Firebird (The Flint Hills Novels) Read online

  It was perhaps the physical exertion, or just Ethan's remembrance of the look on Burt's face, but mirth got the better of him, and his voice rose in a boisterous laugh that came straight from the heart. He laughed so hard his breath came in little snorts and tears streamed down his face. It was not a mean laugh, for there was not a mean bone in Ethan Brown's body, but he was a Kansan and his prejudices were deeply rooted in a proud and stubborn conservatism.

  "Better put this down before I drop it," said Ethan, his shoulders heaving in the throes of laughter. He swept his hat from his head and wiped the tears from his cheeks. When he looked up he saw Jer, who had turned suddenly quiet, was gaping at something over Ethan's shoulder. Ethan swung around.

  In his office stood a slender dark-haired woman. She wore black gloves and a black fur-trimmed coat and black high heels. Her soft brown eyes mirrored utter disbelief. She had been reading a book, The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats, which Ethan had left lying on his coffee table.

  "Excuse me," she said quietly. "I'm looking for Mr. Brown. The attorney."

  "I'm Ethan Brown."

  The look in her eyes cooled. "I'm Annette Zeldin. Emma Ferguson's daughter. We have an appointment this morning."

  "Yes, of course," boomed Ethan. With a nervous gesture he patted down his hair and put his hat back on. Then he remembered his manners and took it off again and slung it onto the coat rack.

  "I'll see ya around, Ethan. Good day, ma'am," Jer said, and disappeared out the door.

  "Yeah, thanks, Jer," Ethan called after him. He turned back to Annette Zeldin and stepped forward, extending his broad hand to her, mustering an amiable smile. "Ethan Brown, attorney at law." It was the greeting of an easygoing, confident man—a style he used with folks out here, and they loved it. Annette wasn't the least bit softened; she hesitated, then kept him waiting a moment longer while she laid down the book and removed her glove, and only then did she shake his hand.

  "Sorry to keep you waiting. I didn't see a car outside."

  "I walked."

  "You walked? Well, ma'am, if you're going to be doing any walking around here you'd better get yourself some comfortable shoes."

  He said it with his usual hearty smile, all friendly and good-natured, but he was immediately sorry because he knew from the moment he set eyes on her that she wouldn't take to men like him.

  She dismissed the comment with a half-smile and then turned an admiring glance to the floor-to-ceiling books that lined his walls. "At first I thought I'd walked into the city library," she said.

  Ethan nodded. "You did. Best darn library in the county," he replied proudly.

  "You are a lawyer, are you not?"

  "Indeed I am."

  "You might want to put a sign on your door indicating as such, Mr. Brown. Or do you only practice law as a hobby?"

  His smile widened. Touché, he thought to himself. What do you expect? Running off at the mouth about the French and you know damn good and well she heard every word.

  "I apologize for that, ma'am," he said sincerely. "Should have told you. Everyone around here knows me by Wordsworth." He gestured to a chair facing his desk. "Please, have a seat."

  Ethan sat down behind his desk and began sifting through a stack of files. He was acutely aware of her presence. She had a measured and formal kind of elegance, but there was nothing contrived about it. It was natural, almost regal. She made him feel awkward, plebian was the word that came to his mind, and he couldn't concentrate and couldn't find the damn file.

  "I'm very sorry about your mama. She was a lovely lady. We'll miss her."

  "Thank you," she replied curtly.

  Having found the file, Ethan leaned back in his chair and leveled a gaze on her.

  "Your mother left you some property."

  "Yes. I'd like to sell it."

  "Are you sure about that?"

  "Yes."

  "Ma'am, you might want to reconsider. It's a real choice piece of land. Matter of fact, I recently bought the property adjacent to it on the south. The old Norton ranch. Some of the best grazing in the Hills. Value just keeps going up. Good place to raise a kid, too. You could continue to lease it out and make a nice little income. Or—"

  "Mr. Brown," she cut in, "I want to sell it. I intend to buy a house in the south of France."

  "Ma'am, take my word for it. This kind of land doesn't come up for sale but once in a lifetime. People hold on to it. Pass it down from generation to generation."

  When Annette replied it was deliberately and patiently, as you would speak to a child, and it swept over her how she had tried so hard to explain this to her father for years, using these same words, this same tone of voice.

  "Mr. Brown, I understand the land is valuable, which is why I want to sell it. I will never live on the land. Nor do I wish to pass it on to my daughter. I've made my home in Paris for seventeen years. I intend to grow old there. And be buried there—in my fur coat and my high heels, if at all possible."

  He started to laugh, but the look in her eyes stopped him cold. It was a polite way of saying that if she had a choice between hell and here she would choose hell.

  The absolute opposition of their lives was clear to both of them at that instant. It ballooned upon them like an epiphany and had the remarkable effect of making them instantly aware, however painful and unwelcome it might be, that they were staring at another human whose very identity was built upon a construct that was hostile to their own self.

  Ethan smiled, a kind of respectful acknowledgment of the subtle antagonism between them.

  "I'll be glad to take care of it for you," he said quietly.

  "Thank you."

  "The will's pretty straightforward. But we'll need your father's written consent before you sell."

  "Why? My mother left it to me."

  "Under Kansas law the surviving spouse has a claim to half the property. I urged your mother to let me deal with this before hand, but I think she was a little reluctant, with your father still alive. She didn't seem to be worried, though. Said your father knew her wishes, so I'm sure he'll honor them."

  Ethan closed the file and tapped it on his knee. "I'll get the consent forms drawn up and send them over to your house tomorrow morning. And we won't have any trouble finding a buyer for your land, I promise you."

  Annette stood and Ethan rose and came around the desk to shake her hand. He towered over her, and she noticed the clean smell of his starched shirt and judged him married although he wore no wedding ring.

  On her way to the door she paused and glanced down at the book of poetry on the coffee table.

  "Does anyone around here read Yeats?"

  "Oh, a few of us starved souls do," he answered.

  Then, his ego got the better of him, and in a gentle and expressive voice, he recited:

  "When you are old and grey and full of sleep,

  And nodding by the fire, take down this book,

  And slowly read, and dream of the soft look

  Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

  How many loved your moments of glad grace,

  And loved your beauty with love false or true,

  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,

  And loved the sorrows of your changing face..."

  He picked up the book and offered it to her. "You keep hold of that 'til you go," he said. "I don't charge for the poetry, just the prose."

  "Thank you, Mr. Brown," she said warmly; it was the first time he'd seen her smile. "I'll make sure to get it back to you."

  When she said good-bye, her eyes left him thinking he had, for a brief moment, impressed her.

  After she left, Ethan dictated some notes to his secretary, Bonnie, then quickly closed up his office and headed for the Mackey place. Annette Zeldin had made him feel extremely uncomfortable. He thought if he could get out to the stable and saddle up his horse, he just might shake it off before it got under his skin.

  * * *

  That evening at the South Fo
rty Ethan sat alone in the booth, watching Katie Anne dance. He had avoided his buddies at the bar and chose to sit quietly with his beer and reflect upon the events of the last few days. Getting his hands on Emma Ferguson's property was a dream come true. He should feel as though all was right with the world. Happy. Contented. He felt none of these things. What really annoyed him was that Mrs. Zeldin kept intruding upon his thoughts. He was relieved when Jer slid into the booth next to him.

  "So, what'd you think of her?" asked Jer.

  "Who?"

  "Mrs. Zeldin."

  "It was like sittin' on barbed wire."

  "Serves you right."

  "She's nothing like her mother. Pretentious and cold as ice."

  "I didn't think so. I talked to her at the reception at Nell's house. I liked her," said Jer quietly.

  "You can't be real."

  "What d'ya have against her?"

  "Vichy and de Gaulle, for starters."

  "Okay, so you hold a few grudges against the French, but you can't condemn her for making her home there."

  "That's the point. It was a choice. That says something about her."

  "Why're you gettin' all worked up about this?"

  "I'm not all worked up."

  Jer shrugged. "Okay. So you're not worked up."

  Ethan took a long draw on his beer. "I was thinkin' about asking Katie Anne to marry me."

  Jer burst out in a broad and long laugh. "I knew there was somethin' naggin' at you."

  Ethan looked up to see Katie Anne approaching him, her soft brown hair curling in damp ringlets around her face the way it always did after she had worked up a sweat on the dance floor. She was very appetizing then, her face flushed, her own scent mingling with the light floral perfume she wore.

  Jer saw her coming. "I'm outta here," he whispered, and slipped away.

  Katie Anne slid in next to Ethan on the booth and ran her hand up the inside of his leg, and Ethan forgot all about Mrs. Zeldin.

  "Hi, handsome." She grinned. "Will you go get me a beer?"

  "I can't," he answered gruffly. "Not unless you want me to embarrass myself."

  She took a sip of Ethan's beer with her free hand. "I'll just drink yours," she said teasingly.

  "How about April?" he asked.

  "April?"

  "For our wedding."

  Katie Anne grew still, but Ethan didn't notice; he was trying to catch the attention of their waitress.

  "If we have the light winter we're expecting, the house should be finished by then," he continued.

  She removed her hand from his leg.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  She began to play with a lock of hair at the back of her neck, winding it around her finger. "Are you really serious about it this time?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Katie Anne hesitated before replying. "You keep finding reasons to put it off."

  "No I don't."

  "This is the third time this year we've talked about setting a date." There was an edge of exasperation in her voice.

  "We discussed it, but we never actually set a date. So you can't say I put it off."

  She turned away from him. "Whatever," she mumbled.

  Ethan hated that expression. It made her sound juvenile and not very intelligent.

  "I just want us to have a house of our own," he reasoned.

  "We've been living together for over a year. Why do we need to wait until your house is built before we can get married?" she asked.

  "I want things to be right."

  "Things can never be right enough for you," she answered. She turned her back to him and watched the dancers.

  Ethan was silent for a long time.

  "I sure didn't think this would turn unpleasant," he replied after a while.

  "Is it unpleasant?" she said, her back still to him. Her voice sounded odd and he wondered if she was crying.

  He shook his head in confusion. "I don't understand. I ask you if you want to get married in April, and you get all worked up about the past."

  "Because I don't trust you," she said, wiping away a tear.

  The waitress brought their beers. Ethan took a long swig of his. Katie Anne's sat untouched. Finally, he put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. She laid her head on his shoulder and whispered, "April would be perfect."

  Chapter 6

  Mealtime had never been an enjoyable part of the day in the Ferguson household, and the misery of those childhood moments crept over Annette as she picked at her green beans. Charlie lifted his eyes from his plate and cast a severe glance at Eliana. Annette unconsciously stiffened. What is she doing wrong? Annette wondered. What could she possibly be doing now to annoy him? After all these years it seemed as if nothing had changed. He merely had to turn his gaze on you and you squirmed, she thought. He was doing it now to Eliana. Annette could tell the six-year-old sensed her grandfather's pall of disapproval and that she disliked him for it, but—thank goodness—there was no air of anxiety about her; she didn't fear him.

  "Eliana, put the salt back in the center of the table, where everyone can reach it."

  Ah, that's what's annoying him, thought Annette as she took the salt and set it in front of her father's plate. Charlie, silently vindicated, went back to his dinner.

  Eliana carefully wiped her mouth and looked up at her mother. "Est-ce que je peux aller jouer au dehors?" she asked.

  "In English, sweetheart."

  Eliana gave a sigh of boredom. "Can I go play outside?" she repeated.

  "Yes. Take your plate to the sink."

  Once Eliana was playing in the yard, Annette could relax. But her appetite was gone. She put down her fork and waited patiently while her father finished. His teeth were bad and he chewed slowly.

  "Brisket's tough," he said, pushing his plate away.

  "I'm sorry. It didn't cook long enough, I suppose."

  "Your mother's brisket was always good."

  "Are you finished?"

  "Yeah."

  She rose and carried the brisket to the kitchen.

  "I saw the attorney today," she said. "Did he send over the consent forms?"

  "Yeah. But I'm not going to sign them."

  She closed the refrigerator door. "What?"

  "I don't want you to sell that land."

  "Why not?"

  "You'll just take the money and fritter it away."

  Annette came back to the table and sat down. She looked him calmly in the eye. "You've never changed your opinion of me, have you? After all these years. You still don't trust my judgment."

  "Not where money's concerned, I don't."

  "I have plans for that money."

  "I don't want to hear it, Annette."

  "Why are you doing this? Is it to keep me here?"

  "This is a good place to live, with good people. It just isn't good enough for you, I guess."

  "Why are we having this discussion?"

  "You could teach music. In El Dorado, or Emporia. Someplace within driving distance. That's what your mother was always hoping. She never pressured you. Didn't want to make you feel guilty."

  "You still have to control her, even when she's gone. You can't even respect her dying wishes."

  His voice rose angrily. He'd once been a handsome man but fury turned him ugly. "We worked and saved all our lives, Annette, and I'm going to make sure you don't waste what little money we leave behind."

  Charlie rose abruptly from the table and with palsied hands he carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it, then meticulously stacked it in the dishwasher. He dried his hands on the dish towel and went into the living room, settling into his recliner and clicking on the television. Annette took the rest of the dishes to the kitchen and emptied her uneaten dinner into the garbage disposal.

  Chapter 7

  Annette sat in Ethan Brown's office with her hands quietly folded in her lap listening to him apologize. If she had ranted and raved, Ethan would have been able to retrieve some of his self-r
espect. But her silence only provoked him to more effusive and transparent verbosity. Finally, disgusted with himself, he fell silent.

  When at last she spoke, her voice was quiet and controlled. "Mr. Brown, I'm very disappointed in the way this has been handled. I was told you were one of the best civil-law attorneys in the state."

  "I don't know about that, ma'am. But I know I care a lot about the folks around here."

  "But I'm not from around here, and you don't like me, do you?" she said. He started to protest, but she stopped him. "The point is, if you cared about my mother's final wishes you would have handled this differently. My mother had nothing to leave me except this land. She was not rich. She left me great wealth, of course, but not in material things." Her voice caught in her throat. She stopped to regain her composure. "My father and I have never gotten along well, and I'm not going to come back here and take care of him."

  "Is that what he wants?"

  "Not really. But he's frightened now and he'll be very lonely. He's strong as an ox and in good health, but who's to say what will happen to him with my mother gone."

  "I want you to know I did try to persuade her to get his written consent when the will was drawn up. But she didn't want to. I can advise my clients, but I can't make them do what they don't want to." He paused. "She was afraid it would hurt his feelings."

  She stared blankly at Ethan for a moment, then looked down at her hands. "Yes," she said quietly. "That's the way it's always been."

  "Can I make a suggestion?"

  She looked up.

  "Have you ever seen the house?"

  "No."

  "Let me drive you out there Sunday. You should at least take a look at it. Then we'll discuss how best to deal with Charlie. I think I'll be able to bring him around. I can be pretty darn persuasive when I need to be."

  "And you'd like to buy the land, wouldn't you?"

  He smiled broadly, a contagious smile, and said, "Maybe we can be on the same team after all."

  * * *

  Ethan felt very uncomfortable with Mrs. Zeldin and her daughter riding in his truck. He thought it was because she was wearing that damn sable-collared coat and the same black dress she wore every time he saw her.