Opal Fires Read online

  OPAL FIRES

  Lynda Trent

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Author of More Than Three Million Books in Print…

  Winner of the Golden Medallion Award!

  “I had no idea you’d be so perfect.” Ryan kissed her deeply, passionately, then buried his face in the curve of her neck as he ran his hands over her satiny skin.

  Clare returned his kisses with equal intensity, savoring each moment, drawing out each pleasure. She unbuttoned his shirt and let her hands stroke the smoothness of his chest. His muscles were taut beneath her fingers, and as she removed the shirt, she brushed her breasts against his skin. With awe, she ran her palms across the hard perfection of his body. Ryan’s lean belly was ridged with muscles, and there was no sign of surplus weight around his narrow waist. She liked it immensely. Clare bent her head and left a trail of butterfly kisses across his chest.

  Again she raised her mouth to meet his and marveled at the excitement of his tongue tracing fire between her lips. She’d never been kissed like this before, and she hungrily kissed him again.

  OPAL FIRES

  LYNDA TRENT

  To Star

  for the world she opened

  and a unicorn named Perserverance

  A LEISURE BOOK®

  August 1993

  Published by

  Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Fifth Avenue

  276 New York, NY 10001

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © MCMLXXXII by Dan and Lynda Trent

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law.

  The name “Leisure Books” and the stylized “L” with design are trademarks of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  Chapter One

  Clare Marshall shifted uncomfortably under the pounding rays of the hot East Texas sun. She was aware of the preacher’s monotonous, droning voice, the pungent smell of the chocolate-brown earth, and of the other people who stood knotted around her. Somewhere nearby someone had been mowing grass, and the warm smell of wild onions hung in the air. From the house beyond the cemetery came the faint shouts of children playing and the yaps of a dog.

  Clare shifted her weight to the other foot. In unison, several pairs of pitying eyes swung toward her with somber expressions. She ignored them.

  “Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” the perspiring preacher mournfully intoned. “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.”

  Across the grave, a tall blonde, with an elegantly coiled chignon, touched a lacy handkerchief to her eyes and sighed dolorously, as if the weight’ of the world rested on her shoulders. Clare gazed silently at the woman, then let her attention return to the coffin.

  An angular, dark-haired woman briefly put her arm around

  Clare’s shoulders, then resumed a position of studied gravity. Clare glanced sideways at her best friend, Marla Gentry. She knew the tears in Maria’s eyes were those of sympathy rather than grief. Clare was careful to let no expression alter her own features.

  “… And bless, O, Lord, this your handmaiden,” the preacher implored, gesturing with his Bible toward Clare. “Guide her and keep her, so soon bereaved, so young a widow.” He rolled his eyes heavenward and clasped the Bible to his chest.

  The new widow gazed steadfastly at the charcoal-gray coffin, its silver handles glinting brightly in the merciless sun. Soon it would be lowered into the waiting grave, and her thoughts were on her husband, who lay within.

  “Damn you, Elliot Marshall,” she cried beneath her breath. “Damn you to hell! If you weren’t already dead, I think I’d be tempted to kill you myself.” Realizing the impropriety of her thoughts, she carefully soothed all emotion from her features.

  Only the night before, she had learned that Elliot had not only spent all their savings to feed his gambling addiction, but he had mortgaged her parents’ old homeplace as well. Although Clare had no intention of ever living on the farm, she still considered it as her inheritance, her roots. Elliot knew how she left and he had mortgaged it anyway, and without her consent!

  Clare blinked against the glare of the sun and tried to ignore the headache forming behind her eyes. A weak breeze ruffled her shoulder-length, dark brown hair and she absentmindedly pushed it back in place. Her smoky gray eyes were cloudy with rebellious thoughts as she looked across the heat-shimmering ground. Resolutely, she squared her slender shoulders.

  The sun glanced off the hood ornament of the black hearse, and Clare wondered wryly how she would pay for the funeral. Or the preacher, for that matter. The man from the bank who had told her about the impending foreclosure had been quite definite about the state of her savings balance. There was virtually nothing.

  She stared accusingly at the dignified and stately coffin. It had been selected before she learned she had no money. Although she knew very little about the mortuary business,

  Clare was certain they would have held a dim view of her asking to exchange Elliot’s coffin for a cheaper one after he had been in possession of it for a day and a half.

  Hysterical laughter began to rise in her throat. Even from his grave, Elliot had succeeded in outwitting her! As she choked back her hysteria, the sound resembled a sob.

  Where had the love gone? She had loved him once… surely she had! Again she thought of him as he had been in collegecharming, debonair and incredibly wealthy; a man capable of turning the head of a poor farm girl who was barely making her way through school on an art scholarship. Even if he hadn’t given up drinking and gambling as he had promised, still he hadn’t been really bad. She flushed. That wasn’t entirely true.

  Again she looked across the carnation-bedecked coffin at Regina Wharton, the tall blonde. Had Elliot and Regina been having an affair? she pondered unemotionally. How odd that she didn’t care. Clare wondered if she was losing her mind. She should be feeling at least some sorrow, rather than this grinding anger. Certainly she should feel jealousy or even remorse that Elliot had made love with a woman that Clare must see several times a week whether she liked her or not. But Clare felt only numbness toward Regina.

  Clare stared stonily at the red and white flowers as the mourners sang “Rock of Ages.” She sighed and closed her eyes against the sun’s glare. The headache was worse and her back was beginning to ache from her rigid posture.

  How am I going to make it? she demande
d silently of the coffin.

  She opened her eyes and realized with embarrassment that the preacher thought she was overcome with grief. But he didn’t know Elliot. Not the real Elliot, at any rate. The Elliot who dutifully sang in the church choir on Sunday had no connection with the man Clare had been married to for four years.

  Compassionately, the preacher cut short his prayer and stepped to her side.

  “We got to bear up, Miz Marshall,” he murmured solicitously. “I’ll let you bid him goodbye, then I’ll see you home.” The aging man’s eyes were full of genuine concern, and she felt guilty at her improper thoughts.

  Clare stepped nearer the coffin, her face deliberately

  expressionless. The mound of dirt beside the hole, hidden by a green cloth, provided a backdrop against the charcoal metal and vivid flowers. Beyond it, waves of heat shimmered among the white tombstones. A mockingbird called dismally in the distance.

  The young widow regarded the receptacle of the earthly remains of her husband. I’m going to make it, you rotten son-of-a-bitch! she thought. I’m going to make a good life for myself. You just see if I dont’!

  Feeling on the verge of hysteria again, she stepped quickly away, flanked by the preacher and other mourners, and left Elliot to the of the gravediggers.

  The large red brick house commanded the top of the wooded knoll like a castle. Two immense porches, one below and one above, swept around three sides of the house in a snowy expanse of heavy white wood. The many-paned windows barricaded the hot air from the airconditioned shadows within. On either side of the immense double door of hand-carved oak, twin panes of crystal cut glass towered up to meet the fan-shaped window above. Sunlight streaming through the large pine and oak trees was broken apart in the crystal prisms of the window, and fell in a splash of rainbow colors on the terrazzo floor of the entryway.

  Clare sat on one of the cushioned seats in the bay window of the morning room and watched cars drive up the winding private lane. She had come here to steel herself to greet the mourners following the funeral. Already the parking area was filled, and the latecomers were beginning to block the curved front drive.

  She shifted uneasily and leaned against the wall, letting the gauzy white curtain drop back in place. She couldn’t possibly admit to her strange lack of emotion, yet she was far too honest to pretend a grief she didn’t feel. Still, the strange numbness persisted. Why didn’t she feel grief, she wondered, or at least loneliness? Even her earlier anger had subsided, and she felt hollow. Clare looked about her as if searching for an answer in the familiarity of her favorite room.

  The furniture was rattan, covered with billowy cushions of navy, emerald and white cotton. Tall palms and numerous hanging baskets of overflowing folage made an atmosphere of jungle lushness, offset by the starkly severe lines of a chrome and glass etagere. Several vases of zinnias and roses adorned side tables and the breakfast nook partially because of the funeral, but more because Clare loved flowers and color and had them about her as often as possible.

  In contrast to the room, her dress was an uncompromising slash of black that made her skin pale by comparison and her gray eyes even darker than usual.

  As she again absently peered across the expanse of well-manicured lawn, a midnight-blue Cadillac caught her attention as it rolled to a stop perilously close to a row of her favorite camilla bushes. A small muscle tightened in Clare’s jaw as she watched Regina Wharton being helped out of her car by her husband, Howard. She carried a small, covered dish at arm’s length, taking care not to soil her white linen suit or her image.

  The women had disliked each other since that day, four years before, when Elliot had introduced his bride to his circle of friends. Although Clare had been raised on a farm between the two small towns of Kilgore and Gladewater in East Texas, she had gone to grade school in Gladewater and had not, until college, met Elliot nor any of his Kilgore friends. The clannish isolationism of this area, coupled with the fact that the schools were in separate sports districts, had precluded even a chance meeting. As a teenager, Clare had been chafed by what she considered narrow-mindedness. Now she viewed the social separateness as heaven-sent, knowing what Regina would say if she learned her wealthy childhood sweetheart had married the daughter of a dirt farmer. It was a cinch that Elliot had never mentioned his wife’s background.

  “Clare?” a voice called out from the doorway. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. Come in, Maria.” Clare managed a smile that quickly faded.

  “Why are you in here all by yourself? Are you sure you’re all right?” Maria Gentry came over and sat beside Clare on the window seat.

  ” Regina and Howard just drove up,” Clare said, as if this answered Marla’s question. “Do you think she and Elliot were really having an affair?” Her voice was as calm as if she were commenting on the weather.

  “Clare! You shouldn’t be thinking about that!”

  Again Clare smiled faintly. “I think so, too.”

  Marla frowned but didn’t pursue the subject. Regina had often bragged about her liaison with Elliot in Clare’s absence.

  Clare looked back outside. ”I was also thinking how very different my life has been since I married Elliot. And wondering what it will be like from now on.” She looked at her friend and her eyes were dark and brooding. “I can’t go back to what I came from, Maria. I just can’t!” She turned her gaze back to the windows and said softly, “You don’t know what it was like. Being teased because my clothes were faded and my shoes were worn out. I never had a new pair of shoes until I was in high school. Even then, the money I earned mainly went toward Papa’s medical bills.”

  “It must have been very difficult for you,” Marla said gently. She had rarely heard her friend talk about her impoverished childhood.

  “My parents were good to me, but there just wasn’t any money. After Papa lost his arm in the cotton gin accident, he couldn’t get work and his health wasn’t ever very good. I guess he never really healed up properly. Mama did he best, but we never had any extra money for nice things.” She turned her haunted eyes back to Marla. “I remember one Christmas when we had nothing to eat but cornbread and dried red beans. I swore then that I wouldn’t live all my life like that. Mama couldn’t have been more than thirty-five or so, but she looked so tired! Not even forty and she was already an old woman!” Clare shoved a tear away with the palm of her hand and drew a ragged breath. “I’m sorry, Marla. I shouldn’t be going on like this, but you’re the only one I can talk to. No one else has any idea about my background. They don’t even know who I am. But, Marla,” she said with gritty determination, “I won’t go back to living like that! Not ever!”

  “Now, Clare, there now,” Marla said gently. “It seems worse now than it will later. Of course you’re upset over losing Elliot.”

  Clare frowned. “He mortgaged my farm.”

  “What?” Marla drew back in astonishment. “When? All of it?”

  “Yes. All of it. He took out a loan months ago and never paid one cent on it. I just found out about it yesterday. And I don’t have the money to give it back.”

  “Yesterday! That’s terrible! Who on earth would hit you with news like that just before your husband’s funeral?” she demanded.

  “The honorable Neal Thorndyke, our illustrious bank president, sent word.” Clare picked up a small pillow and absently straightened its row of ecru fringe.

  “What are you going to do?”

  “That’s why I just told you. I don’t know.”

  “How long do you have before they… do something?”

  “Foreclose, you mean?” Clare probed at the word, as if to test her pain level. “I don’t know. I have to go in and talk to him Friday.” Her eyes suddenly flashed angrily. “How could Elliot do this to me! He knew what that land means to me!”

  “I know you’re fond of it,” Marla said with the logic of a town dweller, “but there doesn’t seem to be much you can do. No matter what you owe, if you can’t raise
it in three days”

  “I’m more than just fond of it,” Clare interrupted defensively. “It’s as if it’s a part of me. I know every inch of that land. I learned to swim in the creek. My parents built that house and lived in it until they died. It’s not just land. It’s the only place where I was truly loved.” Clare eased somewhat, but her gray eyes were intense. “Marla, swear to me you’ll not tell a soul about this. I’ll figure my way out of this, somehow.”

  Marla got up and tried to smile encouragingly. “You have my promise. We’ll think of something.” She cocked her head slightly and said, “Wait a minute. You said he mortgaged the farm without your knowledge? This is a community property state. He couldn’t do that without your signature. Did you sign anything?”

  “I don’t know. If I did, I didn’t realize what it was. Thorndyke’s message indicated that he thinks it’s all legal and proper. The last papers I signed at the bank were the ones on Elliot’s airplane.” Clare’s eyes narrowed slightly as she thought back. “And that was just five or six months ago.”

  “Sounds like you may have an out, after all,” Marla offered. “You just tell the bank it was all a mistake. But right now you have to go greet your guests.”

  “The man from the bank didn’t think it was a mistake.” Clare grimaced, then a smile lit just the corners of her well-shaped mouth. “What would I do without you?” She stood, smoothed her skirt and followed Marla out of the sanctuary.

  As they neared the living room, a subdued murmur enveloped them as people touched Clare reassuringly and mumbled condolences. The preacher managed to look not only miserable over Elllot’s untimely death, but piously confident, as well, of Elliot’s certain arrival in heaven. Clare wondered how the preacher could possibly convey two such opposing emotions, as she nodded of his offer to pray for her. He said something about “bands of angels” and “joys not of this world” that Clare only half heard.