Texas Proud (Vincente 2) by Constance O'Banyon Page B

now. There was life here there was Rachel.
    He rolled to his side, trying to find a comfortable position. He couldn't shake the guilt that
weighed heavily upon him; Rachel had been shot
because of him. No one would want to harm her.
The bullet had most certainly been meant for him.
    He closed his eyes, but they crept open again
and he stared into the darkness, watching the moon play tag with floating clouds. Unable to
sleep, he got up and wandered to the window. Absently he gazed down into the courtyard, listening
to the wind whispering through the trees and the
rustle of dead leaves swirling about in the fountain courtyard. He made a mental note to have
one of Alejandro's sons clean the courtyard tomorrow.

    His mind turned again to Rachel. Who would
want him dead badly enough to endanger her life
to get at him?
    Hell, it could have been any one of a dozen people. He was certainly not without enemies.
    Whoever it was, he'd find them eventually.

     

Austin, Texas
    The butler walked with practiced dignity across
the ornate, red-and-gold Chinese carpet on his
way to the dining room.
    In the background, there were sounds of the
house coming to life -a servant waxing the dark
oak banisters, another shining the brass door handles downstairs, while still another washed the
windows. Somewhere in the distance, faint
kitchen sounds filtered into the front part of the
house the banging of pots and pans, the sound
of a chopping knife, the murmured voice of the
head cook giving instructions for the day.
    The Chandler residence exuded wealth- although if asked, few people could have said how
Whit Chandler came by his fortune. He was popular with almost everyone Texans, as well as
Yankees. He walked the difficult path of courting
both camps without offending either-a talent he
was proud of Such was Whit's personality that
most people liked him, although, again, none
could have said why. His easy charm, perhaps. His
ability to listen to whoever spoke to him as if that
person had his whole attention. He was likable,
charming, and he did have a beautiful wife, which
didn't hurt.

    Delia sat across the table from her husband, observing him as he read the daily newspaper. Whit's
face was angular, handsome in a boyish sort of
way, and he looked much younger than his thirtyfive years. His hair was blond and curly. He had a
slightly crooked nose that had been broken in his
youth, the result of his quick temper - a temper
he'd long since learned to control. His eyes were
deep-set and a nondescript color, somewhere between gray and blue. He was a complex man.
Delia wasn't sure she understood him at all, nor
did she really care to.
    Her role was to play the dutiful wife when the
world was watching, and she did that well. It was
easy to fool everyone by pretending to adore her
husband and hang on to his every word as if they
were pearls of wisdom. But within their own
home, they were little more than strangers. Whit
came often enough to her bed, because lovemak ing was the one good thing they shared. But there
was no love between them, at least not on Delia's
part. And Whit had never said he loved her, so she
assumed he didn't not that it mattered.

    The butler entered the room, cleared his throat
and held out a silver tray to Whit.
    "Good morning, Hamish." Whit smiled as he
took the note, then looked puzzled. "It's from Harvey Briscal."
    "That little weasel. I didn't even know he could
write," Delia said with disgust. She leaned closer
to her husband, trying to read the letter, but it was
badly written and most of the words were misspelled. "He's Ira Crenshaw's deputy. I only met
him once, and he impressed me as being a fool. I
didn't like him in the least."
    Whit scanned the note and raised his gaze to
Delia. "Dammit," he exploded, glaring at his wife.
"That sister of yours has gone too far this time!"
    Delia nodded for Hamish to leave, and waited
until he departed to speak. "What are you