Always Time To Die

Chapter 30

QUINTRELL RANCH

WEDNESDAY, 10:00 p.m.

MELISSA MADE HER FINAL ROUNDS OF THE HOUSE, CHECKING THAT OUTER DOORS and windows were secure, ovens and lights were turned off, and nothing was out of place if the governor made a surprise visit. In many ways, it was her favorite part of the workday. Everything was quiet and clean, a silent tribute to her efficiency.

A strip of light still showed at the base of the door to the Sisters' Suite. Melissa hesitated, then knocked lightly.

"Winifred? Can I get you anything?"

There wasn't any answer.

Again Melissa hesitated. "Winifred?"

Silence.

Melissa pushed open the door, saw Winifred sleeping, and walked softly over to the bed. Dr. Sands had been quite forceful about having Winifred checked every few hours. Melissa bent down and listened to Winifred's breathing, glancing at her watch as she did. After a minute she straightened and frowned. The antibiotic hadn't made much progress against the pneumonia. The old woman's breathing was strained, with a distinct rattle. Melissa adjusted the oxygen tube with the skill of the nurse trainee she had been until she decided she'd rather clean houses than bedpans.

Quietly she turned off the bedside light. A series of night-lights glowed to life, pointing the way to Sylvia's bed in the other half of the suite. Melissa followed the lights, looked into the sickroom, and saw what she had for years-a hot fire casting flickering shadows over a lump beneath the covers. From the height of the flames, Winifred had been up and checking on her sister sometime in the past half hour.

A glance told Melissa that there was plenty of wood to get through the night. She turned and quietly went back through Winifred's part of the suite. The door closed with the click of a well-oiled lock. Just one more of Melissa's many jobs.

She walked swiftly toward the quarters she and Pete had made into an apartment for themselves. Once the apartment had been a second, separate guesthouse, complete with kitchenette, for the Senator's private use. Or abuse. Melissa had heard the housemaids talking about the sex toys and such that the Senator's "guests" left behind. When he'd become bedridden, he insisted on moving into the library, where he could see everyone coming and going.

She hurried through the cold breezeway connecting the guesthouse to the main house. The clear night had frozen everything again, leaving little daggers of ice on the muddy path. She opened the door quickly and then locked it behind her with a sigh. Off duty.

Finally.

"Pete?"

"In the den," he answered.

Melissa kicked out of her boots, found a pair of slippers, and padded quietly toward the den. Pete sat in front of a foldout desk. He'd stacked papers and files on every surface.

"What's up?" she asked.

"Josh is jumping up and down for the charity report."

Uneasiness shot through her. "It's only been a few days."

"Yeah. He makes the Senator look like the saint of patience. Josh is hell to work for. But I'm hoping to be so valuable that he'll make me his accountant, like the Senator did."

"Don't bet on it. I heard Anne asking Josh if you were up to the task."

Pete went still. "What did he say?"

"He saw me and said something about how he trusted you."

Pete swore.

Melissa started pacing. Everything had been so certain for so many years and now… now it was unraveling faster with every hour. "Damn that priest anyway. Everything was so perfect."

Pete looked surprised and then shook his head. "That was then. This is now. And now, in my spare time, Josh needs an updated P and L statement on the ranch for the realtor. Plus all the water patents, land grants, rights-of-way, easements, a new survey, septic inspection, well inspection, the whole tortilla. That's the stuff I'm sorting out now."

Josh is hell to work for.

"He's a real smart shark," Pete said with as much admiration as un-happiness. "Makes me realize how good we had it with the Senator. Sic transit gloria and all that."

"I think we should quit," Melissa said. "Really quit. All the way. Stop talking about the Caribbean and Brazil and go there." She laced her fingers together and then forced them apart. "Let's take our retirement and live a little before we're too old to enjoy it."

Pete pushed back from his desk and looked at his wife. The lines of tension between her eyebrows and around her mouth added years to her age.

"We're some distance from our retirement goal," he said. "A few more years should do it."

"That's what you said years ago."

"Then the economy slowed and our investments tanked. We're just getting back to where we were."

"It's coming apart," she said tightly. "All our dreams."

He pushed back from the desk and went to hug her. "Hey, darling. We'll be fine. Ranches like this can take years to sell." Or they can sell overnight to one of the vultures that had begun circling with news of the Senator's declining health. "Plus Josh is bound to give you a good severance package. Me, too, if it comes to that. He can't afford to look stingy or exploitive of the common man. Can you hang in long enough to get fired when the ranch sells?"

She looked at him for a long moment, knew he was right, and sighed. "Sure. What's a few more months or years? But if he fires you before that, then what?"

Pete laughed. "Then we'll be on the next plane to warm waters, cool breezes, and stiff drinks."

For as long as it lasts.

But neither one of them said that aloud. They really needed a few more years to make up for some bad choices in the stock market.

They really needed Josh Quintrell.

And whether he knew it or not, he needed them.