Part 21 (2/2)

Nora set Willow down off her lap onto the hay, ignoring his bleats of protest, and proceeded to rise. She shooed away C.W.'s hand. No more nonsense, her eyes told him. C.W. felt properly chastised.

”Well,” she said to C.W. ”when can we meet? I'd like to get started as soon as possible. How about four o'clock?”

”I'll be tied up all afternoon. Why not the usual time. Seven o'clock?”

”It's a date,” she replied, then stammered. ”I mean, yes. That would be fine.”

Nora left with Seth, unaware or uncaring that C.W. followed her every step out of the barn. C.W. ground his teeth as he stared at the emptiness left by her departure. If he wasn't careful tonight, that emptiness would be all he'd have left.

C.W. and Nora sat in agitated silence across the long mahogany dining table. It was seven-fifteen and they were meeting as planned to discuss the budget. It was clear that they would not discuss what had almost happened between them. Yet Nora could think of nothing else.

C.W. was thinking only of business. He quickly glanced at his watch. There was no putting this off. He had to get his hands on her books. Time was of the essence. He covered all the angles to ensure the result would be the same. How many times had he designed an interview in his career? More than he could count. And he had always emerged the victor. Yet never before had his emotions been involved. Never before had the outcome been so important.

”Well,” he said, sitting straight and slipping on his wire-rim gla.s.ses. ”Shall we get started?”

Nora nodded and brought her chair closer to the table.

”This is a good lambing,” C.W. began, pointing to the column of figures. ”Lots of twins. Few deaths. All together Seth expects to bring your flock up to about one hundred.”

”That's good,” Nora said, her enthusiasm sounding false in the tension. He was being exceptionally formal again.

”Yes, but not good enough.”

C.W. went on to carefully review the fixed and variable costs, the depreciation, and discussed in detail the profit-and-loss statement. The situation was bad, but C.W. had deftly maneuvered the numbers to paint the picture bleak.

He tapped his pencil across his palm. ”The bottom line is you're facing more losses. In the past Mike covered the losses with a check. No questions asked.” He sighed and leaned back in his chair, then shoved over a sheet of paper with long columns of his calculations.

”The farm will not push into the black. You'll need to do likewise.”

Nora's mouth gaped open as she read the amount. It was staggering. More than she had left in her account after the winterizing of the house and the pricey new ram. She slumped in her chair and rubbed her temples with shaky fingers.

”I don't have it.”

C.W. slowly removed his gla.s.ses, folded them, and laid them parallel to his pencil before looking up again. This was it. She had finally admitted financial trouble.

”Are you saying that your husband's estate can't balance this budget?”

”What estate? I don't have the capital. It's gone.”

There was a long silence. Gone? It was worse than he'd thought. Go on, he silently urged. Let's get this out in the open and done with.

Nora shook her head and slumped down in the chair. ”When Mike died, the outstanding debts were enormous,” she replied with a voice that had lost its enthusiasm. ”It's too hard to explain. Some of it is beyond my own understanding.”

C.W.'s fingers drummed on the table as he watched her stare in silence out the window while her chest heaved.

Nora looked over at him, her face clouded with indecision.

C.W. stilled his fingers.

She wrapped her arms around her chest. She seemed to be fighting an inner battle. Then, dropping her chin to her chest, she released a ragged sigh.

”I need your help.”

C.W. exhaled slowly. He hadn't realized he was holding his breath. Folding his hands tightly before him, he asked in a low voice, ”What do you want me to do?”

Nora looked at his face, and in that moment he saw her make a leap of faith. It made him sick with guilt. Rising with resignation, Nora walked to the maple sideboard, and from its center drawer she pulled out a long leather volume. He craned his neck for a better view.

Nora held the book in her hands, absently rubbing the leather with her thumb, then slowly paced back to C.W.'s side, holding it out before her. It was thin, burgundy, and it was a ledger. His tension doubled.

”After Mike's death,” she began slowly, ”his lawyers, accountants, everyone, started ripping through his things, searching for something. Mike didn't trust them, so neither did I. I found this in his desk at home, hidden in a secret portal. It's his private account book-a kind of cheat sheet that he used for himself only. Somehow I knew that this was my only weapon against them so I took it. Until I understood what was happening to me, I wasn't about to lose total control.”

Smart girl, C.W. thought to himself. He would have done the same thing.

”I've read it through a number of times, trying to make sense of it, and the only connection I can make is with the Blair Bank.” She shook her head and wagged a finger. ”They are somehow tied in with this mess. Mike hated Charles Blair,” she said, her fingers making deep indentations in the supple leather. ”I'm sure he was responsible for Mike's fall.”

She gritted her teeth and said with a conviction that chilled C.W.'s blood, ”I'd like to get even with him. And if I can-I will.”

C.W. sat frozen in his chair. Any hope he'd harbored for avoiding deception withered with her words. She despised his very name.

”This is hard for me, giving this to you.” Nora looked at the ledger, as though reconsidering. When she looked up, she appeared resolute. Without another word, she stuck out her arm and offered him the ledger.

C.W.'s nostrils flared and he sat straighter in his chair as he looked at the book held out before him. He felt like a cad; this was stealing candy from a baby. Suddenly, he stood up, angrily, and turned his back to her.

”What's the matter?” she asked, eyes wide.

”What the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l do you expect me to do?” he returned, swinging his head around to face her. ”I can't promise to save you. I am not your knight in s.h.i.+ning armor.” He slammed his hands behind his back and stared intently into the fire. Inside, he raged at the Fates.

Nora saw only his stiff back and the way his hands clenched and unclenched.

”I don't want a knight in s.h.i.+ning armor,” she said softly. ”I only want a friend I can trust.” She paused. ”I thought that was you.”

His shoulders lowered. Slowly he turned around and stood for a moment, looking at her. There was no way she could understand why her trust had cut him so deeply. Nor was there any way he could explain it now. That ledger was the reason he was here tonight. Not her offer of friends.h.i.+p. Nor his feelings for her. She was Mrs. Michael MacKenzie, and that book in her hand could save the neck of her hated enemy, Charles Blair.

In his usual understatement he said, ”I've made you anxious, haven't I?”

Nora looked at the ledger in her outstretched hand, and raised it a fraction.

C.W. took the book.

The leather was soft and supple, from ample use, and in the firelight, its burgundy color glowed in muted reds. He knew without opening it that his instincts had been correct. His wait was justified, his quest was complete.

C.W. lay the ledger carefully before him on the table. Once opened, the die was cast. He drew a deep breath. Would this information be akin to opening Pandora's box? He knew evil lurked in these pages, but did he have the power to conquer it?

With disciplined determination, C.W. drew the ledger close, opened it, and began his study.

The minutes pa.s.sed to an hour, then two, with C.W. bent over the books and Nora sitting silently beside him staring into the fire. Occasionally the papers would rustle as he sifted through them, checking a fact, noting a date. The fire popped and crackled. The wind sighed a high-pitched wail that shook the windows.

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