A Lasting Proposal

Max Strongman knew that the men on the other side of the fire saw him as a sellout. He was married to the woman who owned this land. Today he hoped to finalize a deal on her behalf with Beckett Oil and Gas to explore, develop and produce the black gold upon which the wealth of Alberta was based. The CEO of the company, Conrad Beckett, stood beside him with his teenage daughter, Jilly.

There were others. Max’s grown son, James. Harvey Tomchuk, Max’s retirement-age accountant. Several executives from the oil company, too, as well as lawyers and investment representatives from the nearby city of Calgary.

A deal was imminent, despite Beckett’s unexpected posturing as they’d discussed terms a few hours earlier. Max hoped that good food and plenty of expensive wine would nudge the executive in the right direction. Inside the ranch house, his wife and the caterer had huge beef ribs marinating in a smoky-red barbeque sauce, next to salads, breads and more. When the fire died down a little, he would start cooking.

Or so he’d planned. But fifteen minutes ago a gang of men had marched up the lane from the public access road. His wife’s son, Dylan McLean, a dark-haired, fiery-tempered man with strong opinions on the heritage of the land his great-grandfather had homesteaded, led the entourage. With Dylan was his cousin, Jake Hartman, a towering blond mountaineer. They were at the forefront of the group of neighboring ranchers and local environmentalists who opposed the deal Max had worked out with Beckett.

This problem Max didn’t need right now. The deal just had to go through! He’d staked his future and his son’s on this land. Together, they would earn millions—

A movement distracted him. Mick Mizzoni, editor of the Canmore Leader, had just stepped forward to whisper something to Staff Sergeant Thad Springer of the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment. Rumors of trouble had drawn both men tonight.

But it was Mick Mizzoni who concerned Max the most. The journalist had been against him from the first day Max had been elected as the mayor of Canmore. Undoubtedly Mizzoni was itching to portray him unfavorably yet again.

Max couldn’t let that happen. He had other plans for this land—beyond the oil wells—that required he keep town council and public opinion on his side.

He needed something, anything, to make the protesters appear unsympathetic. Earlier in the day, he’d talked the situation over with the woman he loved, and with his son. They’d agreed that for now all he could do was try to appear more calm and rational than the other side. But was that really his only option?

A fifteen-minute tirade by one conservationist ended. Then an experienced trail guide got up to give his spiel. Would they never shut up? Max could see Beckett growing increasingly anxious. Conrad had his arm around his daughter, and the girl had started shooting some pointed questions to her dad about his company’s environmental standards.

Maybe it was time for Max to have his say. He slipped a hand into his jacket pocket.

A second later, a streak of silver flashed against the carbon sky. Loud pops sounded as a firecracker blazed in a celebratory arc above the crowd, fizzling out just meters above their heads.

After the unexpected explosion came a short second of silence. Then a father’s anguished cry filled the void.

“Oh, my God! My daughter’s bleeding—she’s been shot!”

Crimson blood appeared almost black in the fading light. The liquid seeped over Jilly’s chest, over-flowing to her father’s arms.

There was another second of silence as Conrad Beckett’s words, and the image of the wounded girl, penetrated the stunned minds of the surrounding men.

And then—chaos. Someone with first-aid experience rushed forward. Staff Sergeant Springer began barking orders to the crowd. Confused and frightened, everyone was talking, shouting.

Max alone didn’t move. Coolly, he analyzed the incident and its most likely aftermath. Jilly Beckett had been shot—but the intended target had surely been her father, Conrad. The cops would figure that the firecracker had been a decoy, covering the report from the gun. But who would be blamed for the shooting?

Someone—dared he hope Dylan—from the group of ranchers and environmentalists was the obvious answer. Max held back a smile. His prayers had been answered. Public opinion would be on his side now, his and Conrad Beckett’s.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Beckett. Your daughter is dead.”

Max heard the pronouncement and the crowd’s answering gasp. He remained still as a new possibility suddenly occurred to him. For the first time, fear squeezed his heart, bringing pain to his chest. He scanned the crowd anxiously, unable to single out James in the melee.

Where was his son?

CHAPTER ONE

Two and a half years later

BREAKFAST FOR HOLLY, SHOWER, dress…don’t forget the papers you took out of your briefcase last night… Maureen Shannon was lost in her mental checklist as she opened the door to snag the morning paper. Clutching the lapels of her old flannel housecoat, she stared at the front-page headline: Oil Tycoon Beckett Commits Suicide.

“Dear God…”

Maureen slipped off the elastic band and unfolded the paper, her fingers suddenly clumsy.

Underneath the headline was a picture of sixteen-year-old Jilly Beckett, the same photo the Calgary Herald had used when covering her murder almost two and a half years ago. Next to it was a smaller snapshot, grainy and out of focus. Still, Maureen recognized Jilly’s oil-executive father, Conrad, smiling beside his wife, Linda.

Maureen scanned the first paragraph. The facts were blunt. Conrad was dead; he’d killed himself. Maureen curled her bare toes against the cold of the concrete landing of her Mount Royal home. The Becketts lived in her neighborhood, about six blocks to the north. Their social circles had intersected; she and Linda had worked on a few volunteer committees together.

It was a cool May morning and a westerly breeze tossed Maureen’s uncombed hair into her eyes. She flipped it out of the way, then remembered she was dressed in only her thin housecoat.

She withdrew inside, skimming through the rest of the article as she made her way back to the kitchen. Conrad had died in the three-car garage of his showcase-perfect home, sitting in the driver’s seat of his idling dark blue Jaguar, while noxious carbon monoxide had pumped into the enclosed space. The suicide was attributed to unrelenting depression over Jilly’s death.

Conrad, even more than Linda, had never been the same after it. He’d retired from the board of Beckett Oil and Gas—a company that he had founded and intended to pass down to his only offspring. Then he’d sold all his shares to one of the big American companies—Exxon or Shell, she couldn’t remember—

Maureen stopped reading to sniff. That smell… Oh, no, Holly’s breakfast! She tossed the paper on the counter and ran to the toaster. Too late. Both slices of bread were edged in black. Knowing her daughter wouldn’t eat toast this way, not even if Maureen scraped off the burned part, she threw the pieces out and slipped two fresh slices into the slots.

She eyed the paper, then the clock on the stove. If she didn’t leave in fifteen minutes, she’d be late for the office. And she wasn’t even dressed. She’d have to finish reading the article later.

Ignoring the sick feeling in her stomach, she jogged up the stairs.

“Holly? Are you finished in there?” At moments like this Maureen would have given up her prestigious address and original oak woodwork in a moment for a second bathroom. Rod had always planned to renovate one day, but he’d never gotten past the looking-at-glossy-brochures stage.

No answer from the bathroom, only the sound of water streaming into the sink. Well, she’d have to skip her shower this morning. Back in her bedroom, she grabbed the first suit and blouse that came to hand, then yanked matching shoes from the shelf above them.

Catching her reflection in the mirror on her dresser, she frowned. The only way to deal with her cowlick was to put up her hair—another five minutes lost there….

Hair fixed, she tore back down the short hall. The bathroom door was still locked, and she could smell—

Damn it to heck!

Maureen raced down the stairs in her low heels and tossed the second batch of ruined toast into the garbage. She checked the clock again. Five minutes.

Back up the stairs.

“Holly, I can’t go to work without brushing my teeth and washing my face. And you need to eat. The toaster isn’t working so you’ll have to have cereal.”

The twelve-year-old didn’t answer.

Maureen rested her head against the paneled door. From inside, she heard some suspicious sniffing. Holly crying once more. A familiar, helpless pain sapped the energy from her limbs.

“Are you okay?”

The water came on again, blocking out the quiet sobbing.

Maureen knocked. “Please let me in. Holly?”

Still no answer. From past experience, Maureen knew there probably wouldn’t be. Holly needed comfort, but she’d never take it from her mother.

Silence descended as the water was turned off. Maureen made quick use of the opportunity to be heard. “Hey, kiddo. You planning to spend the day in there? Want me to rent a video? We could put the TV by the tub. Maybe fill the sink with popcorn.”