necessary part of Holly’s recovery.
They could all claim until the cows came home that Harold Patterson was Holly’s only target, but Burton Kimball knew better. Harold’s destruction was only a means to an end. Holly’s real target was Ivy.
It had been that way from the beginning, almost from the moment Ivy was born. Long before the baby could talk or defend herself, Burton remembered Holly pinching her baby sister when she thought no one was looking just to hear Ivy cry.
When Burton had tried to tell his Aunt Emily, he had been punished for being a tattletale; for making things up.
And if Holly had hated Ivy then, now she had far more cause. After all, Ivy was still “the baby,” still the well- loved child-the easygoing, cooperative kid who never gave anyone a moment’s trouble. For someone who was a born troublemaker, whose entire family had been only too happy to see her leave home at sixteen, it had to be galling for Holly Patterson to come face-to-face with a sister who had never been thrown out of the nest; one who, at age forty, was still living happily at home.
It hardly mattered that Holly had gone off into the world, finding success in life and losing same.
As far as Burton could see, her favorite role had always been that of spoiler, of someone far more interested in destroying someone else’s happiness than in creating her own. It stood to reason that if Ivy wouldn’t leave her comfortable nest on the Rocking P, if Harold couldn’t be prevailed upon to give his daughter the necessary shove, then Holly would simply demolish it, making the ranch un tenable and useless for all concerned.
That seemingly had been her intention, and Burton Kimball’s only interest was to stop her. In attempting to do so, he had discovered the reality of what Harold Patterson only now suspected.
Holly’s much-vaunted success was nothing but a sham. Yes, she had an Oscar-at least she had won one once. But she had slipped a long way from the pinnacle. In preparing Harold’s defense, Burton had learned the truth about the extent of Holly’s drinking and drugging; about her ongoing merry-go-round of treatment and relapse.
Burton could see now that he had been wrong to withhold that information from his client, but he had done so deliberately. He knew Harold too well. The old man was all wool and a yard wide. Burton had worried that if Harold had guessed how desperate Holly was, he’d simply give away the store. And now, despite Burton’s scheming to the contrary, that’s exactly what had happened.
Burton had counted on going to court. Had banked on Harold’s not caving in to Holly’s demands; on his being able to demonstrate to the jury exactly what kind of person she was. Now the awful reality was slowly sinking into Burton’s consciousness. He had been outmaneuvered.
Without paying much attention, he downed one drink and ordered another. The problem at the moment was finding a way to regain control. Harold had made up his mind to settle, and once Harold Patterson made up his mind about something, it would be a hell of a job to change it. The biggest difficulty with someone like Harold was the fact that his word was his bond, and so was his hand shake. He’d do what he said he would do regardless of whether or not his name was on the dotted line. It was slimy bastards like Rex Rogers who never made a move until all contracts had been properly drawn, signed, and executed.
Suddenly, sitting there by himself in the booth, Burton Kimball wondered if Ivy knew she was about to be run over by a train; wondered if she had any idea what her father intended to do.
Ethically, Burton didn’t have a leg to stand on, but it wasn’t fair for her not to have some warning. Burton waved to the bartender. This time, when she approached the booth, he asked her if he could use the phone. At first, he thought she was going to turn him down, but then she relented. Directed to the phone in the back room, Burton dialed the Rocking P. The phone rang and rang, but no one answered.
Leaving the phone, a slightly tipsy Burton Kimball returned to the table, where a new Bloody Mary was waiting for him. Now that he’d decided to do it, now that he’d decided to tell Ivy, he could hardly contain himself. He gulped that drink and hardly noticed that this one was much hotter than the other two. And much stronger. When it was gone, he tried the phone once more and ordered yet another drink.
By the end of the fourth drink, Burton Kimball was well on his way to being drunk. He was also more than a little worried. He should never have told Harold he quit. That was dumb. How would he ever be able to lobby on Ivy’s behalf if he was outside the case looking in? He should probably track Uncle Harold down and unresign. Was unresign a word?
Disresign maybe? There had to be some kind of word that said what he meant, but he couldn’t think of it.
There may have been more drinks after that.
Burton seemed to remember singing show tunes with a toothless old miner at the end of the bar.
By the time he finally reached Ivy by phone, Burton could barely talk. Mumbling incoherently he blurted out the news. The dead silence on the other end of the line sobered him instantly.
“Ivy,” he said, when the silence persisted. “Say something. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. But she didn’t sound fine. “Do you want me to come out? Can I do something to help?”
“You’ve done enough,” she said.
When he put down the phone, a subdued and surprisingly sober Burton Kimball paid his bill.
The bartender had been very nice, so he left her a sizable tip. Unfortunately, as soon as he stepped outside, as soon as the bright sunlight hit him, he was drunk again.
Staggering, Burton managed to make it down the street without seeing anyone who knew him.
He found his car and succeeded in inserting the key in the lock on the fifth try. Settling in the seat with his head against the backrest and telling himself that all he needed was a little nap, Burton Kimball passed out cold.
For a fleeting moment, when he first awakened in the shadowy gloom, Harold thought it was all a dream-the same one he always had, the terrible nightmare that had haunted his sleep and hounded him out of bed for more years than he cared to remember.
The dream was forever the same. Harold would find himself trapped in a glory hole, in one of those useless, abandoned exploratory shafts that covered the stony pastures of the Rocking P. And took place in the very same glory hole that was one, the one nearest the summit of the Muleuntairs, high up among the red rock bound, scrub-
