Savannah Secrets

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Mer, John and Clarice adore those kids. You couldn’t leave them in better hands. Now, stop fussing and get on with it. It’s bad enough having to deal with Rowena’s relatives darkening our doorstep like a pack of vultures. And until you’ve definitively identified Grant Gallagher as Rowena’s heir, you can’t admit the will to probate.”

Just then the phone buzzed.

“Yes?”

“Mr. Gallagher on line one.”

“Oh, my God!” Meredith sat on the edge of her chair. “Pass him on through. It’s him,” she whispered, covering the mouthpiece. “Hello?”

“Good morning. Is that Ms. Hunter?”

“Speaking. I’m glad you finally called, Mr. Gallagher. I was getting worried you hadn’t received my correspondence.”

“Not only did I receive it, but I consider it a great piece of impertinence,” his deep, suave British voice replied.

“Excuse me?” Meredith swallowed, aghast. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Then let me explain. I have no interest in Mrs. Carstairs’s inheritance. I suggest you find yourself another heir as I will not be accepting the bequest.”

“But—”

“I also wish to make it abundantly clear that I do not want to be bothered with this matter now or at any time in the future. I expect you to take care of any details. Am I making myself perfectly clear?” His voice grated cold and unbending down the line.

“Mr. Gallagher, it isn’t quite as simple as that,” she said, bristling.

“I suggest you make it simple. I have no intention of cooperating, if that’s what you’re about to suggest. Good day, Ms. Hunter, I’m sure you will deal efficiently with any necessary details.”

“Wait,” she exclaimed, “you can’t just avoid the issue as if it didn’t exist. There are papers to sign, documents to be dealt with.”

“Then deal with them. It’s none of my damn business. Goodbye.”

The phone went dead in Meredith’s hand. “I don’t believe this,” she muttered, outraged. “The guy just brushed me off like a fly. I knew I was right about the kind of person he is. Jesus.”

“What did he say?” Tracy prodded. She’d followed the conversation closely, had seen Meredith change color, the embryonic glint in her eye.

“You know what? That’s it.” Meredith slapped her palms down on the desk, eyes blazing. “I’m going after the bastard. Thinks he can just walk, does he? Well, he’ll soon find out that ain’t happening. Not on my watch.”

“Go, girl, that’s the spirit,” Tracy encouraged, smothering a smile. There was nothing like a challenge to get Meredith off her butt.

“Fine,” Meredith muttered, slamming the Carstairs file down before her. “If I have to go, I’ll go. Even if it does mean sussing him out of his den. The nerve of it,” she added, smoldering, “the sheer rudeness of the man. I knew this was what he’d be like. Didn’t I tell you?” She whirled around in the chair, pointing her pen.

“Absolutely. The sooner you get going, the better. Well, since that takes care of that, I’ll be off,” Tracy answered, rising and straightening her skirt while hiding a smile. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”

“Damn right it will,” Meredith answered, throwing her pen onto her desk.

She already detested Grant Gallagher.

4

After realizing that her kids weren’t in the least bit upset over her departure—indeed, they were clearly relishing the chance of being thoroughly indulged by their grandparents—Meredith spent the better part of the nine-hour flight from Newark to Glasgow figuring out her approach. She was still steaming at how rude Gallagher had been on the phone. The man was totally irrational! She’d tried to call him back and make him see reason, but all she’d reached was the robotic voice of his answering machine. Now she was obliged to land on the man’s doorstep and be civil, when what she really wanted to do was tell him in no uncertain terms what she thought of his manners and attitude. She sent up a silent prayer that the detective’s reports reflecting he’d been sighted only two days earlier in the village were correct and that she wasn’t off on a wild-goose chase.

Adjusting the airline pillow, Meredith pondered the best way to handle the situation. Perhaps she should suggest a meeting at her hotel. She didn’t suppose the Strathcairn Arms would have anything as grand as a conference room, but as it boasted to be the only hotel in the Highland village of Strathcairn she had little choice in the matter. Since she was planning on a one-, maybe two-night stay at most, the hotel’s lack of facilities were not a priority as long as it had a half-decent bed and hot water.

Abandoning the morsel of cold chicken that she’d been shoving aimlessly around her plate, Meredith reclined farther into her seat and stared out the window. Stars dotted the horizon like Christmas lights. A full moon hovered illusively among the clouds. Without warning her eyes filled and she closed them tight. How ironic it was that after all the times she and Tom had talked about visiting Scotland she should be going there alone, and under such inauspicious circumstances.

She swallowed hard. Tom’s family’s roots were in Scotland, and traveling to the land of his forefathers had always been one of his dreams. Working in a side trip to St. Andrews or Troon—Tom had been an avid golfer—had held its own allure. They’d planned to make their way up the west coast and then travel to the Isle of Skye. Just wait until the kids are old enough to appreciate it, she’d always said.

Now she wished she’d shut up.

With a muffled sigh, she shifted the pillow farther into the crook of her neck and attempted to sleep. Regret wasn’t going to change a thing, she reminded herself sternly. The reality was that she was traveling to Scotland on her own, in mid-November, and the bleak weather forecast predicted rain, snow and subzero temperatures. A freak cold spell, they’d called it. Meredith shuddered, opened her eyes once more, grimaced at the chicken and the files in the neighboring seat and hoped the well-advertised central heating at the Strathcairn Arms really worked.

But after ten minutes it became obvious sleep was not on the agenda. Fiddling in her pocket for her Palm Pilot, Meredith turned on the overhead light and checked the weather report again, praying it wouldn’t interfere with the tight schedule she’d set herself. With any luck she’d be back home in time to make Mick’s baseball game on Saturday.

Closing her eyes once more, she tried to stop her thoughts from drifting to Tom and then back to Rowena, wondering what her client’s letter to her grandson contained. Had it been a sentimental soul cleansing, an expiation of her sins or merely a history of past events? Perhaps it was a justification of her actions.

But somehow, knowing Rowena, Meredith didn’t think the latter was the case. Accepting a bottle of water from the flight attendant hovering in the darkened aisle, she turned her thoughts to Dallas, who was still being thoroughly obtuse. The girl was obviously angry and confused by Rowena’s rejection, even though she’d had every intention of refusing the money she’d expected Ro would leave her. The real question, though, was why the relationship between grandmother and grandchild had deteriorated so badly in the first place.

From comments Dallas had made, it had become clear that Rowena and Isabel had been forever at odds. Was that why Dallas professed so little love for her grandmother? It would be natural that she’d side with Isabel, however inadequate a mother she might have been. Or maybe Rowena had created a barrier between them—perhaps when she lost Isabel, she simply turned her back on Dallas, unable to accept her daughter’s death.

Recalling the numerous conversations she’d had with Rowena, Meredith knew she’d loved Dallas deeply and that she’d spent many hours trying to breach the rift between them. It was therefore shocking that the granddaughter she clearly cared about was so summarily cut out of the will.

When Meredith last spoke with Dallas before boarding, she’d noticed something in the girl’s voice—a note of near-hysterical despair—that made her determined to try to secure some kind of financial benefit for her. Perhaps she should hint to Gallagher that he might be sued if he didn’t make a settlement with Dallas, although that was hardly ethical. Besides, something as trivial as a lawsuit would hardly faze a man used to taking on unions. He probably got sued so often he had a bevy of lawyers at his disposal to swat down anyone impertinent enough to assert he’d done anything wrong.

As dawn broke, Meredith watched the misty, translucent glimmer on the distant horizon turn into soft gray. It was only another couple hours before they landed. Changing positions, she rolled her shoulders and decided this whole situation had an air of the absurd. What must it be like to be left a large fortune? What would she do if Great-Aunt Agatha left her one hundred million dollars? The thought lightened her mood considerably. Aunt Agatha was the meanest old scrooge. She’d probably leave whatever she had to the cat-and-dog home. Yet she liked Mick. Imagine if her aunt died and suddenly left her son a fortune?

Meredith would not want that kind of responsibility for herself nor her kids. They were doing okay as they were. Of course, since she’d taken on the new responsibility of her own law practice, she exercised caution where spending was concerned. But she’d received a comfortable sum from Tom’s life insurance, her client list was growing and she had a paid roof over her head. What more could she ask for?

Tom.

She would give it all up in a heartbeat if only she could have him back, at her side, laughing that rich, deep laugh, teasing her. Oh, for the warmth and security of his strong arms enveloping her. What wouldn’t she do, Meredith asked herself, for just one more night curled up against him in their big, soft bed, cuddled under the goose-down duvet?

She must have dozed awhile for she jolted from a strange dream as the flight attendant’s voice came on the loudspeaker, announcing they were about to land.

Fastening her seat belt, Meredith dragged her fingers through her hair, then gathered her thoughts and her papers. She must stop feeling sorry for herself and concentrate on her client. For even though she despised everything Grant Gallagher represented, like it or not, he was now her responsibility.

He woke up stiff and bad-tempered.

It did not take long for him to remember why.

Now, as he walked along the bluff, doing battle with a sharp east wind and driving rain, Grant muttered a string of oaths. He’d been doing a lot of that over the past couple days, he realized, as anger coursed through him as furiously as the bleak waves pounding the jagged rocks below.

“Damn Rowena Carstairs,” he muttered, half to himself, half to the two pointers, Monarch and Emperor, scampering at his heels. Stopping at the edge of the cliff, his black hair whipping across his face, Grant gazed out at the water. Somehow she’d managed to resurrect the niggling demons he’d believed long put to rest. Questions about who his real parents were had haunted his childhood. His endless wishful thinking had always entailed the secret hope that someday, by some miraculous act of God, he’d wake up to discover that the handsome jet-setting pair of Raymond and Gina Gallagher, who, for some incomprehensible reason, had adopted him, would return him to two mythical figures he envisioned as his birth parents.

Of course, at this point in his life, he couldn’t give a damn about the past. He’d emerged unscathed and had built a life that suited him fine—no long-term attachments, no personal commitments except to himself. That some unknown woman should claim to be his grandmother and unearth his past was nothing more than a practical joke—and a poor one at that.

Except that he wasn’t laughing. Because, he admitted as he breathed in the salty, damp November air, he’d never doubted the letter told the truth. Had it been sentimental or soppy he might have been suspicious. But Rowena Carstairs offered no mushy regrets, no pleas for forgiveness. Just the bare facts. And to his annoyance, he couldn’t get it out of his mind.

Moving forward in long strides, Grant wished now that he’d followed his first instinct and thrown the bloody thing into the fire. He wanted to distance himself from all its implications. But even as he resolutely ignored the couriered packages from the lawyer’s office in Savannah, he found himself hypnotically drawn to all that they represented. For in Rowena Carstairs’s letter lay the embryos of answers to the mystery of his past.