a sheet of figures across the desk.
Tara scanned the list, unable to prevent her eyes from bulging at the scandalous amount of money her grandmother had given away. Other than the century-old house on Sycamore and its well-known collection of antiques, there couldn’t be much left.
“Were you her attorney of record when she made these contributions?” Tara hadn’t counted on an inheritance from the grandmother who had taken her in at three when her own mother had died of breast cancer. However, having her only relative give away a fortune to strangers was deflating.
“Yes, but Miss Elliott was quite capable of making these decisions. Her mind was sharper than mine, right up to the end. Do you have reason to question her?”
“No.” Embarrassed, she glanced at her watch. “Let’s move on, please. I have a conference call with my New York office in an hour.”
The lawyer cleared his throat and squinted at Sam Kennesaw. She followed his gaze. Sam slouched in the burgundy leather chair, fingers laced across his abdomen, an arrogant air of detached interest on his face.
“In that case, I’ll get right to the most important portion of Miss Elliott’s will.” Wade Latimer perched wire-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his Roman nose.
As regards the disposition of my remaining holdings: I bequeath the contents of my home to my beloved grandchild, Tara Elliott, to dispose of as she chooses. Furthermore, Tara may occupy Sycamore House for as long as she accepts all terms of my will.
Concerning my first and favorite commercial property, the Elliott Building, it is my wish to leave this ten-thousand-square-foot structure to be co-owned, co-managed, and co-maintained by Tara Elliott and Samuel Kennesaw.”
Tara sputtered on a sip of water and choked behind her hand.
Sam shifted in the chair, his interest locked on the legal document.
“What was that again?” She reached for the page. The attorney pulled it to his chest, well out of reach.
“I will give you each a certified copy of the will as soon as we finish.” He nodded toward two yellow legal-size envelopes on the corner of the desk. “Now, please, allow me to continue.”
Effective immediately, Tara Elliott and Samuel Kennesaw must commit their full attention, resources and energy to filling the space with profitable enterprises that will serve the financial interests of Beardsly, Texas. The two must work together in a cooperative manner at all times. If either should refuse the conditions of this gift, or fail to meet their portion of the conditions, the Elliott Building and Sycamore House will become the full possession of the other.
I know many people will find this to be an odd bequest. Let them think what they will. My granddaughter will understand why I’m doing this and that’s all that matters. May God richly bless Tara and Sam.
The benediction echoed against the high ceiling.
Needing a moment to compose herself, Tara stood and turned away from the men. She stepped to the inviting warmth of the window, folded her arms and stared out at the shady street.
The town hadn’t changed a bit since the afternoon college sophomore Tara Elliott announced to graduate student Sam Kennesaw that she intended to marry him one day. To cap off her bold behavior she’d stood on tiptoe to plant a chaste kiss on his unresponsive lips.
After all these years, his polite rejection was still painful. Her grandmother had stoked the pain burning through Tara’s teenage heart by insisting life held too much promise to settle at nineteen for the son of their housekeeper. No amount of pleading and tears could stop Miriam from ensuring Sam would no longer be a distraction.
So, Tara thought, this is the surprise you warned me about, Grandmother. Your brilliant plan to get me and Sam to come home. Nice try, but a little too much water’s run under that bridge. You’ve made your point. You win. Sam didn’t love me then and from the blank expression in his eyes, I’d say nothing’s changed.
“Mr. Kennesaw,” her voice was husky with emotion. She cleared her dry throat and turned to stare into the charcoal-gray eyes.
“Please, call me Sam.” He smiled insolently. “Thanks to your granny, we’re business partners. No point standing on formality now.”
Tara uncrossed her arms, sweeping back the black knit jacket, positioning a fist on each hip. “You can’t be taking this seriously. My grandmother never intended for you to accept her gift. This was her way of forcing us together for a few moments as a lesson to me.”
Sam lifted a dark eyebrow as he glanced from Tara to the sixty-something attorney, who tapped a fountain pen on Miriam Elliott’s last will and testament.
“So, what do you say, Latimer? Is this a legal document or just therapy for the little lady?”
Wade Latimer stopped tapping and struggled to suppress a smile. “It most certainly is legal. Miriam discussed her wishes on this subject with me at great length. The economy of Beardsly has been suffering for years and she believed your combined expertise is just what the town needs.
“However,” Latimer continued, “she intended this to be a collective gift, requiring a partnership effort. Her conditions are firm. If you’re unable to honor the terms of the will, Tara, the Elliott building and your family home will become the property of Mr. Kennesaw.”
She felt the flood of familiar heat and knew she was about to blush from collarbone to hairline. All her life she’d hated the terrible affliction that made her seem as if she were burning up from the inside out. A pale face and deep auburn hair already set her apart from the tanned residents of east Texas. Every time her skin flushed red, she resembled a cartoon character about to explode.
Humiliated by the embarrassing display of emotion, she felt fine perspiration break through the skin around her nose and lips. She fought the urge to swipe it away. Instead, she closed her eyes, indulging in a deep-breathing technique and a silent prayer to get past the confrontation. She dropped her arms to her sides and expelled a pent-up breath, then fixed her eyes on Sam’s expressionless gaze as he spoke.
“Are you gonna honor the terms of the will or is the property mine, lock, stock and barrel? What’s it gonna be, Rusty?”
“Excuse me?” She bristled at the nickname twelve-year-old Sam had used for her on the days when he accompanied his mother to clean Sycamore House. Others had picked it up and it had stuck like bubble gum on hot pavement.
“From what I’ve seen, it’s no wonder the town’s in trouble. It could use some modernization.” Sam nodded, approving of his own idea. “I’ll enjoy knocking down those old places.”
“That’s nothing to joke about and you know it,” she sputtered. “The Elliott Building is a town icon and Sycamore House qualifies to be registered as an historical landmark.”
“Not for much longer. I’ll have them both bulldozed by the end of the week unless you have a better plan.”
She shoved the jacket sleeves to elbow length and once more folded her arms across her chest. “I believe the terms of the will require the property to be used for profitable enterprise. What could you possibly have to offer this town?”
Sam untangled his long legs and stood. He reached for the legal envelope that contained his copies
