Disclaimer: If I owned the GW guys…oh what I would do. [evil cackle]
Fiery Repercussions (Chapter 1)
Seven Years Later…
"I don't want it!" Trowa Barton declared as he dropped into a tufted leather chair close to Heero Yuy's desk.
"We're talking about the entire ranch," the young attorney reminded him. Heero was serious; his Prussian blue eyes steady behind thin lenses, his grecian features pulling together. He smoked a twisted black cigar.
The old-fashioned Western cheroot smelled foul and seemed completely out of place in this modern chrome-and-glass office building, Trowa thought. He rubbed the scar on the back of his left hand. "I guess you didn't hear me. I don't want it. Sell the whole damned thing,"
"We can't do that without your brother's consent," Heero said in that soothing lawyer tone that irritated the hell out of Trowa.
"No one knows where Duo is. I haven't heard from him in years."
"Nonetheless, half the ranch is his – half yours. Split fifty-fifty. That's the way your father wanted it, and your uncle saw fit to carry out his wishes."
"I wish Mark had talked to me first," Trowa said flatly. If his uncle weren't already dead, he gladly would have wrung the old meddler's neck.
"Too late now," Heero said succinctly.
Trowa's lips twisted at the irony. Though he'd been away from the Barton Ranch for seven years and had ignored his uncle's repeated pleas to visit, the old man had gotten him in the end. "Okay," he decided, flopping back in his chair. "Just sell my half."
"Can't do that. Back taxes."
"Son of a –,"
The door opened and Heero's secretary, a willowy woman with pale blond hair, eyes heavy with mascara and a glossy smile, carried in a tray of coffee, cream and sugar.
"Just set it on the desk, Dorothy," Heero instructed as he puffed on his cigar, gradually filling the room with bluish smoke.
Dorothy did as she was bid, casting Trowa an interested glance that made him shift uncomfortably in his chair. Even after three successful operations, he felt as if his burns were as red and harsh as when he was dragged barely alive from the fire.
The fire – always the fire. He had never escaped it. Not really. And he never would.
His guts churned at the memory, and he tried to concentrate on the plastic cup of black coffee Heero handed him.
"So, you think your uncle was getting back at you by leaving you the ranch?"
"Wasn't he?"
"It's over a thousand acres of Montana ranch land," Heero said dryly. "Doesn't seem like such a curse."
"No?" Trowa sipped the coffee. It was scalding and bitter. He didn't really much care. "Why weren't the back taxes paid?"
"The ranch has been in the red for the past few years."
'I thought there were suppose to be huge silver deposits on the land," Trowa said, thinking back to those years of speculation, before the fire, when both his parents and uncle had been excited at the prospect of mining silver from the ridge overlooking the ranch – the ridge where he'd lain with Relena while a smoldering cigarette butt ignited dry straw in the stables far below.
"I guess the silver didn't exist," Heero said.
"Too bad," Trowa muttered. "What about the stock?'
"It's holding its own, I think. Your uncle seemed to think that he was on the brink of turning things around."
Trowa doubted it. Heero was just giving him the sales pitch that good old Uncle Mark had peddled him time and time again over the past few years. Trowa hadn't bought it then and he wasn't buying it now. "The stables were never rebuilt after the fire, right?'
"The insurance company paid reluctantly – claimed the fire was arson. The fire chief concurred. Unfortunately the building was grossly underinsured. The money only covered cleaning up the mess and adding a few stalls to the barn." Heero squinted through his glasses. "Mark was hell-bent on suing the insurance company – claimed he'd been misrepresented, that he'd paid higher premiums than he should have for the amount of coverage. But he finally gave it up."
"On your advice?'
Heero nodded and drew on his cigar. "What's your point?'
"The point is that the Barton ranch is little more than a few decrepit buildings, some rangy cattle, a few horses and acres of sagebrush."
"Some people would see it differently."
Trowa leaned back in his chair. "Maybe. I call them as I see them. The place isn't worth much. Let's get what we can out of it and call it good."
Heero sighed. "This is a mistake."
"Not my first." Tugging at his collar with two fingers, Trowa wished this whole mess were over and done with. He didn't need any reminders of the past.
Shoving a copy of the will across the desk, Heero said flatly, "There's nothing he can do until the taxes are paid."
"I'll pay them."
"Okay, that's the first hurdle. Now, what about Colton?"
"Find him."
"That won't be easy."
"There has to be a way," Trowa said wearily. "Last I heard he was still a US citizen. Start with the State Department, a private investigator, the IRS and the CIA."
"It'll take time."
Trowa narrowed his eyes. "Maybe you'll get lucky."
"I tried writing him through that magazine he free-lanced for a couple of years back," Heero explained. "Never received a reply."
"Keep trying." Trowa glared angrily at the will. "I can wait." He felt his jaw clench at his next thought. "Is old man Dorlian still running the place?'
Shrugging slim shoulders beneath his jacket, Heero said, "Far as I know. But I heard Mark say once that Dorlian's daughter is really in charge. I can't remember her name." He crushed out his cigar.
"Relena," Trowa bit out, her name stinging his tongue. After seven years, he still felt needlelike jabs of regret that had turned bitter with age. If he tried, he could still recall the taste of her skin that hot day. But he wouldn't. No need to dredge up a past based on lies.
"Yeah, that's it. Mark confided in me that she covers for her old man." Heero leaned back in his chair and regarded Trowa carefully. "Apparently Matthew Dorlian has a drinking problem."
"Some things haven't changed," Trowa observed.
"You can do what you want, of course. But since you're in Montana already, you may as well drive over and check out the place, make sure you really want to sell."
"I do."
"So you've said. I just thought you might want to find out why a ranch that was owned free and clear was losing money hand over fist – at least until recently.
Trowa considered. He knew why: poor management. Matthew Dorlian knew horses but couldn't handle a ranch. Trowa's father had seen to it and had been ready to let Matthew go just before the fire…the damned fire. Unfortunately Uncle Mark had kept Relena's old man on. No one could prove Matt had started the blaze, and Mark had been convinced of the man's innocence. Trowa wasn't so sure. He drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Isn't finding out how much the ranch is worth and how much it earns a job for the bank that's probating the estate?"
Heero smiled crookedly. "Are you willing to trust someone from Second Western Bank to understand the ins and outs of ranching?'
Trowa snorted.
"Right." Heero tugged on his tie. "Of course it's up to you. It's yours now."
"Great. Just great." Trowa shoved his chair back and strode angrily out the door, past the blond receptionist and through the labyrinthine corridors of the law firm – the largest in Helena, Montana. Although small compared to most in Los Angeles, where Trowa had lived for the past seven years, the firm of O'Brien, Simmons and Taft was top-notch even by California's high standards, and Heero Yuy, a junior partner, knew his stuff.
Shouldering open the glass door, Trowa stalked onto the street. The pace in Helena was much slowly than that in Los Angeles and Trowa was restless. Heero's advice followed him into the parking lot where his rented car was baking in the late-afternoon sun. Clouds gathered above, but there wasn't a breath of wind, and the humidity was unusually high, the air stick.
Trowa climbed in and switched the ignition, unwilling remembering the inferno.
It had all happened so fast. One minute he'd been lying on Relena, her dew-covered skin fusing with his own, her lips soft and sensuous, her sky-blue eyes glazed in passion – the next he'd witnessed the horror of the blaze, horses screaming in death throes, hooves crashing in the billowing, lung-burning smoke. He'd felt the explosion, been thrown to the floor.
When he finally awakened, his skin burning, his face and hands unrecognizable, it had been three days later. He'd learned the devastating news: both his parents had been killed.
Duo, eyes red and shadowed, coffee-colored bangs falling over his eyes, had been waiting for Trowa to wake up.
"It's old man Dorlian's fault," Duo insisted as he huddled near Trowa's bed, avoiding his eyes and watching the steady drip of an IV tube that ran directly into the back of Trowa's right hand.
"How – how could it be?" God, he hurt all over.
"He's been stealing from the ranch. He was up in the office altering the books when the fire started. If you ask me, he did it to destroy the evidence."
"You can't prove it."
"Can't I?" Duo thundered, his cobalt blue eyes sizzling like lightning. "Weren't you suppose to go over the books that day? Didn't Relena insist that you go riding with her instead?" He stood then, the back of his neck dark in anger, his boots muffled on the carpeting.
Trowa's dry throat worked in defense.
"What did she do? Seduce you?" Duo must have seen some betraying spark in Trowa's eyes. "Of course she did," he muttered in disgust.
"No –,"
"Don't you see? It was all part of the plan – Matthew's plan to rip off the ranch! Dad was on to him, and he had to cover his tracks."
"No way!" Trowa rasped.
"Whose idea was it to go riding?"
Trowa didn't answer.
"Right. And I'll bet Relena was more than willing."
"Get out of here."
Duo didn't move. "You're a blind man, brother! She and that drunk of an old man of hers have been bleeding us dry. I'd even bet Milli is in on it with them."
Trowa tried to sit up, pushing aside the pain that scorched the length of his body. "I won't believe –,"
"Then don't. But think about this. Mom and Dad are dead, Trowa. Dead! Dad thought Matt was embezzling, and he was out to prove it. Doesn't it seem a little too convenient that all the ranch were destroyed on the day Dad asked you to go over the books?
"He didn't say a word about Matthew."
"He couldn't, could he?" Duo pointed out. "He wanted an impartial opinion!" Duo's furious gaze skated across the wrinkled sheets and guaze bandages to land on Trowa's scarred face. "I know that you and I have never seen eye to eye, but I thought you'd agree with me on this one." His jaw worked for a minute. "They're gone, Trowa. And you – look at you." Duo's eyes clouded with pity. "Look what they did, for Christ's sake."
"Get out!" Trowa didn't want to think about the damage to himself. He'd always been proud, and the look on Duo's face twisted his guts. He couldn't think about the pity in Relena's eyes should she ever see him again.
Duo's cobalt eyes flashed furiously. "Anyway you cut it, Trowa, Matthew Dorlian is to blame." He strode out of the room then, leaving Denver alone with his scars and his memories.
Now, shaking his head to clear it of the unpleasant past, Trowa rammed the car into gear and backed out of the law firm's parking lot. The car rolled easily onto the street and Trowa turned north, toward the airport. Not once since the fire had he returned to the ranch. He'd never seen Relena again.
At first pride had kept him from her, and eventually, Trowa had convinced him that she had, intentionally or not, conspired against him. He'd told himself he was doing her one big favor by leaving, and he'd been right. He had been badly scarred, physically and emotionally. Plastic surgery had fixed the exterior, he thought cynically as he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the same green eyes he'd been born with. One lid was a mere fraction lower than the other, but his skin was smooth, the result of more skin grafts than he wanted to count. But no surgeon or psychiatrist had been able to remove the bitterness he felt whenever he thought about that day.
"So don't think about it," he muttered aloud, scowling at himself. It was many miles north to the ranch, and the airport was only across town. He could drive to the airport and return to Los Angeles as he'd planned, or he could phone his partner and take time off – the vacation he hadn't allowed himself in years. Wufei would understand, and business was unseasonably slow. But if he stayed in Montana, he'd have to face Relena again.
His lips curved into a crooked, almost wicked smile. Maybe it was time. He saw the flashing neon sign of a local tavern and pulled into a pothole-pocked parking lot. One beer, he decided, then he'd make up his mind.
A few notes here and there: I'm too sexy for my shirt…too sexy for my shirt…so sexy that hurrrrrrrrrrrts. We need some R.E.V.I.E.W.S. here…heehee.