Texas Rich

Book 1: Texas

by Fern Michaels

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Young Billie Ames naively fell for the exciting pilot Moss Coleman at the Philadelphia Navy Yard during World War II. Within a few months she was pregnant, married, and traveling across the country to Austin…to the 250,000-acre spread known as Sunbridge and into the tantalizing world of the Texas rich. In a vast land dominated by the industrious Colemans, Billie fights to maintain control of her life and her marriage.This is the captivating story of four generations. There's Moss, living in the shadow of a father whose obsession with power overshadows the needs of his only son; Jessica, the doomed mother who gave up everything to become the perfect Coleman wife; Moss and Billie's children, desperately trying to live up to the insurmountable expectations; and the grandchildren, heirs to a tarnished empire who just might fulfill their dreams. Most of all this is the triumphant story of Billie Ames Coleman, a woman of courage and strength who holds them all together - in a tale as magnificent as the land that inspired it.

Release date: March 1, 2013

Publisher: eKensington

Print pages: 594

Sample

The crisscross-patterned lace curtains, which should have been silk organdy but were rayon instead, billowed in the soft May breeze. The chitterings of birds and new green scents drifted into Billie Ames’s room. She drew in her breath, savoring the tantalizing fragrances. Spring was her favorite time of year and this year it had seemed such a long time coming. In thirty-seven days she would graduate from high school. Adulthood. Grown-up. She bent to tie her saddle shoes, brushing impatiently at her ash-blond hair, which fell over her eyes, and frowned. Multistriped shoelaces and white anklets? Some grown-up! She should be wearing nylon stockings and heels, not these remnants of girlhood. But the war had been on in Europe for some time now and since the attack on Pearl Harbor last December, Billie had wondered if sheer stockings would go the way of the passenger pigeon: extinct. Not that it mattered, because they were beyond the limits of her clothing allowance anyway. Lots of women wore leg makeup and drew seams on the backs of their legs. But only pagans and Philistines did such things, declared Billie’s mother. And Agnes Ames rarely, if ever, admitted she was wrong.

Billie’s thoughts circled back to graduation. When she flipped the tassel of her mortarboard from one side to the other it would be the beginning of her last free summer and then off to Penn State. She’d already signed up for a major in English, because she had to pick something; but the truth was she hated the whole idea. What Billie wanted, really wanted, was to go to a good design and textile school. Agnes said that wouldn’t be seemly. The best schools were in New York City and young girls just didn’t live there alone. Not nice girls, at any rate. Later, after Billie had her degree, she could fool with such notions.

But Billie suspected the real reason was that the cost of design school was prohibitive. She wished she knew more about the family finances. Were they comfortable or merely keeping their heads above water? Agnes said that was hardly the concern of a young girl. Study, socialize with “acceptable youngsters,” and dress well. That was Agnes’s credo, and it always ended with: “Then you’ll marry a young man from an old mainline family and your future will be secured. And always remember that no man wants used merchandise. Virginity is your most prized possession. Guard it well!” It was hard not to giggle when Agnes began preaching.

Sighing, Billie buttoned the straps of her jumper, which she’d made herself. It was such a beautiful shade of lavender and it had huge pearl buttons on the shoulder straps and two smaller ones on the patch pockets. Instead of hemming the skirt, she’d fringed it. She was the only girl in school with a fringed skirt, so far. By next week there would be at least twenty others; she was certain of it. Billie Ames enjoyed being something of a style setter.

Virginity. Agnes put great store in preserving it. Temptation was something to be fought and conquered until one’s wedding night.

Billie sighed again, this time more deeply. Temptation wasn’t a problem for her. She had no steady boyfriend, didn’t want one, either. And the boys she knew were certainly not worth wasting her virginity on. They had pimply faces, sloppy clothes, and bicycles with chipped paint and chains that always slipped off when they rode double. There was nothing at all romantic about them! Besides, most of the boys had nothing except the war on their minds, hardly able to wait for graduation when they could enlist and prove what big men they were. Girls were only secondary to the German and Japanese armies.

Billie’s world was simply too narrow, she thought. She wished she had more opportunities to travel, see things, do things. Even her trips downtown had been severely limited by Agnes ever since the arrival of military personnel. She thought of all the young men in their uniforms and grinned wickedly at her reflection in the mirror. The navy uniforms were the best, especially now in the warmer weather when they’d switched to whites. The men looked so dashing and debonair, like Tyrone Power or Errol Flynn. Imagine walking into her senior prom on the arm of a tall dark navy man! That was another thing. She didn’t have a date for the prom. A dress . . . but no date. Agnes was beginning to worry, Billie could tell. But a senior prom was special, and you had to go with someone special. Several boys had asked her, but she’d declined. Even she, with all her romantic notions, didn’t really expect the white knight to come charging down Elm Street to swoop her off to the dance. . . . Yet surely something or someone better would come along. At the last minute, she could always snag Tim Kelly. Ungainly Tim, who would make chopped liver of her feet on the dance floor. Still, he was a basketball captain and would make a respectable escort. Another sigh. Being one of the prettiest girls in the graduating class, and one of the most popular, didn’t ensure romance.

A glance at the clock on her nightstand told Billie she’d have to hurry and she experienced a small skitter of excitement. She loved Saturday afternoons and the matinee at the Loews Theatre. It meant she could leave her sewing and piano lessons behind for a few hours. Saturday afternoon meant walking downtown with her two girlfriends and meeting the gang at the corner. No one paired off, exactly, but they did walk side by side down the tree-lined streets. They were friends, and after this summer they’d all go their different ways. Billie decided she wouldn’t miss them, not the way some of the kids said they would. She’d be going off to a new school, where she could pick and choose her own friends, new friends. Ones that wouldn’t have to pass Agnes’s muster. Friends that might or might not be “acceptable.”

Billie closed the lid of her tinkling music box, a Christmas gift from her father when she was four years old. She looked at it fondly for a moment. She would not take it with her when she left for college; nor would she take the photograph of her parents smiling on the last day of their honeymoon. For an instant she felt a twinge of disloyalty. Her father had died before she and Agnes moved into Grandmother’s house on Elm Street. One day he was there and the next he wasn’t. It wasn’t as though she missed having a father, not exactly, but in some ways she did think of herself as deprived. It made her different. from the other girls, whose fathers sat on Sunday afternoons reading the newspaper and took them out for a driving lesson in the family automobile. She wouldn’t want Agnes to know she’d left the music box or photograph behind. If worse came to worse, she could pack them at the bottom of a trunk in the attic and leave them there. Billie felt better immediately. She was a good child. A dutiful daughter. And she was still a virgin, which was more than some of the girls at school could say. Already there were whispers that Cissy had given her all to an army corporal.

Billie ran a brush through her thick blond hair, pinned it back with two heart-shaped barrettes, then closed the door on her pink-and-white bedroom. “Mother, I’m leaving now,” she called to Agnes from the foot of the stairs, then she waisted.

Some people could walk into a room; others could make an entrance. Agnes Ames just appeared. One minute she wasn’t there and the next she was. It always amazed Billie.

She managed to keep her voice just a notch above conversational—Agnes said shouting was unladylike—as she went through the weekly litany for Agnes’s benefit. “We may stop for a cherry phosphate after the show. If we do, I’ll be home by five. If we decide to go for hamburgers, I’ll be home by five-thirty. The boys like to see the newsreel a second time. So it may be six at the very latest. I have my purse and enough change to pay for myself and enough for a phone call. I’m wearing my best underwear and I only put cologne on my wrists, not behind my ears. I polished my shoes and buffed the white part.”

Billie smiled at her mother and stood still for her silent inspection. Agnes’s dark brown gaze snapped and clicked as it monitored her daughter. From long experience Billie recognized the invisible signal that said she had passed standards. “What are you going to do this afternoon, Mother?”

“Today is Saturday. I have to clean the two front bedrooms. Our roomers are out, so this is the best time. Miss Carpenter is working overtime at the Navy Yard today. She certainly must make a princely wage.” This might be the time to think about raising the room rent a little, Agnes thought, maybe a dollar or so a week. Or perhaps she could offer breakfast and charge three dollars more. . . . God, how she hated this penny-pinching! “Miss Addison is away for the weekend. Did she pay you for hemming her skirt, Billie?”

“Yes, Mother. And there’s another for me to do this week.”

“Good. We don’t want to be taken advantage of, do we? I still haven’t resigned myself to opening my home to total strangers. Of course, what else could I do? I’m as patriotic as the next person and, considering the housing shortage in Philadelphia and having the space, I couldn’t very well not, could I?”

“They’re both nice ladies,” Billie said, “They’re quiet and they don’t mess up the bathroom.” She hoped Agnes wasn’t having second thoughts about taking in roomers, because now there always seemed to be a little extra money.

Agnes Ames was tall and thin, stylishly so. Her expertise with the needle proved that clothing need not be padded or flounced to make a garment appear custom tailored. Today she wore a beige-and-brown street dress with a wide chocolate sash. Adorning her long aristocratic neck were her grandmother’s pearls. Severe was a word that came to mind when one thought of Agnes Ames. Just as the pearls were always around her neck, so there was the calculating expression in her eyes. She had good clear skin, thanks to Pond’s Cold Cream and Dream Puff Powder. They were the only cosmetics she allowed to touch her face, aside from lipstick. Agnes never wore rouge: that was for wantons and streetwalkers. She preferred to pinch her cheeks. She did her own hair, out of necessity and frugality, and had become expert at using Nestle’s thick green wave set and the metal clamps that guaranteed a tight crimp. Small, imitation pearl clip-on earrings completed the outward appearance of Agnes Ames.

She poked her long thin arms through the holes of a pinafore-style apron, which she wore to save her dress. “Yes, they are quiet and neat, aren’t they? However, that was not happenstance, Billie—I was quite careful in choosing them and it always pays to have a clear-cut understanding from the beginning.” Switching to Billie’s plans for the afternoon, Agnes, asked, “Are all of you going to the matinee?”

Billie took her cue. “Carl, Joey, Chester, and Tim. Bernice, Barbara, Dotty, and myself. That’s all.”

Agnes rolled the names over on her tongue. Hardly old Philadelphia mainline society, but they were acceptable. No old money there, but a lot of new money, most of it profits of war. New money could be offensive, almost threatening, because it had to be earned. Old money was comforting, a state of being.

“Enjoy the movie, Billie. I’ll hold dinner. Something light. Perhaps some of that new lettuce from our Victory garden. There are still four eggs left on our rations.” Agnes’s lip curled when she mentioned the Victory garden and food rationing. Billie suspected that the careful tending of the garden out back was less an effort of patriotism than an outward sign of Agnes’s driven desire to be like everyone else, only better.

“It sounds fine, Mother. Don’t work too hard. Perhaps I should stay home and give you a hand.”

“Nonsense. You go out with your friends. I’ll be done in no time. If it weren’t for this ridiculous war, decent people would still have cleaning help. It seems anyone who’s able to give a full day’s work has gone on to greener pastures at the Navy Yard or in factories. Help is so difficult to find.”

After Billie had left, Agnes looked about the small living room. It was neat, tidy and gleaming. Agnes liked soap and water. With her daughter out of the house this might be a good time to move Billie’s things downstairs to the study. There was no sense letting an extra room go to waste, and they certainly could use the money it would bring. By Tuesday the room could be rented. She should have done it long before this. It never occurred to her that Billie might object. Billie never objected. She was such a good child. The study had a window seat where Billie could sit and read for hours. No one could ever point a finger at Agnes and say she wasn’t doing her duty for the war effort. It wasn’t her fault she didn’t have a son to give for her country. Renting out her spare rooms and having a Victory garden were her contributions.

Agnes wrapped a bandanna around her head to protect her wave and went about getting her cleaning products in order. Oxydol, Old Dutch Cleanser, and a supply of rags. A feather duster under one arm, the mop in the other, she climbed the stairs. It was such an awful way to spend a Saturday afternoon. She should be taking a leisurely tea at someone’s house and talking about what was on everyone’s minds, the war. She’d love to be a hostess at a formal tea and serve thin cucumber sandwiches. Instead, she was cleaning rented bedrooms and a community bathroom. She didn’t want this kind of life for Billie; she didn’t want it for herself, either.

Billie walked alongside Tim Kelly. There was something different about the sandy-haired Tim today. His tall thin body looked ready to explode. Whatever it was, the other boys were in on it, too.

“If you walk any faster, you’ll meet yourself coming,” Billie teased.

“You always say that, Billie.” Tim laughed. “You just take short little steps. How come you aren’t wearing your penny loafers?”

“Because I polished these and I wanted to show them off.”

Tim laughed again. “I like girls who wear silk stockings and high heels,” he teased.

“You can’t get silk stockings anymore because they need every bit of it to make parachutes,” Billie countered. “The best you can get is nylon, but they cost a fortune.”

“Cissy always seems to have enough money for them, and don’t they look great on her!” Tim started smacking one fist into the palm of the other. He didn’t seem to notice that at the mention of the notorious Cissy he had gained everyone’s attention. “You aren’t going to believe what I did yesterday. You just won’t believe it!”

The girls stopped in their tracks while the boys laughed. “If it’s something dirty, Tim Kelly, we don’t want to hear it,” one girl said excitedly.

“Yes we do.” Another giggled.

“No we don’t!” Billie said firmly.

“Well, you’re gonna hear it anyway. I signed up. I went and did it: I didn’t even tell my parents yet,” Tim said proudly.

“Oh, no,” Billie whispered. Suddenly she wished they could all be little kids again, roller-skating down Elm Street, setting up lemonade stands. Tim was the first of their bunch to enlist . and it seemed an omen of things to come, judging by the awe on the other boys’ faces.

“I leave a couple of weeks after graduation. I’ll be eighteen by then,” Tim said quietly. “I want to get into it. We all do, don’t we, fellas? It’s just a matter of time now. We’ll write you girls, and you’ve got to promise to write back. We’ve decided we want to pay back the Japs for what they did to Pearl Harbor.”

“What about college?” Billie asked inanely, still stunned by the news, yet feeling very grown-up now and already mourning carefree childhood.

“Is that all you have to say? Jesus H. Christ! I’m talking about war! About serving my country! I’m going off to fight for the American way of life and for girls like you, Billie! If those Japs can do what they did to Pearl, they could just march across this country and kill us in our beds. Everybody knows how sneaky they are!”

“I don’t feel like going to the movies now,” Dotty said, sitting down on the low stone wall that surrounded the Cummingses’ front yard. The thought of yellow-faced men with bloody fangs marching across the U. S. of A. made her gulp.

“Hey, Dotty, what’s the matter?” Carl challenged. “You scared of those Japs? What would you do if they said they’d kill me if you didn’t sleep with them? What would you do then, huh?” Carl’s eyes glimmered, waiting for his steady girlfriend’s answer. Dotty recognized the old no-win predicament. It was a question that usually arose at Brummers Ice Cream Parlor while they were sipping rainbow cokes. If she said she would never sleep with a Jap, Carl would say she didn’t care enough about him to spare his life. If she said she’d do anything to save him, he’d sneer and question her morals. Either way, a girl couldn’t win. The recognition of the dilemma on her face softened Carl. “Don’t worry, Dotty, I wouldn’t let a ‘monkey man’ lay a finger on you. I’d kill myself first.” Tenderly, he placed a hand on Dotty’s shoulder.

“Let’s go downtown to the Navy Yard instead,” Tim suggested. “We can hang around outside and watch the ships in the harbor.” The girls’ eyes lit up. It was certainly better than trying to figure out what had gotten into the boys. Once they were there, the boys would meander around acting like big shots and talking about the ships, and the girls could watch the uniforms.

The boys led the way while the girls hung back, huddling as they walked. “Does anyone have any rouge or lipstick?”

“I have some Tangee. It’s not very good, pink coral, or something. It was all I could sneak off my sister’s dresser.”

“It’s good enough,” Dotty encouraged. “We’ll just use lots of it. Just think, we might meet some of those handsome sailors and maybe Carl won’t think I’m such a kid if he sees some real men interested in me.” She dabbed furiously at her cheeks and lips, watching her reflection in the window of a parked car.

One by one, the girls took turns, to the boys’ whistling approval. Then they paired off and walked casually, the boys with their arms flung around their girls’ shoulders. Billie felt strange walking beside Tim this way; part of her world was slipping away. The first step in becoming an adult and it had to be learning to say good-bye. Of their little group, the gang, four of her friends from as far back as she could remember were leaving to fight a war. Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips. The waxy lipstick felt thick and greasy. She’d never used so much rouge before. What would Mother say? The problem was where she was going to wash it off? If they’d gone to the movies as they’d intended, she could have washed it off in the ladies’ room.

“Do you think the MPs will chase us away?” Billie questioned.

“Not when I tell them Tim already enlisted and the rest of us go down Monday morning,” Carl said with more bravado than he felt.

The sight of the Philadelphia Navy Yard frightened Billie. This wasn’t a Movietone newsreel; this was the real thing. Battleships, destroyers, cruisers, all with their camouflaged green-and-brown superstructures reaching for the sky. Even from this distance and seen through the chainlink fence, they seemed enormous and ominous. The boys pointed out the classification of each ship, but it all remained a mystery to Billie, who couldn’t tell a battleship from a cruiser. Only the aircraft carrier, with its long flat deck, was easily distinguishable from the rest. How could a plane take off from that dock? Worse yet, how did it land? She’d seen the newsreels and marveled at the skill of the pilots. Once she’d heard that from the air the carrier’s deck looked like a tombstone. The thought gave her chills.

“How do you like them?” a masculine voice drawled at Billie’selbow. She turned and stared up into incredible, summer-blue eyes.

“They’re frightening, but beautiful,” Billie said honestly. Handsome. Tall. Beautiful. Simply beautiful. The man, not the ship.

“I kind of like them myself. Especially the carrier. But my favorite is the Enterprise. I trained on her. Moss Coleman,” he introduced himself. “Lieutenant, junior grade. And you’re...?”

“Billie. Billie Ames. Actually it’s Willa, but no one calls me that, not even my mother.” Now why had she said that? How gauche and immature she must seem to him with her round circles of rouge. She could just kick herself for putting it on. He must be at least twenty-five. Too old for her. Too old for what? All he was doing was talking to her. His brilliant eyes seemed amused and she realized how unsophisticated she must seem to him. His dark hair was almost black against the stark white of his naval officer’s uniform. He was as handsome as sin, as Grandmother used to say. His deep tan so early in the year made Billie wonder where he’d been before coming to Philadelphia.

The same amusement was in his voice when he spoke again. “Billie it is. Willa sounds like an old maiden aunt. Do you live here in Philly?”

Billie nodded. “All my life. We live on . . . we live not far from here,” she answered, suddenly shy.

Moss stood back for a better look at the girl. She was young, too young. Younger than the girls who hung out at the USO. Soft ash-blond hair framed her face and was held back from her temples by two barrettes. Bright, intelligent hazel eyes were fringed by smoky lashes and naturally arched brows. Her pretty face was smooth-skinned, color marking the high cheekbones. A delicately formed mouth, beneath the lipstick, was generous and yielding, vulnerable with youth. She was a sweet thing, keeping her eyes lowered, her voice soft and shy. His sense of chivalry rose to the surface. If some of his buddies spotted her, she wouldn’t have a prayer. They were animals, pure and simple, and the fact that she’d be seen talking to Moss Coleman, Reaper of Virgins, would make her fair game. He’d be willing to bet her mother didn’t know she was here or that she wore rouge and lipstick. He grinned. She was innocent. He could see it in her face. Nice bones, good figure. Old Seth would look at that first. Carry on the Coleman line, good breeding, all the shit that went with settling down and marrying the right girl. A closer look made him think she probably didn’t know where babies came from, something he could change within two days, three at the most.

His friends constantly kidded Moss about his lady-killer charm and kept track of his score. The latest count since he’d hit Philly was eleven. But these were dangerous times and a man had to take what he could when he could. They offered, he accepted. It was that simple. This little girl standing beside him wouldn’t offer. She was what the guys called a good girl. Though some claimed all good girls had wet bloomers.

- “So, you live around here. Do you come here often to look around?”

“No. I’ve only been here once before, on a class trip. I came down with some of my friends. They’re around here somewhere. One of the boys enlisted and the others are going down to enlist on Monday. We’re supposed to be at the movies,” she blurted, looking around for her friends with a worried expression, as though needing to be saved from this stranger in his immaculate uniform.

For the first time in his life Moss found himself uncertain. She was looking at him in a way that made him feel he was being inspected and falling short. His appearance flashed before him. He was perfect: shoes shined, belt buckle polished, all the brass in shining order. Every hair in place, Ipana smile. Suntan just the right shade. Creases so sharp they could slice bread. It must be his imagination, this dissatisfaction he felt from her.

Moss knew he should leave. There was nothing for him here. “Would you like to see the carrier up a little closer?” he heard himself asking. “I can get you through the gate.”

Billie frowned. She remembered her mother’s warning of strangers. “Yes, thank you, I would.”

Moss cupped her elbow and took her around to the guard at the gate, who offered him a smart salute. He showed his identification and waited while Billie signed in. He watched while she registered her address, 479 Elm Street, and smiled. I have one of your secrets, little girl, he thought with satisfaction.

The yard was peopled with sailors and busy work crews, their young faces either wreathed with smiles or studies of concentration. Moss was quick to see the admiring glances that came Billie’s way and his hand tightened on her elbow possessively. Battleships and destroyers bound for Europe huddled around the dock. Their decks, dotted with white T-shirts and blue denims, were being scraped and primed, painted and polished, before they took their cargos of men and machines out to sea.

“This is about as far as I can take you. These are great ships, but I’ll always think of the flight deck of the USS Enterprise as home. There’s nothing like the feeling of landing gear touching that deck or of being hoisted backward by the landing hook.”

Billie’s eyes grew round with admiration. “You’re a flyer? You really fly one of those planes and land on that little deck?”

“It’s really not that little, Billie.” He found he liked saying her name. “I’ve been flying since I was fourteen on our ranch in Texas and there’s more space on a carrier deck than on the old dirt road back home.”

There was such naked admiration in Billie’s eyes, Moss felt himself blush at his own braggadocio. “I’ve got to admit to overshooting the landing deck a couple of times, but I’ve never ditched. That means going over the side, plane and all. Some guys are really good. There’s a fella in my barracks who has never made a mistake. Not one.”

“That’s amazing,” Billie said in a hushed whisper. “How long have you been in Philly?”

“A month. I came in from San Diego. That’s why the suntan.” There was something bitter about his expression. “That’s where I should be now, getting ready to push off for the Pacific.”

“Why aren’t you?”

“I’ve been assigned to Admiral McCarter, as his aide. I suppose lots of guys would give their eyeteeth for this duty, but I’d rather be flying.” She watched as he lifted his head and tracked a pigeon headed for the superstructure, as though he wished he, too, could just spread wings and fly. Billie was quiet for a long moment, aware of his sadness. It made her almost hurt for him. She reached out to lay her hand on the sleeve of his white tunic.

Moss dropped his gaze to her, seeing her smile and the compassion in her hazel eyes. “My father’s an influential man,” he told her, something he’d never confided to another soul. “I’m the only son and Pap doesn’t cotton to the idea of me flying. He arranged this assignment with the Admiralty.” It was there again, the bitterness.

“Couldn’t you ask to be reassigned?”

“Yeah, I could, but I couldn’t do it to Pap,” Moss said quietly. “He hangs a lot on me, wanting me to carry on the family and the business. I could be madder’n hell, but I’m not. He loves me and he’s afraid of losing me.”

“Texas, you said?” That explained the slight drawl.

“Texas. Austin.”

“Then you’re a cowboy!”

Moss laughed, a nice easy sound, as though laughing were second nature to him. She liked the way his eyes crinkled at the corners and just the barest dimple showed in his firm, chiseled jaw. “Hardly. Texans don’t ride horses to get anywhere. They fly. Seems like most of the people I know have their own planes. Or else they rent them. Just like folks here in Philly hire taxicabs.”

Billie couldn’t imagine flying anywhere, much less owning her own plane. “All Texans own a plane?” she asked naively.

“Well, not all, but the ones I know do. Say, you’ve never been up, have you? You’ve never flown?”

Billie shook her head, following his gaze once again to the birds perched on the carrier. “Never. And I don’t suppose I ever will. What’s it like?”

Moss took her hand, taking her over to a stack of crates and sitting beside her. “Billie, honey, you’re going to be sorry you asked that question.” For the next hour Lieutenant (j.g.) Moss Coleman described to Billie the exhilaration he felt when his wheels left the ground. He told her about flying a wrecked old crop duster around the ranch and the way his father had tanned his hide when he’d found out about it. Moss had Billie laughing, exclaiming, shuddering. He sparked her imagination and made her wish that just once she could fly.

“There’s a little airport around here where they have planes for hire. I’d like to take you up, Billie, just so you’ll know I’m not crazy and everything I’ve told you is true.”

“I’d like that,” she answered quickly, cheeks flushed with the anticipated excitement, eyes bright and eager. “Oh, but I don’t think my mother would like that—Mother! What time is it?”

Moss glanced at his watch. “Five-thirty.”

“Omigosh! I’ve got to get going.” For the first time in hours Billie remembered her friends. They must think she’d gotten lost or gone home by herself. They wouldn’t still be hanging around the yard. “It was nice of you to show me around, Lieutenant. I know you must be busy and I’ve got to start for home. My mother will w