Ghost Times Two by Carolyn Hart Page A

It won’t do any good to throw a tantrum. If you keep it up, I’ll make it a year and a half.”
    The back of Keith’s neck reddened. “Someday somebody’s going to—”
    Graham ignored him, turned away, slammed the door shut.
    A deep, boisterous, king-of-the-mountain shout boomed from the reception area. “Where’s that lucky son of a gun?” A big man burst through the doorway, strode forward, making the wide hallway seem small. He was well over six foot five, a Stetson pushed back on a shock of iron gray hair, a seamed face, broad shoulders, slim waist. His blue Tommy Bahama polo pulled out over a slight paunch. His Levi’s were well worn, but his Tony Lama red leather boots gleamed withpolish. “Yo, Doug. Come out, come out, wherever you are.” He planted himself solidly in the middle of the hallway, boomed, “Listen up, ladies. Have you heard—”
    White-haired Lou, her round placid face anxious, hovered nervously in the doorway to the waiting room. She turned over her plump well-cared-for hands as if to say,
I couldn’t stop him, he barged right in
.
    Sharon’s slender fingers rested on her keyboard. She half turned to look at the newcomer. Anita was slumped in her chair. She ignored the gathering in the hall, scrubbed at her splotchy face. Geraldine twirled a yellow curl on one finger. Her eyes held a look of appraisal, a woman sizing up a man and liking what she saw. Nancy Murray leaned forward to watch, dark eyes bright with interest.
    Megan glanced from Keith Porter, glowering outside Graham’s office, to the big man standing with his arms akimbo.
    Brewster Layton’s office door opened. His small gray-haired client peeked out, her eyes darting up and down the hallway. Layton came up behind her. He nodded toward the big man. “Morning, Jack.”
    The visitor clapped his hands together. “Good to see you, Brewster. Did you know what your partner’s up to?” He gave Brewster no chance to reply and bulled past Keith Porter to Graham’s office, pounded, flung open the door. “Come on out, Doug.”
    Graham moved into the open doorway. “Hey, Jack, tamp it down. You aren’t on a rig. Look what you’ve done.” The lawyer gestured at the watching faces. “Nobody’s working. I’ll add a surcharge to your bill to make up for the loss.”
    The big man shoved his cowboy hat farther back on his head. “Don’t try to calf rope me, Doug. I want to see the ring.”
    Graham’s blond brows lifted in surprise.
    A guffaw. “Did you think you could keep that rock a secret? Not in Adelaide. Don’t try to pretend. I know all, just like a palm reader in a tent. Maisie’s planning a big midsummer bash with a fortune-teller and some feng shui guy out of L.A. and a swami—I asked her if that was pickled or smoked—so everybody can get a heads-up on next year. But I’m one up on the local gossips. Maisie was at Jory’s Jewelry store yesterday. That woman spends more money on little old trinkets there than I put into a new well.” He spoke with a rueful tone, but the message was clear:
My wife buys expensive jewelry, and I can afford any damn thing she wants.
“Maisie always gets the goods on who’s bought what, and she tells me you slapped down a hundred grand yesterday for a diamond engagement ring. Just last week you shrugged off my questions, said Lisbeth Carew was a friend and a client and the fact you’ve spent time at her ranch in Wyoming was all business. I guess we know what kind of business now. I guess you got around to talking about something besides cattle sales and drilling rigs. It figures you’d shell out a bundle for a ring for the richest widow in Pontotoc County. Probably the richest and most gorgeous widow in all seventy-seven counties. And as everyone knows, Lisbeth Carew is the marrying kind. No sneak-around affairs for her.