Texas Millionaire

Mercy, had it really been almost sixty years since then? It had been a wild ride, keeping up with the Langleys, but she wouldn’t trade a speck of it for any amount of money. Child to woman, she’d been there through good times and bad, first when old Tex died, then when her father had passed away with the liver trouble, and a year later when Hank was born and a few years after that when Mr. Henry lost his wife and his newborn daughter.

She had watched young Hank grow up, loved him as if he were her own, and done her best to look after him when his father had taken up with one woman after another and gone chasing off to all those fancy places in Europe.

She’d done a fair job of raising the boy, too, if she did say so herself. She knew his shortcomings and his longcomings and would be the first to admit he had his share of both.

But right now, he was going through another dangerous stage, and it was up to her to see him through it. Temptation was a hard thing to resist when it came all dolled up in tight dresses and blue eye shadow, reeking of fancy perfume and using language no lady ever used in front of a gentleman. That kind of temptation spelled trouble, sure as the world.

But Manie had a plan.

Two (#ulink_8acdf1a6-4066-5f80-81fd-d7d8e70a5a2d)

Early on a Saturday morning, shoulders squared, head held high, Callie locked the front door, took one last walk around the house to be sure she’d remembered to close all the windows and fill all the feeders and headed for Texas.

“Grace, I’m on my way. Feed my birds about Wednesday, will you?” she called to her neighbor at the foot of the road.

“I’ll check every couple of days. See you in a week or so. Drive safe, have a good time, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Callie promised, her mind already miles ahead. This was a mission, not a vacation. Never given to impulsive acts, she had thought it through carefully, made her lists, pro and con, and checked one against the other. And now here she was, finally on her way.

By Tuesday, second thoughts were rapidly piling up. Back home in North Carolina, it had all sounded so logical. Now that she was actually in Texas, she was beginning to wonder if she shouldn’t have talked her plan over with Aunt Manie first instead of springing it on her out of the blue.

Quit fretting, Caledonia, it’s too late now. You’ve done all that work on the house and shut off the mail and paper delivery. You buttered your bread, now lie in it.

She was tired, that’s all it was. Besides, everything out west was so blessed big. This was the first time she’d ever even crossed to the other side of the Blue Ridge mountains. What in the world had she been thinking?

Back when the idea had first come to her, it seemed like the most logical thing in the world. She’d never even met Great-Aunt Manie until Grandpop Riley’s funeral last September, but the two of them had hit it off right away. Aunt Manie was so much like Grandpop, which was perfectly logical. They’d been brother and sister, after all. They shared the same common sense approach to life, the same dry sense of humor. They even looked alike, both being spare of frame and stern of face until you caught the twinkling eyes and the little twitch at the corner of the mouth.

And besides, Aunt Manie used to live in Grandpop’s house. It was Callie’s now. Nobody else wanted it, at least not to live in. Her father, who had grown up there, called it an old relic, which it was, which was why Grandpop had left it to Callie and not his own son.

It had taken practically all her savings, but she’d fixed the old place up so that Aunt Manie wouldn’t give it that sad-eyed look, the way she had after the funeral. A new roof, at least on the south side, where the sun baked the shingles so that they curled up and leaked. A fresh coat of paint in a lovely shade of gray, with contrasting trim. Next she was going to tackle the plumbing and wiring, but first she’d have to find another job and build up her savings again.

But the yard was in fine shape. Surrounded by rhododendrons and weeping cherry trees, flame azalea and the day lilies that Grandpop had called backhouse lilies, it sat plank in the middle of seven acres of woodland a few miles from Brooks Cross Roads. For someone who preferred life in the slow lane, it was ideal.

And Callie was definitely slow-lane material. Driving to Yadkinville five days a week to work was fast enough for her. And at Aunt Manie’s age, she was going to fit right in.

Callie’s father, Bainbridge, had expected her to sell out as soon as the will had been probated. Ever since he’d given up his position with the insurance company and gone to being a full-time potter and part-time fiddler, he’d been looking for ways to make money. Unlike Callie, he hadn’t inherited his father’s philosophy of work hard, live cheap and lay by for a rainy day.

He should have thought of that before he’d quit. Her mother was just as bad, but then, Sally Cutler was only a Riley by marriage. Riley tradition didn’t mean doodleysquat to her, never had. After working her way up to assistant manager at Big Joe Arther’s Motors and playing the organ at the Brushy Creek Church for as long as Callie could remember, Sally had hit menopause. She’d dealt with it by bleaching her hair, eating a lot of soybeans and playing keyboard with a homegrown country rock band who called themselves The Rockin’ Possum.

For the past few years Bain and Sally had taken in every fiddler’s convention and craft show between Galax and Nashville, leaving Callie and Grandpop to take care of each other. Which suited Callie just fine. She’d had her job, and Grandpop had had his garden.

But then last fall Grandpop had passed over. Died in his sleep, peaceful as a dove. And Callie had finally met his sister Romania, and one thing led to another, and now here she was in Texas, of all places.

Manie had told her back when she’d come east to the funeral that her own roots were in Texas, but Callie hadn’t believed it, not for a minute. Her leaves and branches might be in Texas, but Manie’s roots were back in the thick red clay of Yadkin County, North Carolina.

Callie hadn’t mentioned it at the time, but the plan had already started to simmer in her mind when they’d driven around to see all the new development and the old familiar places. Callie was a good planner. So far as she knew, she was the only truly reliable member of her immediate family, because even Grandpop had run off and joined the Merchant Marine when he was barely old enough to shave.

As for Aunt Manie, it was too soon to tell. If she needed looking after, then Callie was the one to do it. If, on the other hand, she was simply looking for a place to retire, why then, what better place than the home where she’d once lived as a girl? The plain truth was, Callie was lonesome in that big old house. And family was important. Now that Grandpop was gone, and her parents didn’t need her—not yet, at least—she was free to look after whichever family member needed her most.

It was the perfect answer for both of them. Once Manie was back in Yadkin County, where Rileys had lived since they’d crossed the Yadkin River on a ferryboat, driving a mule-drawn cart, she’d forget all about the Langleys.

Langleys. To hear her talk, you’d think they were second cousins to God, or something. In the week her aunt had been there, Callie had heard more than enough about their wonderful oil wells, their beautiful mansion and their fancy, exclusive, rich-man’s club. At the age of sixty-nine, according to Manie—seventy-two, according to Grandpop—poor Aunt Manie was still slaving away for the last of her precious Langleys. She’d described him as sweet, sensitive and vulnerable, with women trying to marry him for his money.

There was nothing sweet, sensitive, or even decent about a man who would allow a woman to work years beyond retirement age when she had a perfectly good home to go back to and a niece willing and able to look after her.

Besides, he sounded like a wimp. While the term sensitive might apply to old Doc Teeter, the man Callie had worked for ever since she was sixteen years old, she couldn’t see it applying to a rich, middle-aged bachelor. The man was obviously spoiled rotten. Probably one of those playboys who had their picture taken for People magazine with models and actresses draped all over him.

Well, Callie was calling the shots now. She hadn’t worked for a family practitioner all these years without learning a thing or two about handling people. Male, female, rich, poor, young or old, they were all the same when they were sick and scared. She stopped in Odessa for a chicken sandwich and a glass of iced tea, placed a call to her parents’ downtown loft in Winston-Salem and happened to catch her father in. Even though she disapproved of their lifestyles and some of the wild company they kept, she worried about them.

“Daddy? I’m in a place out in Texas called Odessa. It’s not too far from Royal, so I guess I’ll be getting in late this afternoon. Are you and Mama going to be home for a while? I worry about you when you’re on the road.”

“We’re heading out for Nashville come morning. I’ve got a big craft show this weekend, and the Possums are going to make a demo.”

“Oh. Well, call me when you know where you’ll be staying, all right? I gave Mama Aunt Manie’s number. And remember to take your pills with you, and don’t forget to walk at least a mile a day. I know it’ll be hot, but if you set out first thing in the morning—I know, I love you, too, Daddy. You be sure and go with Mama to those clubs, y’hear? You know what kind of people hang out in those places.”

Callie didn’t even know herself, not firsthand, but she’d heard things and read things, and her mama wasn’t exactly famous for her common sense. She had to trust her father to look after them both, which didn’t give her a whole lot of confidence, but she didn’t know what else to do. They were both in their middle fifties, but neither of them had a lick of common sense.

Had she remembered to bring Grandpop’s old photo albums?

She had. They were packed with the tube of Moravian cookies and the Moravian sugar cake, which was squashed and probably starting to mold, but it had seemed like a good idea at the time. Reminders of home, of childhood. It couldn’t hurt.

Lordy, she was tired. She’d never driven any farther than Raleigh, and now here she was, striking out across the country like a pioneer. Not that the interstate was any wagon trail. Not that her little red car was any covered wagon, either, but all the same, she felt proud of herself for setting out to rescue an elderly relative in need.

The Riley women—at least those who’d been born Rileys—might be short on looks and weird on names, but according to Grandpop, they had never lacked for gumption when something needed doing.

And Callie had convinced herself that Manie needed rescuing. She had the house all ready. She had taken her time looking for a new job after Doc retired, knowing she’d be heading west for a week or so, but as soon as they were back and settled in, she’d set out and find something that suited her.

Hank was tired when he got back from Midland. The unscheduled trip to his corporate headquarters, as it turned out, had been timely. He had an outstanding board of directors, but as Badge One, he occasionally found it necessary to question what he considered a risky move. Nine times out of ten, he was proved right. The tenth time served to keep him humble.

Greg Hunt was standing by the massive fireplace under the life-size portrait of old Tex Langley when Hank walked in. There was a private entrance to the second floor, but it was seldom used. The two men met in the middle of the room.

“Got a minute?”

“Sure, come on upstairs.” A close friend, Greg also served as his personal attorney, but Hank had a feeling this was about something entirely different. “You mentioned a situation. What’s up?” He led the way toward the broad staircase. There was an elevator, but like the private entrance, it was seldom used.

“I’d better fill you in on the background first, then we can take it from there.”

Hank poured his friend a drink, lit his own cigar and settled in to listen. He’d learned a long time ago that a moment of distraction during a briefing could spell disaster down the road.

“You remember my mentioning a woman named Anna?”

“Real looker? You had something pretty heavy going with her a while back? Family’s European and big on rules?”

“Yeah, well I forgot to mention her family name. She’s Anna von Oberland, of the Osterhaus von Oberlands. Crowned heads of a small European country. They’re pretty big on arranged marriages.”

“The hell you say. You’re marrying into royalty?” Hank stumped out his cigar and leaned forward.

“If it were that easy, there wouldn’t be a problem. They’ve got her in exile. I’m not even sure how she managed to get a call through, but thank God she did.”