off the still-damp pavement of Main Street.
The relationship between Harold Patterson and Burton Kimball was far more complicated than simply nephew and uncle, lawyer and client. Harold was the only father Burton had ever known.
He had been raised and put through school by the unwavering kindness of this stubborn old man.
Without Harold’s financial support, neither college nor law school would have been possible. Everything Burton Kimball was or owned, he owed to the generosity of this supposedly tough and hard bitten character.
Burton Kimball had spent most of his forty-five years as Ivy Patterson’s champion and protector. The Pattersons had raised all three children in a manner that made them more like brother and sisters than cousins.
Burton was five years younger than Holly, and Ivy was ten, but the dynamics of their childhood had always been the same. The two younger children had banded together as small but determined allies, united in their mutual resistance to Holly’s constant bullying and torment.
From Burton Kimball’s earliest memory, Holly Patterson had been mean as a snake. Now, some forty years later, the bitch was doing it again, in spades.
And so Burton Kimball found himself standing in front of the window, torn by a lifetime’s worth of conflicting loyalties, rocked by disappointment and betrayal.
How could he condone a father turning on his own daughter? How could he help Harold Patterson rob Ivy of her birthright?
The plain answer for Burton was that he couldn’t. He gave it one last try. “There’s nothing fair about it,” he said. “Don’t do it. Don’t cut Ivy out like this. Holly wants the Rocking P. She doesn’t need it. She’s got her career. Ivy’s different. She’s spent her whole life working like a dog on the ranch, and you know it. She’s never held a regular job, and I know for a fact that you’ve never paid a dime’s worth of wages or Social Security on her.”
Holly’s broke,” Harold Patterson asserted.
Burton stopped in mid-sentence. “You know that for a fact?”
“She hated Bisbee,” the old man answered. “The only reason she’d come back was if she had to.”
“Uncle Harold,” Burton said evenly. “Are you saying I’m supposed to feel sorry for Holly?”
“You don’t know what happened to her,” Harold answered softly. “You don’t know any of it.”
“No,” Burton agreed. “You’re right. I don’t know because you haven’t told me, even though I’m your attorney. If anyone ought to know, I should. What did happen to Holly, Uncle Harold?” Burton asked, his voice once more controlled, “Tell me the truth. Let me help you.”
But Harold said nothing. For more than a minute no further word passed between them.
“You won’t tell me?” Burton said at last.
“There’s nothing to tell.”
Burton swung away from the window then turned and stared down at the old man who continued to examine the backs of his mottled, liver spotted hands with the utmost concentration and studied unconcern. And as Burton looked down at his uncle, a slow dawning-an awful realization washed across him. The younger man’s face blanched.
“That’s not true, is it,” he said coldly.
“What’s not true?” Harold asked.
“That there’s nothing to tell.”
Harold looked up at Burton. On his face was an expression of feigned innocence, one that even the most inept juror would have seen right through.
“My God!” Burton whispered. “It did happen, didn’t it. Holly’s telling the truth! That’s why you don’t want to go to court. That’s why you’re suddenly willing to settle. You’re afraid people around here friends and neighbors, the folks who think Harold Patterson is the salt of the earth-will finally see you for what you are.”
With no warning, Harold Patterson’s eyes betrayed him. Again, as they had several times that day, they brimmed over with unexpected and unwelcome tears. He tried to brush the telling dampness away, but he wasn’t able to, not before Burtie saw the tears and surmised what they meant. With a clutch in his gut, Burton Kimball stumbled into the realization that Holly Patterson was telling the truth.
“If that’s the case,” the lawyer said carefully, “then maybe you’d better go ahead and settle. But I won’t help you. I won’t have any part of it. Because you disgust me, Uncle Harold. I can’t even stand to be in the same room with you.”
He started toward the door.
“Does that mean you quit?” Harold asked.
Burton paused at the door. He answered with out looking back or raising his voice. “Yes, that’s what it means,” he answered slowly. “Given the way I feel at this moment, I don’t think I could adequately represent you. You’ll be better off with someone else, maybe with one of my partners.”
“Please, Burtie,” Harold begged. “Your partners don’t know anything at all about this case. Don’t walk out on me now, not when I need you to help me get in touch with Holly or with her attorney. Nobody else could do that. Only you.”
Burton felt the wave of cold fury begin to rise in his chest, threatening to drown him, to rob him of breath and speech both. It was all he could do to summon what could pass for a normal voice, but with a supreme act of selfcontrol, he managed.
“Holly’s staying at Coo Viejo,” he said, “court order be damned! You’ll have to do your own dirty work, Uncle Harold, because I’m a son of a bitch if I’ll help you!”
With that Burton Kimball stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Harold sat for several minutes, alone in the empty room, regaining his composure; coming to terms with the idea that he now had what
