jack, forever is gone.”
Downstairs, Joseph Wentworth sipped hot, strong coffee from a wafer-thin china cup. He was in his usual chair at the table in the sun-filled breakfast nook beyond the kitchen, attempting to concentrate on the morning edition of the Freemont Springs Daily Post.
With a sigh of defeat he set the paper to one side. Propping his elbows on the table, he cradled the cup in both hands and stared out the window, not actually seeing the perfectly manicured grounds that stretched in all directions.
His oldest grandson was dead, he thought. Jack Wentworth was dead. Maybe if he repeated that horrifying fact often enough, he’d really believe it in his heart, mind and soul.
Maybe he’d be able to let go of the thread of hope
he was clinging to that it was a mistake, that Jack was alive and would walk through the front door any minute. There hadn’t been a body to bury, no tangible evidence that—
“Fool,” Joseph said aloud. “He’s dead and gone, just like his father and mother before him.”
This was not the natural order of things. A man shouldn’t lose his only son, then years later his oldest grandson. It was too much to bear, too much pain, too stark and cruel.
Joseph set the cup on the saucer, then dragged his hands down his face.
Lord, he was tired. He hadn’t slept well since Trey McGill had delivered the unbelievable message of Jack’s death.
He sighed.
He was exhausted to the bone, felt every bit of his seventy-two years and then some. He had to get a grip on himself because, heaven knew, he didn’t want to have another stroke.
The sound of Josie greeting Evelyn, the housekeeper, reached Joseph and he straightened in his chair. He smoothed his thick, salt-and-pepper hair, then ran one hand over his silk tie. Pulling the newspaper back in front of him, he focused on an article about air pollution.
“Good morning, Granddad,” Josie called as she entered the kitchen. “I’ll get some coffee and join you if that’s all right.”
“Hmm?” Joseph dragged his gaze from the paper. “Oh, yes, certainly. You should have more than coffee for breakfast, though.”
“That’s what Evvie just scolded me about, but I’m really not hungry. Anyway, I’m a bit worried about her. She doesn’t look well.”
“She’s upset about Jack,” Joseph said. “After all, she helped me raise him—raise all of you, for that matter. I couldn’t have done it without Evelyn’s help.
“You and Michael don’t remember your parents and the boating accident that killed them, but Evelyn was a pillar of strength during those difficult days. I was very grateful when she agreed to stay on and be a mother figure for you three. She came to love all of you very, very much, believe me.”
Josie walked into the sunny nook with a cup of steaming coffee and sat opposite her grandfather. As she sipped the hot drink, Joseph peered at her over the top of the newspaper.
Josie was a beautiful young woman, he thought. She’d inherited the Wentworth dark brown eyes from her father. Her dark auburn hair was a gift from her mother, and Josie wore it in a blunt cut that no doubt had a fancy name. It swung shiny and loose just above her shoulders.
And Josie, his precious little princess, had been crying—again.
“We all love Evvie,” Josie said. “She was a wonderful mother to us. I wish I could think of something to say to her to ease her pain, but I can’t even do that for myself.” She put down her cup. “I hate this, Granddad. I hate it that Jack is... It’s not right. It’s not fair.” She waved one hand in an impatient gesture. “Yes, yes, I know. Whoever said that life was fair?” She sighed and shook her head.
“Drink your coffee,” Joseph said gruffly. He snapped the paper back into place and reread the opening paragraph about pollution.
Several minutes passed in total silence.
“Granddad?” Josie said finally.
“Hmm?” He stared unseeing at the newsprint.
“I’m going back to my own apartment today. I can’t hide out here any longer, pretending I’m a child within these protective walls. It’s time for me to go.”
No! Joseph thought with a chilling rush of panic. He didn’t want to be alone in this enormous, empty house. He didn’t want to be alone with the agonizing pain caused by Jack’s death. He didn’t want to be alone with his tears that flowed in the dark hours of the night. Dear Lord, Josie, please, no.
“That’s fine,” he said nonchalantly, lowering the newspaper to look at his granddaughter. “Evelyn and I will get back to our usual routines.”
“Yes.” Josie paused. “In the last letter I had from Jack, he said that since I was only one year away from being eligible to receive the money from the trust fund you set up for me, I should be giving thought to the possibilities of a career of some sort.”
Joseph nodded. “Excellent idea. The terms for the releasing of funds are the same for all three of you. You get the money on your thirtieth birthday or when you marry, whichever comes first. So, find yourself a husband and give your old granddad some great-grandchildren.”
“I knew you’d say that,” Josie said, laughing. She sobered in the next instant. “Did you hear that,
Granddad? I laughed right out loud. With Jack gone I wasn’t sure I’d ever do that again.”
“He’d want you to smile, laugh, get on with your life, Josie. He’d expect all of us to do that. It won’t be easy, but it’s what we must do.
“The fact that Michael went back to the oil works so quickly after the memorial service may have appeared cold and unfeeling to some people, but Michael knew he was better off keeping busy, rather than sitting and brooding. Besides, with Jack no longer in place as CEO, Michael is facing a mountain of work and increased responsibility.”
“What about you, Granddad? Are you going to be all right here alone?”
“Of course. I’ve lived here with just Evelyn bustling around for many years now. I drop in at the oil works, go to my club and chat with friends, play a bit of golf, spend many enjoyable hours reading the classics. Don’t worry about me, Josie. The pain of losing Jack won’t ever disappear completely, but it will diminish in time. You’ll see.”
“I love you, Granddad.”
“I love you, too, Princess. You pack your things and return to your apartment. I imagine you’re in the midst of organizing some kind of charity event as usual.”
“Yes,” Josie said with a sigh. “You know that the interest from the trust allows me to donate my time to my favorite causes. Right now, though, I have no enthusiasm for tending to the details of a charity ball. I have an appointment next week in Tulsa with
the manager of a band I’m supposed to be considering booking, but...”
Josie got to her feet and began to pace restlessly. “I want the sun to stop shining and the birds to stop chirping,” she said, “and everyone to quit doing their usual routines. I feel as though I should stand in the middle of the hustle and bustle of Freemont Springs and scream, ‘What’s wrong with you people? Why are you going about your lives as you always have? Don’t you know that Jack Wentworth is dead? Don’t you know that—’” she stopped pacing and wrapped her hands around her elbows ‘“—that my beloved brother is never coming home again?”’ Her whisper-soft voice was filled with tears.
“That’s enough, Josie,” Joseph said sternly. “You will not crumble under the weight of this tragedy. Are you listening to me? You’re a Wentworth. Dry your tears, lift your chin and get on with your life. Go pack your belongings.”
Josie nodded jerkily, dropped a kiss on her grandfather’s cheek, then hurried from the room.
“You’re a Wentworth, by God,” Joseph said to the emptiness surrounding him.
He redirected his attention to the newspaper, but was unable to decipher the words through the mist of tears in his weary brown eyes.
Josie lived in the penthouse of a high-rise apartment building in an exclusive section of Freemont Springs. It was on the opposite side of the city from her grandfather’s affluent neighborhood.
She’d chosen the location, she’d told Joseph, for
the simple reasons that she could afford it and the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows lining one entire wall of the enormous living room was dazzling.
When she’d moved in five years before, she’d totally redecorated, installing plush white carpeting throughout and having the walls painted a soothing salmon color. The furniture was big and marshmallow soft, in a mixture of white, salmon and mint green.
All the tables had clear glass tops on oak bases, including the dining-room table, which sat twenty people. There were only a few pictures on the walls, the ones she’d selected being large seascapes in muted tones.
The overall effect was open and airy and very inviting. The opulence was so subtle it was breathtaking. A guest had once remarked that she felt as though she was floating high above the city on a fluffy, comforting cloud while relaxing in Josie’s living room.
Josie’s bedroom was femininity personified. The king-size bed was covered in a white eyelet spread and dotted with varying sizes of white frilly pillows. The dresser and dressing table were oak, and a small round table with a white eyelet skirt was covered with a multitude of framed snapshots.
Josie kicked off her shoes after passing through the white-tiled foyer. She walked through the living room and headed straight for her bedroom, where she tossed her suitcase onto the bed.
She’d unpack later, she decided, wandering back
down the hallway. She glanced absently into the guest room, where a double bed was covered in a striped spread of salmon, mint green and white. More framed snapshots were on top of the oak dresser.
In the center of the living room, she stopped, sweeping her gaze over the place she called home.
Picture perfect, she thought, frowning. She’d spent thousands of dollars creating the exact atmosphere she wanted, with everything state-of-the-art.
When she entertained, her friends gushed profusely over her exquisite taste, some sighing in envy, not only about her home, but her life in general. The consensus among her social set was that Josie Wentworth had it all, including her pick of the most eligible bachelors in Freemont Springs and Tulsa.
“Picture-perfect apartment,” Josie said aloud. “Picture-perfect life.”
And it had been true, she supposed. She’d never questioned her right to possess what she had. It was her due—all part of being a Wentworth. She’d spent a thousand dollars for a crystal vase to set on the mantel above her gas log fireplace as casually as someone else might buy a loaf of bread.
That was what Wentworths did.
That was how Wentworths lived.
But somewhere in the midst of it all, she’d forgotten that there was the possibility that Wentworths might also die.
And now Jack was dead.
Josie hugged herself and stared up at the ceiling, willing herself not to give way to the tears that threatened yet again.
She was so tired of crying. So tired of the chill that gripped her heart in an iron fist. So tired of asking why, why, why her wonderful brother had died, and receiving only silence as an answer.
“Enough of this, Josie Wentworth,” she said aloud. “Do something constructive and quit feeling sorry for yourself.” She drew a steadying breath. “You are, after all, a Wentworth.”
Her mail, she thought suddenly. When she’d made the decision to stay with her grandfather for a while, she’d requested that her mail be removed each day from the locked boxes in the lobby and held in the manager’s office.
A dull session of paying bills and sorting through junk mail would provide a sense of normalcy to her life, she hoped. She’d call down and have the mail brought up right away.
Fifteen minutes later Josie entered the library that was off the dining room. She carried a medium-size box that had been delivered by the boy who worked in the small grocery store located in the corner of the lobby for the convenience of the tenants.
The library had a totally different decor than the remainder of the penthouse, and few people had ever been invited to enter the room.
During her burst of independence years before when she’d announced she was moving to her own apartment, she had not been as cocky and self-assured as the facade she’d presented to her family. Rather, she’d been scared to death to be stepping out into the world on her own. To leave the protective
cocoon of her family had been exciting, but intertwined had been the stark emotion of fear.
So, she’d created a touch of her childhood home in her new residence. Her library was almost a replica of the one Joseph Wentworth spent many hours in at the estate.
As a little girl, she’d continually sought out her granddad in his special place, crawling into his lap while he sat in the massive, butter-soft leather chair behind his desk. Her granddad always stopped what he was doing to welcome her, making her feel special, important and very much loved.
Josie spent a great deal of time in her own library, allowing the warmth of the room to wrap itself around her like a comforting blanket She, too, had a big wooden desk, a soft leather chair, a love seat of chocolate-colored leather and bookshelves filled to overflowing. Among the novels were the classics, a gift from her grandfather.
Josie set the box on the desk and lifted the flaps. She scooped out a pile of letters, flyers and magazines, set them on the blotter, then repeated the process. The towering stack of accumulated mail slipped to one side, sending several envelopes skittering to the floor.
She peered into the box and her breath caught. With shaking hands she removed a small box wrapped in brown paper. The upper left-hand corner stated that the package had been sent by Trey McGill.
Dear heaven, she thought, sinking into the chair
and placing the box gently on her lap. She’d forgotten all about this.
On the nightmare day Trey had gathered the family together to deliver the news of Jack’s death, he’d taken Josie aside before leaving the house. He would, he’d said, see to it that Jack’s personal effects were sent to her, to avoid upsetting her elderly granddad any further. Josie could then decide when to share Jack’s belongings with her grandfather and Michael. Enveloped in a haze of misery, Josie had nodded absently in agreement, then promptly forgotten the conversation.
“Oh, dear,” she whispered. “I’m not ready for this. I can’t do this now.”
But would opening the box be any less painful next week? Next month? Was there any real purpose in delaying seeing and touching her beloved Jack’s personal belongings? No.
She took a pair of scissors from the top drawer of the desk and cut through the brown paper, brushing it away. After setting the scissors on the desk, she ever so slowly lifted the lid from the box and dropped it on the floor. She took a deep breath, then shifted her gaze to the contents of the package.
As though standing outside of herself and watching the solemn procedure, she reverently set Jack’s wallet on the desk, followed by his dress watch, signet ring, keys, a pristine white handkerchief and a black plastic comb.
Josie frowned as she stared at the remaining three items, then snapped back to full attention.
There was a snapshot, a small, blue velvet box and
a stamped, addressed envelope. She lifted the items out and stood, allowing the now-empty box to fall to the floor. She crossed the room and sat on the love seat, placing the treasures on her lap.
She picked up the snapshot and stared at the smiling face of a pretty, young woman. Setting the photograph to one side, she opened the blue velvet box.
“Oh,” she said, her eyes widening.
The box contained a beautiful emerald-cut diamond ring.
An engagement ring? she wondered, her mind racing. No. No way. Her love-’em-and-leave-’em, nocommitments brother was the last person on earth to plan on getting married.
But the lovely solitaire nestled in the velvet box certainly looked like an engagement ring.
Placing the ring box next to the snapshot of the smiling woman, Josie grasped the envelope with trembling fingers. She blinked away unwelcome tears as she saw Jack’s familiar handwriting, big and bold and slashing across the paper.
“‘Ms. Sabrina Jensen,’” she read aloud. “‘Care of Max Carter, the Single C Ranch, Muskogee County, Oklahoma.’”
Josie stared at the letter, the ring, the snapshot, then back at the envelope.
Should she open it? Or should she simply mail it, assuming that was what Jack would have done if he’d been able to?
Think, Josie, she ordered herself. If Jack had fallen in love—incredible as the idea was—and planned to many this Sabrina Jensen, then the Wentworth family
should be gathering her into the fold, comforting her, hopefully easing some of her heartache by letting her know she wasn’t alone in her grief.
But what if that wasn’t the case? What if Jack had acted on impulse and was writing to Sabrina to end the relationship? The ring wasn’t wrapped for mailing.
Then again, a man would want to slip an engagement ring on the finger of the woman he loved in person, not have her find the symbol of forever in her mailbox.
“I’m driving myself nuts,” Josie muttered. “I’m just chasing my own thoughts in endless circles.”
She pursed her lips, lifted her chin, opened the envelope and removed a single sheet of paper.
“‘Dear Sabrina,”’ she read, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “‘Our time together was magical. I need to see you, talk to you. I’ll contact you as soon as I possibly can. J.”’
Josie dropped her hands heavily into her lap and leaned her head back, scowling at the ceiling.
Dam it, she thought. Jack needed to see and talk to Sabrina for what purpose? To ask her to marry him? Or to say it had been a great week, but see ya, toots? And the ring that was purchased in a sensual haze would be returned to the jeweler.
Josie lifted her head, reread the letter, then rose to her feet and began to pace the floor, the letter in one hand.
“What were you really saying to Sabrina, Jack?” she said to the empty room. “You’re a lousy letter writer, do you know that, Jack Wentworth?”
Oh, what to do? she thought frantically, continuing her pacing. If Sabrina was to have been Jack’s wife... But if Sabrina was only one more in Jack’s endless stream of women...
“Okay, halt,” she said, stopping in her tracks.
There was only one solution to this puzzle. She had to find Sabrina Jensen, talk to her, discover what feelings her brother had for this mysterious woman.
But until she knew the whole story, Josie decided, she would keep silent about the existence of Sabrina. Her dear grandfather’s emotional plate had enough on it without adding the sorrowful possibility that Jack had fallen in love at long last only to be killed before he could marry his beloved.
Josie retrieved the envelope from the love seat and reread the address.
Well, Max Carter, whoever you are, she thought, you’re about to have a visitor.
