You’ll Find Out

Chapter 2

Chapter 2

T he first gray fingers of dawn found Becca still awake, lying restlessly on the crumpled bedclothes. She snapped off the radio that had been her companion throughout the long night. The endless hours had been torture. There had been no broadcasts during the night to relieve her dread. She was numb from the reality that the only man she had ever loved might be lost to her forever.

The night had seemed endless while she stared vacantly at the luminous numbers on the clock radio, listening above the soft static-ridden music to the sounds of the hot summer night. Even in the early hours before dawn, the mercurial temperature hadn’t cooled noticeably, making the night drag on even longer. Though the windows of her room had been open, the lace curtains had remained still, unmoved by even the faintest breath of wind. Trapped in a clammy layer of sweat, Becca had tossed on the bed, impatiently waiting for the dawn. When she had finally dozed, it was only to be reawakened by nightmares of an inferno, a disemboweled Cessna, and the haunting image of Brig’s tortured face.

It was nearly six o’clock when her silent vigil ended. The familiar sound of a throbbing engine pierced the solitude as it halted momentarily at the end of the drive. At the sound, Becca rolled out of bed and quickly slipped into a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She pulled on her boots as she ran from her room, flew down the stairs, and raced like a wild-woman to the mailbox.

Her heart was thundering in her chest and her fingers were trembling as she opened the rolled newspaper. Anxiously her eyes swept the headlines, stopping on a blurred photograph of a ragged, weary-looking Brig Chambers. He’s alive, her willing mind screamed at her while her eyes scanned the article to confirm her prayers. Slowly the fear and dread that had been mounting within her heart began to ebb. “Thank God,” Becca whispered in the morning sunlight as she crumpled into a fragile mound at the side of the road and let the tears of joy run freely down her cheeks. “Thank God.”

It was several minutes before she could collect herself. She stood up and hastily rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes to stem the uneven flow. A tremendous weight seemed to have been lifted from her shoulders as she half-ran back to the house. She reread the article several times before finally opening the kitchen door. A wistful smile crossed her lips. She still felt sadness at the death of Brig’s father, but the relief in knowing that Brig was alive warmed her heart.

The newspaper article indicated that Chambers Oil was not, as yet, making a statement concerning the crash, although the rumor that there had been passengers on the plane was confirmed by a company spokesman. The names of the persons accompanying the oil baron on his tragic journey were being withheld until the next of kin had been notified.

Becca stared at the picture of Brig and wondered how he was. His relationship with his father had been close, if sometimes strained. No doubt Brig was immersed in grief, but she knew that he would survive. It was his way.

The aroma of fresh-perked coffee greeted Becca as she entered the roomy old-fashioned kitchen. “What are you doing up so early?” she asked Dean as she reached for a mug of the steaming black coffee.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean grumbled. He sat at the table, his forehead cradled in his palms. His sandy hair was uncombed and he had two days’ worth of stubble on his chin. It looked as if he had slept in his dusty jeans and T-shirt.

“You got in late last night,” Becca observed quietly. “I didn’t expect to see you till midafternoon.”

“I guess I’ve got things on my mind,” he replied caustically. He raised his bloodshot eyes to stare at his sister, and in an instant he knew that Brig Chambers was still alive. It was written all over Becca’s relieved face. “You got the paper?” he asked gruffly.

Becca nodded, taking a sip from her coffee as she sat down at the small table. Because Dean was being irritable, she purposely goaded him. “Do you want the sports section?”

Dean’s eyes darkened. “Not this morning.” He reached for the paper and began skimming the front page. Mockingly he added, “I’m glad to see you’re back to normal.”

“A pity you’re not.”

“All right, all right, I admit it. I’ve got one helluva hangover . . . Jesus Christ, give me a break, will ya?” His eyes moved quickly across the newsprint. “So Brig wasn’t in the plane with his father!”

Was Dean relieved or disappointed? Becca couldn’t guess. Her brother was becoming more of an enigma with each passing day. “Thank goodness for that,” she sighed.

Dean shook his head slowly from side to side, trying to quell the throbbing in his temples and attempting to concentrate. “Okay, so now we know exactly what we’re up against, don’t we?” His eyes narrowed as he ran his thumb over his chin. “The question is, what are we going to do about it.”

“I haven’t quite decided—”

Before she could continue, Dean interrupted with a shrug and an exaggerated frown. “Maybe we won’t have to worry about it at all.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that it might be out of our hands already. Once Brig finds out about Gypsy Wind and the fifty grand, he might make his own decision, regardless of what we want.”

“You think so?”

“What’s to prevent him from taking our horse? After all, his old man practically bought her.”

“I doubt that Brig would want the filly . . . you know that he gave up anything to do with racing—”

“Because of Sentimental Lady?” Dean asked bluntly. “Don’t tell me you’re still suffering guilt over her, too.”

“No . . .”

“Just because Brig blamed you for—”

“Stop it!” Becca got up from the table and went over to the counter. For something to do, she began cutting thick slices of homemade bread. She didn’t want to remember anything about the guilt or the pain she had suffered at Brig’s hand; not now, not while she was still bathing in the warmth of the knowledge that he was alive. Realizing that she couldn’t duck Dean’s probing questions, she addressed the issue in a calmer voice. “I think the best thing to do is to wait, until sometime after the funeral. Then we’ll have to talk to the attorneys at Chambers Oil.”

“They’ll eat you alive.”

Becca sighed inaudibly. It was impossible to get through to Dean when his mind was set. Sometimes she wondered why he was so defensive, especially whenever the conversation steered toward Brig. After all, it was she whom Brig had blamed, not Dean. She placed the bread on the table near an open jar of honey. “We can handle the attorneys . . . but if you would prefer to talk to Brig—”

“What? Are you out of your mind?” Dean’s skin whitened under his deep California tan. “I have nothing to say to Chambers!”

Becca assumed that Dean’s ashen color and his vehement speech were caused by his hangover and his concern for her. She dismissed his hatred of Brig as entirely her fault. Dean knew how deeply she had been wounded six years ago, and her brother held Brig Chambers solely responsible. Dean had never forgiven Brig for so cruelly and unjustly hurting his sister. But then, Dean never did know the whole story; Becca had shielded him from part of the truth. Patiently, she forced a smile she didn’t feel upon her brother. “I’ll go and talk to Brig myself.”

“Becca!” Dean’s voice shook angrily and it made her look up from the slice of bread she was buttering. “Don’t do anything you might regret . . . take some time, think things over first.”

“I have.”

“No, you haven’t! You haven’t begun to consider all of the consequences of telling Brig about the loan or the horse! Don’t you see that it will only dredge up the same problems all over again? Think about what a field day the press will have when they learn that you and the money you borrowed from Chambers Oil have bred another horse, not just any horse, mind you, but nearly an exact copy . . . a twin of Sentimental Lady! It may have been six years, Becca, but the press won’t forget about the controversy at Sequoia Park!” Dean’s pale blue eyes were calculating as they judged Becca’s reaction.

“Gypsy Wind is going to race. We can’t hide her or the note.”

“I’m not asking you to,” Dean hastily agreed as he noticed just a tremor of hesitation in Becca’s voice. He tried another, more pointed tack. “Just give it time. Brig Chambers has a lot more problems—important problems—than he can handle right now. His father was killed just yesterday. If you bring up the subject of Gypsy Wind now, it will only burden him further.”

“I don’t know . . .”

Dean pressed his point home. “Just give it a little time, will ya? Of course we’ll tell him about the filly, when the time is right. Once she’s proved herself.”

“She won’t race for another five or six months.”

“Well, maybe we’ll have sold her by then.”

“ Sold her ?” Becca repeated, as if she hadn’t heard her brother correctly. “I’ll never sell Gypsy Wind.”

Dean’s lips pressed into a severe frown. “You may not have a choice, Becca. Remember, when Brig Chambers finds that note, for all practical purposes, he owns that horse.”

“Then how can you even suggest that we sell her?” Becca asked, astounded by her brother’s heartlessness and dishonesty. Sometimes she didn’t think she understood her brother at all. She hadn’t in a long while.

“It might be that the horse is worth more now! For God’s sake, Becca, we can’t take a chance that she’ll get hurt when she races. Think about Sentimental Lady! Do you want us to run into the same problem with Gypsy Wind?”

Becca was horror-struck at the thought. Her stomach lurched uneasily. Dean’s chair scraped against the plank floor. He raked his fingers through his hair impatiently. “I don’t know what we should do,” he admitted. “I just wish that for once you would think with your head instead of your heart!”

Becca’s green eyes snapped. “I think I’ve done well enough for the both of us,” she threw back at him. “As for listening to my heart—”

“Save it!” Dean broke in irritably. “When it comes to Brig Chambers, you never have thought straight!”

Before she could disagree, the screen door banged against the porch, announcing Dean’s departure.

* * *

Ten days had passed and the argument between Becca and Dean was still simmering, unresolved, in the air. Although they hadn’t had another out-and-out confrontation, nothing had changed concerning the status of Starlight Breeding Farm and its large outstanding debt to Chambers Oil. In Dean’s opinion, no news was good news. To Becca, each day put her more on edge.

Becca had considered calling Brig and trying to explain the situation over the telephone, but just the thought of the fragile connection linking her to him made her palms sweat. What if he wouldn’t accept the call? Did he already know about the note? Could he guess about the horse? Was he just waiting patiently for her to make the first move so that he could once again reject her? Though the telephone number of Chambers Oil lingered in her memory, she never quite got up enough nerve to call.

Excuses filled her mind. They were frail, but they sustained her. Brig would be too busy to talk to her, now that he was running the huge conglomerate, or he would be attempting to sort out his own grief. Not only had he lost his father in the plane crash, but also a friend. One of the persons on board the ill-fated plane was Melanie DuBois, a raven-haired model who had often been photographed on the arm of Brig Chambers, heir to the Chambers Oil fortune. Her slightly seductive looks opposed everything about Becca. Melanie had been short for a model, but well proportioned, and her thick, straight ebony hair and dark unwavering eyes had given her a sensual provocative look that seemed to make the covers of slick magazines come to life. Now Melanie, too, was gone. Dead at twenty-six.

On this morning, while packing a few things into an overnight bag, Becca tried not to think of Melanie DuBois or the young woman’s rumored romance with Brig. Instead, she attempted to mentally check all of the things she would need for a weekend in Denver. Knowing it might be impossible to get hold of Brig at the office, Becca had vowed to herself that she would go back to the Chambers mountain retreat and find Brig if she had to. She had visited it once before when she was forced to borrow the money for Gypsy Wind from Brig’s father. Becca was willing to do anything necessary to keep Gypsy Wind. That was the reason she was packing as if she would have to stay for weeks in the enchanting retreat tucked in the slopes of the Colorado Rockies. Wasn’t it?

“I don’t suppose there is any way I can talk you out of this.” Dean said as he leaned against the doorjamb of Becca’s small room.

“No.” She shook her head. “You may as well save your breath.”

“Then you won’t begin to listen to how foolish this is?”

Becca cast him a wistful smile that touched her eyes. “Save your brotherly advice.”

“When will you be back?”

“Monday.”

Dean’s bushy eyebrows furrowed. “So long?”

“Maybe not,” she replied evasively. She snapped the leather bag closed. “If I can get everything straightened out this afternoon, I’ll be back in the morning.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean remarked dubiously. “But you might be gone for the entire weekend?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Brig’s reaction, I suppose,” Becca thought aloud. Her heart skipped a beat at the thought of the man whom she had loved so desperately, the man she had once vowed never to see again.

“Then you really are going to tell him about our horse, aren’t you?”

“Dean, I have to.”

“Or you want to?”

“Meaning what?”

Dean strode into the room, sat on the edge of the small bed, and eyed his younger sister speculatively. How long had it been since he had seen her look so beautiful? When was the last time she had bothered to wear a dress? Dean couldn’t remember. The smart emerald jersey knit was as in vogue today as it had been when Becca had purchased it several years ago, and her sun-streaked dark-blond hair shone with a new radiance as she tossed it carelessly away from her face. Becca looked more alive than she had in months, Dean admitted to himself. “Examine your motive,” he suggested with a severe smile. He started to say something else, changed his mind, and shook his head. Instead he murmured, “Whatever it is you’re looking for in Denver, I hope you find it.”

“You know why I’m going to see Brig,” Becca replied calmly. She hoisted her purse over her shoulder, but avoided Dean’s intense gaze. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hide the incriminating burn on her cheeks.

“Yeah, I know,” Dean responded cynically, while picking up Becca’s bag, “but do you ?”

* * *

The cedar house seemed strangely quiet without the presence of his father to fill the rooms. Though it was still fastidiously clean and the only scent to reach Brig’s nostrils was his father’s favorite blend of pipe tobacco, the atmosphere in the room seemed . . . dead.

It’s only your imagination, he chastised himself as he tried to take his solemn thoughts away from his father. It had been nearly two weeks since the company plane had gone down, and it was time to bury his grief along with the old man.

In the past twelve days Brig had come to feel that his life was on a runaway roller coaster, destined to collide with any number of unknown, intangible obstacles. There had been the funeral arrangements, the will, the stuffy lawyers, the stuffier insurance adjusters, the incredibly tasteless press, and now, unexpectedly, a wildcat strike in the oil fields of Wyoming. It appeared that everyone who remotely knew Jason Chambers had a problem, a problem Brig was supposed to handle.

Damn! Brig ran his fingers under the hair at the base of his head and rubbed the knot of tension that had settled between his shoulder blades. In the last week he hadn’t had more than two or three hours sleep at a stretch and he was dog-tired. The last thing in the world he had expected was for his robust father to die and leave him in charge of the corporation.

Brig had worked solely for Chambers Oil for the last six years, and in that time his father had trained him well. Brig had become the best troubleshooter ever on the payroll of Chambers Oil. No problem had seemed insurmountable in the past, and usually Brig flourished with only a few hours of sleep. But not now—not tonight. In the past the problems had come one at a time, or so it seemed in retrospect. But since Jason Chambers’ death, the entire company appeared to be falling apart, piece by piece. Somehow, Brig was expected to hold it steadfastly together. A sad smile curved his lips as he now understood that maybe his father had only made running the company seem simple. “I’ve got to hand it to you, old man,” Brig whispered as he held his drink upward in silent salute to his father.

Maybe I’m just not cut out for this, he thought to himself as his lips pulled into a wry grimace. Maybe I just don’t have what it takes to run an oil conglomerate.

As he sat in his father’s favorite worn chair, his elbows rested on the scarred wooden desk, the same desk he remembered from his childhood. Brig took a long swallow from his warm scotch. It was his third drink in the last hour. He rubbed the back of his neck mechanically and rotated his head before tackling the final task of the day. His frown deepened as he stared at the untidy stack of papers banded loosely together in the bottom drawer of the desk. A few moments earlier Brig had discovered that this drawer, and this drawer only, had been kept locked. So this was where Jason Chambers had kept all of his personal records—the transactions that were hidden from the disapproving eyes of the company auditors and the disdainful glare of tax attorneys. Brig had suspected that the papers existed, but he had always figured that they were the old man’s business, no one else’s concern. He smiled sadly to himself and silently cursed his father for the reckless, carefree lifestyle that had ultimately taken his life. “You miserable son-of-a-bitch,” Brig whispered fondly. “How could you do this to me?”

His gray eyes lowered to the first scrap of paper in the stack, a yellowed receipt from a furrier for a sable coat. Brig couldn’t help but wonder which one of the dozen or so women his father had dated over the last few years had ended up with the expensive prize. With an oath of disgust, leveled for the most part at himself, Brig tossed the papers back into the drawer, slammed it shut, and locked it. He was too tired to think about his father or the string of women who had attracted Jason Chambers since his wife’s death.

“If I had any sense I’d burn those blasted papers and forget about them,” he muttered to himself; to open that portion of his father’s life seemed an intrusion of the old man’s privacy. Unfortunately, the inheritance tax auditors didn’t see things from the same perspective. He dimmed the desk lamp, picked up his drink, and walked to the window to draw the shade. Flickering lights in the distance caught his attention and he left the shade open. He narrowed his eyes and squinted to be sure just as the twin beams of light flashed once again. Headlights. Someone was coming. Who? Brig’s thoughts revolved backward in time to earlier in the afternoon. He was certain he had ordered his secretary to keep his whereabouts under wraps. Hadn’t Mona understood him; he didn’t want to be disturbed. He needed this weekend alone.

Don’t get crazy, he told himself as the car drove up the long gravel road. Brig Chambers couldn’t hide, not since he took command of Chambers Oil. If someone wanted to find him badly enough, it wouldn’t be hard to do. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he would be spending a quiet weekend in Jason’s rustic cottage in the mountains. Brig had hoped that the two-hour drive from Denver would discourage most people interested in contacting him. He had the foresight to take the phone off the hook, and he hadn’t expected to be interrupted. From the looks of the strong headlights winking through the trees, he’d been wrong. Perhaps it was critical business. He checked his watch. Why else would someone be coming to the cabin at nearly ten o’clock at night?

The car rounded the final curve in the driveway and Brig strained to get a glimpse of the driver. Who the hell was it?

* * *

Becca’s heart was racing as rapidly as the engine of the rental car she had picked up at the airport. All of the confidence she had gathered at dawn had slowly ebbed with the series of problems she had encountered during the day. It was almost as if she were fated not to meet Brig again. To start off her day, the flight had been delayed, then there was a mixup in her hotel reservation, not to mention that the rental car which was supposed to be waiting for her had never been ordered, according to the agency’s records. It had taken an extra four hours to get everything straightened out. To top off matters, when she had finally managed to arrive at Chambers Oil, she had been politely but firmly rebuked. The efficient but slightly cool secretary had informed Becca that Brig Chambers was gone for the remainder of the day and wasn’t expected back into the office until Monday morning. If no one else could help her, then Becca was out of luck. No, the silver-haired woman had replied to her query, Mr. Chambers hadn’t left a telephone number where he could be reached . . . if Becca would kindly leave her name and number, Mr. Chambers was sure to get back to her early next week. Becca had declined. It had seemed imperative at the time that she see Brig in person. Right now, she wasn’t so certain.

After cresting the final hill and following the road around an acute turn, Becca stepped lightly on the brakes of the rented sedan. In front of her, silhouetted against a backdrop of rugged, heavy-scented pine trees, stood the rustic cedar cabin of Jason Chambers. Soft light from the paned windows indicated that someone was inside. Becca swallowed with difficulty as six abandoned years without Brig stretched before her. After all of the pain, would she be able to see him . . . or touch him? There was no doubt in her mind that he was in the house; she only hoped that he was alone and that he would see her. The angry years apart from him dampened her spirits and she wondered fleetingly why she had decided to come to the lonely cabin to seek him out. She had even brought her overnight bag with her. Was it an oversight or had Dean been right all along?

Before the questions that had been nagging at her could steal all of her determination, Becca switched off the ignition, opened the car door, and stepped into the night.

As Brig sipped his scotch he watched the idling car sitting in the driveway. The engine died and Brig strained to identify the driver. When the car door opened and the interior light flashed for a second, he caught a quick glimpse of a woman stepping from the car. Brig’s jaw tensed. This wasn’t just any woman, but a tall, graceful woman with a soft mane of golden hair, which shimmered in the moonlight. He didn’t catch sight of her face, but he knew intuitively that she was incredibly beautiful. The pride with which she carried herself spoke of beauty and grace. Hazy, distant clouds of memory began to taunt him, but he savagely thrust aside his cloudy thoughts of another striking blonde, knowing that she was lost to him forever. Though she still occupied his dreams, he denied himself conscious thoughts of her. Why did she still haunt him so? And why could he remember every elegant line of her face with such breathtaking clarity? He was a damned fool when it came to Becca Peters. He always had been.

Brig cocked an interested black eyebrow as he stared voyeuristically at the well-shaped stranger hurrying to the porch. What woman would be looking for him in the middle of the night, at this secluded mountain home? An expectant smile lit his face only to withdraw into a suspicious frown when he realized that the gorgeous creature now rapping upon his door was probably another one of his father’s mistresses, coming to claim what she considered rightfully hers. Brig drained his drink as he advanced toward the door. He hoped to hell that the blonde wasn’t wearing a sable coat.

In the past week Brig had secretly dealt with one of his father’s mistresses. Nanette Walters was a calculating bitch who was ready to spill her guts about her relationship with Jason Chambers to any interested gossip columnist for the price of a oneway ticket to the Bahamas. Fortunately, Brig had gotten to her first. The thought of Nanette’s aristocratic beauty and easily bought affections soured Brig’s stomach and he clenched his jaw in determination as he steeled himself against what would certainly be another cold, expensive demand by one of his father’s latest women.

Every muscle in Brig’s body had tensed in anticipation by the time he reached the door. The insistent rapping had stilled, but the woman was persistent. Brig hadn’t heard her restart the car and leave. He jerked the door open and let the light from the interior of the house spill into the night. The pale lamplight rested on the long, tawny hair of the woman standing on the porch and a familiar scent hung in the night air. Brig felt himself waver. He couldn’t see her face; her head was bent over her purse and she was rummaging through it as if she was looking for something. Disgust forced a smile of contempt to Brig’s lips when he understood: The blonde obviously had her own key to his father’s private retreat.

The stranger lifted her bewitching green eyes and Brig’s breath caught in his throat. Memories of making love to her in a fragrant field of spring clover clouded his mind. Was she an illusion? As his stunned gaze met and entwined with hers, Brig couldn’t help but slip backward in time. It was as if six long years of his life had suddenly disappeared into the darkness. He damned himself for the stiff drinks. It couldn’t be Becca, not after six unforgiving years.

“Rebecca?” he whispered, not believing the trick his mind was playing on him. He must have had more to drink than he thought. A thousand questions surfaced as he stared at her and just as quickly those questions escaped, unanswered. It had to be Rebecca—the resemblance was too perfect for it to be unreal. What was she doing here, at his father’s private cabin in the middle of the night?

Wasn’t it just yesterday when they had made love in the rain? Couldn’t he still taste the warm raindrops on her smooth skin? He closed his eyes for just a moment—to steady himself—and his dark brows knitted in the confusion that was cutting him to the bone. Why the hell couldn’t he think straight?

* * *

The sound of his disbelieving voice whispering her name moved Becca to tears. Her answer caught in her swollen throat. Why hadn’t she sought him out sooner? Why had she waited so long? Was pride that important?

A wistful smile, full of the memories they had shared together, touched her lips. He looked so tired . . . so worried. Her lips trembled when she realized that he, too, might be vulnerable. He had always been so strong. Without understanding the reasons behind her actions, she reached up and touched his rough cheek with her fingertips.

His eyes flew open. They were as she had remembered them: deep-set and steely gray. They touched her as no other eyes had dared. They held her imprisoned in their naked gaze, encouraged rapturous passion.

“Brig,” she murmured, her voice raw. “How are you?” Her hand still caressed his cheek.

He studied her for an endless second, but ignored her concerned inquiry. His eyes probed deeply into hers, asking questions she couldn’t hope to answer. “What are you doing here, Rebecca?”

“I came to see you.”

It was so simple and seemed so honest. For an instant Brig believed her. He needed to trust her. Perhaps it was the look of innocence in her found, verdant eyes, or maybe it was the effect of more than one too many drinks. But that didn’t entirely explain his feelings. More than likely it was because, in the past few weeks, he had felt so incredibly alone. Whatever the reason, Brig couldn’t resist the look of naive seduction in her eyes. “God, Rebecca, why did you wait so long to come back?”