Rivals by Janet Dailey Page B

and she’d learned to be good at it. It was a form of urban survival today.
    â€œIt helps to know the right people, too,” she replied, lifting her shoulders in an expressive shrug, a little uncomfortable with the compliment.
    â€œI understand you are an only child.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd both your parents are gone.”
    Flame nodded. “They were in an auto accident eleven years ago. My father was killed instantly. My mother was in a coma for several days. She died without ever regaining consciousness.” After all this time, the sense of loss was still acute. Even now, she missed them. There were moments when she could almost hear her mother’s laughter—and her dad’s teasing voice. They had loved her. Not because of her bloodline or because she was beautiful, but for herself. Since she’d lost them, she’d learned just how rare that kind of love was.
    â€œYou and I are a lot alike, I think,” Hattie observed. “We’ve both had to learn to be independent at an early age. My mother died a few hours after my baby sister was born. I was thirteen at the time—with a baby to take care of and a household to manage. Then I lost my father when I was nineteen. Suddenly Morgan’s Walk was mine. I not only had a baby sister to raise, but an entire ranch to run.”
    â€œMorgan’s Walk is a ranch?” Flame was surprised by that. “I thought it was some sort of an estate.” Although what kind of estate there could be in Oklahoma, she had no idea. Certainly it had never occurred to her that it was a ranch.
    â€œIt’s both. There’s almost twelve hundred acres of land within its boundaries. Once it was twenty times that size, but time and circumstances have whittled away at it. Most of it is river valley, some of the lushest, greenest land you’ll ever see.” Where before Hattie’s demeanor had been marked by a watchful reserve, there was now animation, a rapt excitement lighting her face and putting an even brighter glow in her eyes. “It’s beautiful country, Margaret Rose, all rolling hills and trees unbelievably green against the blue of the sky. And the main house sits at the head of the valley. Oh, and what a house it is—three stories of brick with towering white colonnades. Your ancestor Christopher Morgan is the one who designed it before he came to California. All the bricks came from a kiln right on the property, and they used the land’s red clay to make them. Wait until you see it. I know you’ll love it.”
    â€œI’m sure I would.” Flame smiled, touched by the woman’s obvious love for her home. “Although it’s not likely I will.”
    Hattie seemed startled by that. “Oh, but you will. You must. Morgan’s Walk will be yours when I die.”
    For a stunned instant, Flame stared at her. “What did you say?” she managed at last, certain she had misunderstood.
    â€œMorgan’s Walk will be yours when—”
    She didn’t need to hear any more. “You can’t mean that. You don’t even know me,” she protested.
    â€œYou’re a Morgan. I knew that the minute I saw you. It was more than the red of your hair and the high cut of your cheekbones. It was the strength of pride and the determination to succeed that I recognized in you.”
    â€œThat doesn’t explain anything.” She frowned. “It doesn’t even make sense.”
    â€œBut it does. You see, Morgan’s Walk must pass to a Morgan. If there is no direct descendant, then the land becomes the property of the state. That’s why it was so important that I find you. For a time I thought—” She caught herself up short, and dismissed the rest of the sentence with a shake of her head. “But I don’t have to worry about that now. I found you.”
    It sounded logical. Almost too logical. Flame couldn’t help being skeptical.