The footsteps became more pronounced and the voices louder. Devon's heart began to thud painfully inside her chest. She swallowed with difficulty, though her mouth was so dry her saliva glands seemed to have been dammed. She tried to hold her lips still, but they quivered around a tentative smile.
Greg and the guard appeared in the doorway. "Have a good visit," the official said before withdrawing.
Greg looked trim and fit. He had told her that he played a lot of tennis during free time. His tanned skin always came as a mild surprise to her. He spent more time out-of-doors now than he had during the days of his trial, when he'd had a pallor. The inmates here didn't wear prison garb, but their own clothing. Greg was always immaculately dressed, though his three-piece suits had been replaced by casual clothes and his Italian leather loafers by sneakers.
He moved further into the room. The confinement was beginning to tell on him, she noted. It caused a strain on all the inmates of this facility. To a man, they complained of the boredom. Accustomed to being movers and shakers in big business, they found it difficult to adjust to the forced idleness. Worse yet was that they no longer had the privilege of making their own decisions.
Instinctively Devon knew that he wouldn't welcome a broad smile and a cheerful "Good morning," and, fortunately, a subdued greeting coincided with her mood. So she stood stoic and silent in front of the windows as he crossed the room.
He didn't stop until they were within touching distance. It wasn't until then that she noticed he was carrying a newspaper. She glanced down at it curiously, then back up at him. His face was taut with rage. So unexpectedly that it caused her to jump, he slapped the newspaper onto the windowsill, then turned on his heels and strode from the room.
Her arid mouth opened, but she couldn't utter a single sound. She waited until he had cleared the doorway and turned down the hall before retrieving the newspaper.
It had been folded once. She opened it and noted that it was a Dallas paper, a competitor of the one she worked for. Greg had gratuitously underlined in red the pertinent headline.
She slumped against the armrest of the nearest chair and skimmed the incriminating article. For long moments afterward she sat there, clutching the newspaper to her chest, eyes closed, heart tripping, head throbbing. She had so carefully outlined what she was going to say to him, when, as it turned out, it hadn't been necessary to say anything. The newspaper account was disgustingly accurate.
* * *
"Promise me you won't fly off the handle and do something stupid." Chase, casting a tall, dark shadow across the office floor, filled the doorway.
Lucky was angled back in the swivel desk chair their grandfather and father had broken in for them. His boots were resting on the corner of the desk, another relic of oil-boom days. A telephone was cradled between his shoulder and ear. He waved his brother into the room.
"Yeah, we can send a crew out tomorrow to start setting up." He winked at his brother, and made the okay sign with his thumb and fingers. "We didn't lose all that much in the fire, so we're set to go. Just give me directions, and our boys'll be there by daybreak."
Bringing the chair erect, he reached for a pad and pencil and scribbled down the directions. "Route Four, you say? Uh-huh, two miles past the windmill. Got it. Right. Glad to be doing business with you again, Virgil."
He hung up the phone, sprang out of the chair, and gave an Indian whoop. "A contract! A biggie! Remember ol' Virgil Daboe over in Louisiana? He's got four good prospects for wells, and wants us to do the drilling. How 'bout that, big brother? Is that good news or what? Four new wells and a baby on the way! How can you stand that much good news in a twelve-hour period?"
On his way to the coffee maker, he walloped Chase between the shoulder blades. Pouring himself a cup of coffee, he said, "I'll call all the boys and tell them to get their gear—" He broke off as he raised the mug of coffee to his lips and realized that his brother wasn't sharing his jubilation. "What's the matter?"
"It's great about the contract," Chase said.
"Well, you sure as hell can't tell it by looking at you." Lucky set down his coffee. "What's wrong with you? I thought you'd be dancing on the ceiling about this."
"I probably would be, if I wasn't afraid I might have to hog-tie you to keep you out of more trouble."
"What are you talking about?"
"Somebody squealed, Lucky."
"Squealed?"
Chase had folded the front page of the newspaper lengthwise four times so he could slide it into the hip pocket of his jeans. Reluctantly he removed it and passed it to Lucky.
He read the story. The first words out of his mouth were vile. Subsequent words were even viler. Chase watched his brother warily, unsure of what he might do.
Lucky threw himself back into the desk chair. It went rolling back on its creaky casters. Bending at the waist, he plowed all ten fingers through his hair and recited a litany of oaths. When he finally ran out, he straightened up and asked, "Has Devon seen this yet?"
"Mother doesn't think so. She left early for the prison. They had coffee together, but Mother didn't open the paper until after she left."
"Just what the hell does this mean?" Lucky demanded, referring to the copy in the article. "'According to an unnamed source.'"
"It means that whoever leaked the story is scared of what you might do to him if you ever find out who he is."
"He damned sure better be," Lucky said viciously. "And I'll find out who the bastard is. 'Agents were injured in the fracas that broke out when Tyler's mistress was allegedly insulted,'" he read.
"'Fracas'? What the hell kind of word is 'fracas'? Devon wasn't 'allegedly insulted," she was insulted. And calling her my mistress!" he shouted. "We were together once. Once dammit."