A Little Town In Texas

Kitt’s body stiffened. J. T. McKinney owned the biggest ranch near Crystal Creek, and the McKinneys were the most important family in the county. Kitt knew more about them than she cared to remember, more than she dared to remember.

But she let her face betray nothing. “Yes. I know—most of them.”

“They’re stubborn, and they’re full of fight,” Cronin said, watching her expression closely. “They’ve got money and power. One of them’s out of the country—Cal—but the rumor is he’s coming back for this. Of course, next to Fabian, they’re small potatoes. Nothing, really.”

Cal’s name hit her like a physical blow, but Kitt didn’t flinch. She was too proud. The McKinneys were part of her distant past, thank God. Especially Cal. But to go back to Crystal Creek and write about them? About him? Her nerves jangled in protest.

She shook her head. “If you want a story on the McKinneys—”

Cronin waved his hand negatively. “No, no. They’re only one part. It’s the whole town—the whole county. It’s split. Some want the development. Some don’t. A house divided against itself. That’s the drama.”

Kitt allowed herself a skeptical smile. “But to fight Brian Fabian—”

“Yes,” Cronin said with pleasure. “A classic David and Goliath story. Except, of course, David gets his brains bashed out. Creamed. Murdered.”

Kitt kept her face carefully blank.

“Hopeless cause,” Cronin mused. “Idiotic actually. But valiant. I want both sides of the story, of course. Part of your job is to give the reader the point of view of the underdogs. Those kindly folks who live and love in your hometown. Their way of life ending forever. Heartrending.”

Inwardly Kitt squirmed. Did Cronin just want sob sister stuff from her? She was a better writer than that. Furthermore, even if the McKinneys weren’t the sole players, they were involved. She couldn’t help it—the fact made her profoundly uneasy. “I see,” she said without enthusiasm.

“Do you?” he challenged. “There’s something you haven’t asked. I expected more from you, Mitchell. Why haven’t you asked about the revenge part?”

Kitt squared her shoulders and tried to fake him. “I was about to. My sources—” she meant Nora, of course “—never mentioned such a thing.”

He steepled his fingers and peered over them, eyes glittering. “That’s because your sources don’t know yet. And you’re not to tell them. You’re going there to gather information—not leak it.”

Her chin jerked up defiantly. She’d never leaked a story, never purposely influenced one, and she never would.

Cronin smiled at her reaction. “Here’s the nitty-gritty. Brian Fabian wants more land. And he’s so incensed at his turncoat lawyer—”

“Nick Belyle,” furnished Kitt.

“—that he’s sending down the man’s own brother to finish the job.”

Kitt’s interest shot up several notches. “His own flesh and blood?”

“Yes. His younger brother. Mel. Ruthless man, I’m told. I’ve had research prepare a folder of information for you on each of them.”

Kitt narrowed her eyes. “Brian Fabian’s setting brother against brother? Like…the Civil War?”

“Yes. It’s quite nasty. I like it,” said Mr. Cronin.

Kitt didn’t. “What kind of a man would go gunning after his own brother? There must be more to this feud than just company loyalty. When I talk to him—”

“You won’t. He won’t,” Cronin said. “If Mel Belyle opens his mouth, it’ll only be to bite your head off. Fabian hates the press.”

“I could try—” Kitt began.

“Forget it,” ordered Cronin. “I repeat. Mel Belyle will not talk. Neither will his brother. They’ve both signed confidentiality agreements. You’ll have to rely on those good country people, your neighbors.”

Again Kitt ached to object. These people were not her neighbors, and she’d turned her back on them long ago—with good reason. And there was the very real question of how objective she could be. This worried her. She should shock Cronin and tell him she didn’t want this story.

But then Cronin said the magic words. “Do a good job of this,” he said silkily, “and you’ll be promoted from staff writer to contributing editor.”

Her misgivings vanished as if a lightning bolt had sizzled them out of her brain. Contributing editor? For a promotion like that, she would cover a story in the hottest part of hell.

EVERY DAY AFTER WORK when the weather was decent, Kitt went for a run in Central Park. Then she showered, nuked a frozen dinner and settled down to read.

She unplugged the phone because men sometimes called, and recently she wasn’t in a mood to bother with them. She was currently between boyfriends, a state she didn’t mind a bit. It was restful.

Now, wearing her ratty bathrobe, she flopped onto her sofa and opened the folder on the Belyle brothers. True to Fabian form, the information about them was scant.

There were actually three brothers, and their widowed mother had moved with them from Texas to New York. She’d worked for Brian Fabian as a cleaning lady or maid. Accounts differed, but he’d befriended her.

All three sons had gone to law school, and all three had taken jobs with Fabian’s firm. Rumor said that Fabian had been a patron to them.

Nick Belyle, the brother who’d defected, had gone to Harvard. Mel, the one being sent to fight him, had gone to Yale. Research had provided copies of their transcripts. Both had A averages. Kitt gave a grudging whistle of approval—these two should be able to wage a hell of a battle.

Mel made the gossip columns from time to time, dating models. Fabianesque, that appetite for beautiful women. Otherwise, the brothers kept their private lives private. That, too, was in Fabian’s mode.

Until Nick settled in Texas, he’d kept on the move for the corporation, living in a dozen different places. Mel stayed based in New York. His address was fancy. Very fancy.

And that was it. There were a few boyhood and teenage snapshots of Nick. None of Mel. Also missing was any mention of either brother’s hobbies, clubs, political affiliations—nothing. Kitt closed the folder, wishing the research department had dug more deeply.

She was going to have to do her own detective work and find the details herself—starting now. She would call Nora in Crystal Creek.

Nora was her aunt, but the word aunt always sounded august and elderly to Kitt. Nora was neither. Nora was thirty-three, just five years older than Kitt. She was bright, funny, down-to-earth, and generous.

Nora had made only one mistake in her life, and it had been disastrous. As a sixteen-year-old girl, she’d got pregnant and married a man who’d thrown all her dreams offtrack.

Nora had grown up wanting one thing: to be a teacher. After her divorce, she’d sweated blood to finish college. She’d married again, a good man. She’d even taught for a while, but circumstances had seemed to conspire against her.

Now, instead of teaching, Nora had a dead-end job. She worked fifty weeks a year, six days a week in a cow town café and managed a tatty little motel, too. Kitt shook her head at the waste.

She dialed Nora’s home number. She listened to the phone ring and thought of Crystal Creek. It still seemed ironic to be going back, but perhaps, at last, it was time. A feeble ghost or two might still haunt her, but this would be her chance to lay them to rest.

When Nora answered, she hooted with surprise to hear Kitt. “Kitt-Kat!” she cried. “Can you read minds? I was just thinking of you. I loved that piece you wrote about the little girl who plays chess.”

Kitt thanked her, feeling the pinch of guilt. Nora followed Kitt’s career proudly and read every issue of Exclusive. She sent notes of praise and funny cards and newsy letters, but Kitt was usually too busy to answer at length. Now and then she dashed off a postcard or an e-mail. It was not that she didn’t love Nora, but…

She paused, picturing Nora’s pretty face and blue-gray eyes. How often in the past had she turned to her, a girl barely older than herself, for comfort? Now she was turning to her again—but for reasons of ambition.

Kitt took a deep breath. “Listen, Nora, I’m coming down there next week. On Monday. I hope it’s not too short a notice.”

“Here?” Nora sounded delighted. “That’s great! I can’t wait to see you. Good grief, how long has it been?”

“Twelve years,” Kitt said. Another guilty twinge stung her, and she tried not to think of her long absence.