Rivals by Janet Dailey

every detail of her appearance, skipping over the purple and pink of her caftan to center on her hair. “Were you looking for someone?” she prompted when the silence threatened to lengthen.
    For an instant she doubted the woman had heard her and briefly wondered if she might be deaf. Then an awareness seemed to enter the woman’s expression.
    â€œForgive me for staring,” she said, a pleasant huskiness in her voice. “But—your hair, it’s exactly the same shade of strawberry blond as Kell Morgan’s. His portrait hangs over the fireplace in the library.”
    â€œWho are you?” she challenged, a fine tension rippling through her as she suddenly realized why those eyes looked familiar. Her father’s had been just as brilliantly black, always shining with life. But that was impossible. She didn’t have any family left—no aunts, no uncles, no cousins.
    â€œI’m Harriet Fay Morgan,” she announced, a pleased smile curving her lips and emphasizing the tiny fracture lines that aged the parchmentlike fineness of her skin. “And you are undoubtedly Margaret Rose Morgan.”
    â€œBennett.” The correction was an automatic response.
    â€œYou’re married?” A pepper gray eyebrow lifted in sharp question.
    â€œDivorced.”
    â€œYes, yes, I remember now. Ben told me that.” Irritation briefly darkened her expression at the momentary memory lapse. And that hint of vulnerability prompted Flame to notice that—for all the woman’s alertness—she had to be in her late seventies or early eighties…too old to be made to stand outside, especially when there were a dozen questions Flame wanted to ask.
    â€œWon’t you come in, Mrs. Morgan?” She swung the door open wider and stepped to one side, allowing her to pass.
    â€œThank you.” With an unhurried dignity, the woman entered the foyer, her small shoulders square and straight beneath the jacket of her fur-trimmed suit, its cut reminiscent of a fashion popular twenty years ago. The cane seemed to serve as a prop rather than a support as she turned to Flame. “I must insist that you call me Hattie. I never married, but to be called ‘Miss’ at my age seems inappropriate.”
    â€œOf course.” Flame led the way into the living room. “I have fresh coffee made. Would you like a cup?”
    â€œI prefer hot tea if you don’t mind.”
    â€œNot at all. Please, make yourself comfortable. I won’t be a minute.”
    But it was closer to five minutes before Flame returned with a pot of tea, the attendant cream, sugar, and saucer of lemon as well as a teacup and saucer balanced on a tray along with a cup of coffee for herself. In her absence Hattie Morgan had enthroned herself on one of the horn chairs. Catching back a smile at the thought, Flame realized that there was a certain hauteur about Hattie that bordered on regal.
    â€œLemon, cream, or sugar?”
    â€œLemon, please,” she replied, taking the delicate Sevres cup and saucer from Flame, her glance lightly sweeping the room. “This is pleasant,” she observed, her attention returning to Flame as she lifted the dainty cup from its saucer. “Of course, it’s nothing at all like Morgan’s Walk.”
    â€œMorgan’s Walk is your home?”
    â€œOur family home, yes. It’s stood for nearly a hundred years, and, God willing, it will stand for a hundred more.”
    â€œWhere is that?”
    â€œOklahoma, about twenty minutes from Tulsa.”
    She volunteered no more than that, leaving Flame with the impression that Hattie was waiting for her to ask the questions. “You mentioned a man named Ben earlier. Who is he? For that matter, who’s Kell Morgan?” Flame took her coffee and moved to the corner of the sofa nearest to Hattie’s chair.
    â€œBen Canon is the family lawyer, and has been for years. It was through his efforts