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  That bad lady had killed his father. She'd been happy because they'd had a hard year in Jack County and because her husband wouldn't give Pa any more money. She was probably happy that William Henry Parnell was dead.

  Travis wiped away more tears. He was always going to remember that lady and her husband and their bank. When he got to be a grown-up man, he'd make them sorry they'd killed his daddy. “We're gonna be rich, Daddy,” he whispered, “an’ we'll get ‘em. They'll be sorry."

  "Move on, boy,” said a man in a leather apron who had come out of the Barnaby Saddle and Harness shop.

  Eight years old, hungry, cold, and very frightened, William Travis Parnell moved on.

  Book I

  Parker County, Texas

  August, 1900

  Chapter One

  "And here's our sister Jessica,” said Ned Harte.

  So this was Penelope Gresham's daughter. Travis Parnell looked her over while responding courteously to the introduction. Plain little thing, wasn't she? Miss Jessica Harte obviously didn't take after either parent—at least, physically. Penelope Gresham's face was as distinct in his mind today as it had been seventeen years ago when he first saw her at her husband's bank; she had been a great beauty. Harte, Jessica's father, was a handsome man still, as was the girl's stepmother, Anne, a woman with curling red hair and a ready smile. Travis had had an uneasy stirring of memory when he'd been introduced to the father. The name somehow—oh, well, it wasn't the father who interested him; it was the daughter.

  And if he were lucky, she wouldn't take after Penelope in temperament. He planned to marry Jessica Harte and didn't relish the idea of saddling himself with a selfish, vicious woman. Still, if that's what he got, it would be worth it, because through Jessica he'd gain access to Penelope Gresham and her husband Hugh, and then he'd make them rue the day they ever heard the name Parnell.

  "We call her Jessica the Genius,” said Ned, “'cause she's smarter an’ got more education than any of us."

  "That's enough, Ned,” said Anne Harte, glancing at the girl, whose cheeks had flushed with embarrassment.

  Genius? Travis suppressed a frown. The last thing he needed was a girl too smart to succumb to a whirlwind courtship conducted for the least romantic of reasons. Then, looking at her again, at that pale hair, severely styled—and hadn't she been wearing spectacles when she entered the parlor?—he decided she'd be vulnerable. Likely as not, even with her rich father, Miss Jessica Harte hadn't had all that many beaus, and now she was going to get herself not just a beau but a husband. If she turned out to be a malicious bitch like her mother, he could divorce her—as Justin Harte had divorced Penelope—but there'd be no divorce until he'd had his revenge on the Greshams.

  With those cheerful prospects in mind, Travis smiled warmly at his future wife, and the girl's lips parted in surprise. Hadn't a man ever smiled at her before? he wondered, feeling a little sorry for her. Well, sorry wouldn't avenge his father. Travis's heart clenched as it did every time he thought of William Henry Parnell, his joyous, laughing father whom he'd loved so much, a suicide at thirty-seven, the gun that killed him on the floor beside him, the people that killed him still alive and richer than ever.

  Then Jessica Harte smiled back, raising her eyes for the first time, and Travis felt a jolt of pleasure. The smile was as sweet and shy as wild honey, and the eyes—blue, deep blue, wide, and slightly tilted. She never got those eyes from Penelope Gresham. There wasn't a gleam of malice in them, nor an iota of calculation. And when you really looked, she wasn't that plain. Her skin was smooth and clear, her features delicate with a lovely, full mouth. Maybe he'd keep her, he thought wryly. A rich father-in-law never hurt anyone, not that Travis needed Harte's money. He had enough money and enough hate to destroy the Greshams without any financial help. All he needed was to plant himself in their midst, and Miss Jessica would accomplish that for him.

  "And this is our sister Frannie, the scamp,” said Ned. “Pay no attention to anything she does or says, unless you find a toad in your soup. If you do, Frannie put it there."

  "Ned,” said Anne Harte reprovingly.

  "But, Ma,” protested Ned, all injured innocence, “that's just what she did to Henry Barnett last time he came to talk legal business with Pa."

  Frannie the scamp, far from being embarrassed, was giggling, a girl of fourteen with her mother's curly red hair. She was going to be a beauty in a few years, Travis thought absently, but she was too young for his purposes, and, more important, she wasn't Penelope's daughter. When he got through with Penelope and Hugh, they'd be poorer and more miserable than William Henry Parnell had been when he killed himself. Travis would do to them what they'd done to his father.

  "May I sit next to you, Miss Jessica?” Travis asked when Anne Harte announced dinner. “With your permission, of course, Mrs. Harte."

  "Why certainly,” said Anne, giving him an approving smile. Poor Jessie had been a bit sad and bored since she got back from school in Washington City, thought Anne. The attention of a handsome young man would be just the thing to cheer her up.

  Travis wondered if Anne Harte would be so pleased when she discovered how fast he planned to marry her stepdaughter. He didn't have the time for a long courtship, as he had other business besides the destruction of the Greshams, which money, power, and cunning would bring about. Money was important. Lack of it had destroyed his father. Lots of it would help Travis ruin Gresham, and a man didn't make and keep lots of money by ignoring his livelihood.

  As he seated Jessica Harte at the long oak dining table, he rested his hand just briefly on her shoulder. Because he was watching closely, he saw her swallow and duck her head. Good, she wasn't too much an intellectual to be unaware of him in a physical way, which always helped when you were pursuing a woman. This one, although twenty-two and reportedly intelligent, was no sophisticate. Twenty-two and unmarried—he couldn't ask for a more promising situation.

  As he took his own seat, strange sounds were floating into the dining room, chopping and swearing, as if some irate lumberjack were in the kitchen dismantling a particularly difficult tree.

  "I do hope Mab remembers to take the food out of the can as soon as she gets it open,” murmured Anne, looking anxious. “If she doesn't, we'll all surely be poisoned."

  Travis knew the theory that canned food turned bad as soon as you opened it, but the theory was nonsense, and he wouldn't have thought a family as rich as the Hartes would be eating their dinner out of a can. “I don't think you need worry, ma'am,” he said politely. “In cattle camps, I've eaten canned beans many a time with no ill effects—sometimes as much as a day after opening."

  Anne Harte looked horrified. Justin said, “Are you a cattleman, Mr. Parnell? I knew a cattleman once named Parnell."

  "There are a heap of Parnells in Texas,” said Travis quickly, for he didn't want his father remembered so early on. “Even one in Corsicana, Howard Parnell; no relation of mine, though."

  "Don't think I know him,” said Justin, sidetracked.

  "Travis is an oilman,” Ned explained.

  "Oil, eh?” A particularly loud thud issued from the kitchen.

  "She's missed the can and hit the table again,” said Anne.

  "With what?” Travis asked, glad to get further away from the subject of his family and truly curious as to what might be going on in the kitchen.

  "An axe,” said Ned. “She opens cans with an axe, but Mab can't see much beyond her nose. She misses more than she hits."

  "Does she?” Travis didn't hold out much hope for a good dinner.

  "I don't know anyone in oil,” said Justin Harte, “Is it profitable?"

  "Very,” Travis replied, glad for a chance to impress his future father-in-law, “and should become more so,” he predicted, thinking of the information he received periodically about a hill south of Beaumont.

  "How'd you get into oil?"

  "Well, I was ranching out in Lubbock and Crosby County on my guardian's place—Joe Ray Brock, ma
ybe you know him.” Travis was concocting a hastily edited version of his life. Best leave out those four years when he was homeless and hungry in Fort Worth; they might ask why. He'd let them think he'd been with Joe Ray all through his childhood.

  "Brock,” Justin mused. “Think I've met him. Choleric man, isn't he?"

  "That's him,” said Travis. “Anyway when I was eighteen or so, I built up a water well drilling business on the side.” A business that Travis had established when the rancher refused to let him attend the university at Austin. “Seemed natural to go into oil when it was discovered in Corsicana."

  That decision had arisen from the last of many acrimonious skirmishes with Joe Ray, who wanted Travis tending the land and cattle, not out on his own, drilling wells and building windmills. Travis had found his guardian's opposition ironic, since Joe Ray had been one of the first to engage in those activities when he settled on the arid South Plains.

  "Besides, I never cared much for the cattle business.” As soon as Travis said it, he wished he hadn't because that would hardly sit well with Justin Harte, one of the most powerful cattlemen in the state. Still, it was the truth; Travis hated ranching; dreams of a cattle empire had killed his father, dreams and the greedy machinations of Hugh and Penelope Gresham. According to Joe Ray, they'd confiscated everything his father had left, more than the debts amounted to, and they had never mentioned there was a son to be considered, although he'd been sitting right there by their fancy carpet, playing with his soldiers, never realizing that his childhood was about to end.

  To his surprise, Jessica Harte looked up from the soup plate, newly plopped down before her by a stocky, grumpy-looking woman in rough homespun, and gave Travis a sympathetic smile when he said he didn't like ranching.

  Justin Harte, instead of taking offense, shouted, “Mab, you've used salt instead of flour again to thicken the soup."

  "Did not,” said Mab.

  "It's inedible."

  "Then don't eat it,” she retorted, not the least intimidated, and snatched it from his place.

  Travis watched the byplay with amazement. He knew for a fact the Hartes were rich, but they sure didn't live like it. Oh, they had this big frame house in Weatherford with turrets and verandas and God knows how many rooms, with fancy scrolled woodwork and gardens and trees and a drive to the front door so long no sensible man would want to walk it, but you'd think they'd hire a better cook. Justin Harte was right; the soup was awful. Fortunately, the grumpy woman took his away too and plopped a huge roast down at the head of the table.

  Justin began to carve immediately. Travis turned to smile at Jessica, who smiled shyly back and said, “You must be very pleased with the Supreme Court ruling that breaks the Rockefeller monopoly in Corsicana."

  Travis blinked. How the hell did she know about that? Waters, Pierce, which was a Rockefeller front, although not everyone in Texas knew or cared, had the Corsicana drillers in a stranglehold because the company controlled all the distribution facilities. “Well, we were pleased when the legislature passed the antitrust laws and the Supreme Court upheld them,” Travis agreed, “but I don't think we're out of the woods yet. Word is that they're in bed with Senator Bailey—” Lord, what a way to put it! Hardly the language to use when talking to the young lady he hoped to lure into marriage. “—er—we're afraid he may find a way to get them—Waters, Pierce—back into Texas."

  "Senator Bailey?” Those wonderful blue eyes widened in astonishment. “Oh, I'm sure he'd do nothing to contravene the court's ruling. Senator Bailey's a friend of Papa's."

  "Is he? Well, no doubt you're right,” said Travis hastily. “I don't know him myself.” But he knew enough about the man to know he was taking bribes from Waters, Pierce. “Now tell me about this education of yours, Miss Jessica."

  She didn't look too eager but mumbled, “I went to the Mount Vernon Seminary for Ladies in Washington City."

  "Say, Pa, did you know Travis wouldn't volunteer to fight the Spanish?” interrupted David. “Said he'd rather make money drilling for oil in Corsicana than go catch dysentery an’ malaria in Florida."

  "It wasn't that bad in Florida,” Ned protested. “An’ we'd a had a lotta fun if we'd ever actually got to Cuba."

  "Seems that there's one sensible young man at my table,” Justin Harte observed, “and it's not you, Ned. That fool war didn't do a thing but give us a few islands we've no use for and set the Texas economy back twenty years."

  "Oh, Pa,” protested David, “you fought Indians in the Civil War. Surely you didn't expect us to stay home when our turn came."

  Again Travis felt that uneasy prick of memory. Did David mean his father had fought on the frontier during the War Between the States? But that meant—

  "I expected you to stay home instead of go chasing after a fool-headed romantic like Teddy Roosevelt,” Justin Harte declared. “Mab, why are you taking away Jessica's plate?"

  "She wasn't eating so I—"

  "The girl hasn't half finished."

  "Mab can't see that,” said David.

  "Then let her get spectacles,” said Justin.

  "Don't need ‘em,” said Mab.

  What an eccentric household, thought Travis and turned determinedly back to Jessica. “So you're just home from the ladies’ seminary?"

  "No,” said Jessica reluctantly, “I went on to Columbian College for my baccalaureate degree after I finished at Mount Vernon."

  Travis was impressed and envious. He'd managed to get some education after his father's death, but a lot of it was from reading on his own. He wondered what his learned wife-to-be would say to the fact that he'd read Tom Paine from a coffee-stained edition he'd plucked from a trash heap in a Fort Worth alley.

  "And then she went to the law school at Columbian where all the professors were famous judges,” said Justin. “I had to cash in a few favors for that since they don't ordinarily take girls."

  "You have a law degree?” Travis asked, taken aback.

  "No, I just did the course work. Even Papa couldn't get them to let me graduate."

  "Damn fools,” muttered Justin. “I'm glad your grandmother didn't live to see that."

  Jessica nodded. Cassandra Harte, her beloved grandmother, had always supported her academic aspirations. In many ways she'd been closer to her grandmother than to any other member of the family, and alone among the Harte grandchildren, Jessica had inherited a share of Cassandra's estate, the rest of which went to her sons.

  Grandmother Harte had even sympathized with Jessica's aversion to ranch life, her fear of horses, and her embarrassing attacks of sneezing when she got anywhere near cattle. Jessica wondered if cattle affected Mr. Parnell that way, since he disliked ranching. She didn't suppose he was afraid of horses. He didn't look as if he'd be afraid of anything. He also didn't look as if he approved of women studying law. Well, she thought with resignation, experience had hardly led her to expect anything different. He turned to smile at her again—pure politeness, she supposed. “No doubt, you disapprove of higher education for women,” she observed, firmly setting aside any romantic flutterings she might have had during their brief acquaintance. “Most men do."

  "Why would you say that?” Travis exclaimed. “I think education is invaluable to either sex, and in a woman, it certainly improves her conversation.” Jessica Harte looked so astonished that he added, “You're the only woman I know who's talked intelligently—hell, who's talked at all—” Then he realized that he'd used rough language and reflected wryly that his social graces were hardly up to this project; he'd had to watch Jessica constantly out of the corner of his eye just to make sure he used the right eating utensils. “—who's even heard of Waters, Pierce and the antitrust laws. It's a welcome change, I can tell you, to find a woman who can talk about something beside clothes and babies."

  "It is?"

  Travis could tell by the soft, surprised pleasure on her face that he'd said the right thing. And he hadn't lied. It was going to be unusual to pursue a girl who expected in
telligent conversation instead of pretty compliments, but once he'd got her and if he decided to keep her after he'd finished with the Greshams, she'd be very useful to him. A man could get love anywhere, but how many had wives who knew the law? The oil fields spawned more lawsuits than a Texas steer had ticks.

  The meal ended with Mab's favorite dessert, unadorned canned peaches. Ned, who sat on the other side of Travis, confided that sometimes they ate really well—when his mother cooked, for she, among other things, made the best apple pie in the world.

  "Sh-sh-sh, Ned,” said Anne Harte. “You'll hurt Mab's feelings."

  Not wanting to overstay his welcome, Travis rose to go after another forty-five minutes of the strange camaraderie of the Harte family, but as he collected his hat, he murmured to Jessica, “Maybe you'd accompany me to the door, Miss Jessica.” Again, she looked nonplussed. Hadn't the girl ever had a suitor? She stammered her agreement and followed him out to the steps of the veranda.

  "That boy's moving a little fast, isn't he?” asked Justin. “Maybe we ought to find out something about him."

  "Oh, for goodness sake, dear,” Anne laughed, “it's not as if they're about to elope. Let the girl have a gentleman caller if she likes him."

  "Where'd you meet Parnell?” Justin asked Ned.

  "We were tryin’ out Bag Moster's new filly, you know the one that's so fast? An’ Gussie Bannerman was there with the same idea—to get a good horse to ride in the race next month. Well, I made Bag an offer, ‘cause b'lieve me, Pa, that horse runs like greased lightnin', an’ Gussie made a better, an’ I upped ‘im, but then seems like I didn't have enough money on me—hadn't figured to pay that much, so Bag, he was gonna sell the filly to Gussie until Travis, who'd been watchin’ us ride—he said to me, ‘I'll loan you the extra,’ an’ he did right then an’ there, so I bought the filly."

  "Why would he do that for a stranger?” asked Justin suspiciously.

  "Travis said she was a fine horse an’ oughta win a lotta races with a good rider. Said he liked my style, an’ maybe he'd bet on me'n the filly if he was here in Weatherford come race time. So one thing leadin’ to another, him an’ me and David went off for a drink, an’ we ended up invitin’ him home. Nice fella, didn't you think?"