Wonder how Trey would feel if suddenly he was faced with losing it all?

Wills were a matter of record. All he had to do was go to the local county seat and request a copy of Paul Delaney’s will from probate court files. He knew that his parents had been married at the time of his birth so no matter how the will was written, he, as the oldest legitimate son, would be entitled to a portion of it. He hoped, however, that he’d find that the oldest son was heir to everything. He could cut Trey out of everything he owned. Not that Paul intended to keep it, of course. What the hell did he know about farming or cows or cotton or soybeans?

But to be able to take it all, if even for a moment, then graciously give it back would be sweet.

Of course, the people in Rossiter would not take kindly to him if he did that. He’d have to sell the house and move away whether he wanted to or not.

But wasn’t that what he’d intended from the first? Why should he suddenly feel conflicted?

He looked up at the house from the sidewalk. Not so much an old harridan as a sad, gracious lady fallen on hard times. His gracious lady. She needed him.

The only thing on earth who did. He felt the stab of loneliness that always came when he thought of how isolated he’d allowed himself to become since Tracy had left him. She’d kept the friends they’d made together. He hadn’t bothered to make new ones.

After he made his run to the discount store and shoved his air mattress and pump into the back of his car, he decided to drive the thirty-five miles to the county seat. He arrived at three twenty-five, only to find that the clerk’s office closed at three.

On his way out of Somerville, he passed by a rose-brick building with a small sign that said Library in front of it.

Might be as good a time as any to get started on his research.

The man Paul now felt certain had fathered him had died in 1977. He’d discovered that much on an Internet search. Should be some sort of obituary in the country newspaper.

Actually, there were two weeklies. The librarian told him proudly that both had been in operation since Reconstruction. He asked for the microfiche for the time around when his father died and began to reel through.

Maybe he remembered the date incorrectly. There seemed to be nothing in the obituaries about his father. He scrolled back through to rewind the microfiche when suddenly a banner headline on the front page caught his eye.

His father’s death had been reported not on the obituary page, but on the front page.

Leading Citizen Killed in Tragic Riding Accident.

Killed? Nobody said he’d been killed. Paul had assumed his father’s liver or heart had given out.

Paul Francis Delaney, one of Fayette’s leading citizens, was tragically killed in a freak riding accident Sunday morning. Mr. Delaney served as master of foxhounds for the local Cotton Creek hunt. During a chase last Sunday morning at his farm, Mr. Delaney was thrown when his horse fell while jumping a fence. He died before emergency services could reach him. An autopsy revealed that Mr. Delaney’s neck was broken in the fall.

One of Fayette County’s largest landowners, Mr. Delaney was also known for his charming and sometimes caustic caricatures. Many local citizens frame these quick sketches and display them prominently. The local fairs, bake and Christmas bazaars, and church fetes will sorely miss his talents, as he has over the course of the years raised considerable amounts of money both with his artistic skills and his personal philanthropy.

Mr. Delaney leaves his wife, Karen Bingham Delaney, his young son Paul Delaney III and his mother, Mrs. Maribelle Delaney, widow of the late Paul Delaney, Sr. A scholarship fund to send a talented high-school student to the Art Institute each year for the summer program has been established in Mr. Delaney’s name. The family asks that in lieu of flowers memorials be sent to this fund. Time and place of services are pending.

Paul sat back in the hard wooden chair and ran his hand over his face. A charming caricaturist? Philanthropist? Sorely missed? He didn’t know what he’d expected to find. How could such a man have deserted and then killed a wife who loved him?

Paul stared down at the grainy black-and-white newspaper photograph that someone had dredged up from the files. In what could only be a pink hunting coat, his father stood with his gloved hand on the reins of a big bay horse. A woman sat on the horse and smiled down. Too old to be this Karen Bingham, his wife. Paul’s grandmother Maribelle?

He looked closer. Neither he nor Trey had inherited that aquiline nose, but Paul could certainly see where Trey got his arrogance. This was no knitting, sit-by-the-fire granny. From the casual ease with which she sat on her horse, she was used to command.

“Sorry, sir, we’re closing the library,” the librarian whispered.

“Oh, sure.” He smiled up at her and received a timid smile in return. “I’d like to come back and look some more.”

“Certainly. We open at ten o’clock every morning and close at five.”

He started to rewind the microfiche.

“I’ll be happy to do that, sir.”

Paul nodded and walked out, vowing to return as soon as possible to look up obituaries on everyone he could think of in the direct line of Delaneys.

And then there were social events. Didn’t hunts have balls and things? Sure the county weeklies would report on them. And graduations. Weddings. There would be names of others who had known his father. He had to discover as much as he could.

He climbed into his car and turned on the air conditioner. It might be March with chilly nights, but the afternoon sun had heated the car beyond his comfort zone. He pulled out and started the drive back to Rossiter.

Weddings. Birth announcements. When had his father married Karen Bingham? Or rather, when had his father committed bigamy with Karen Bingham? He had been, whether he acknowledged it or not, legally married to Paul’s mother, Michelle, until she died.

Even longer. He had been legally married to Michelle until seven years after her disappearance when Uncle Charlie had finally convinced Aunt Giselle to declare her sister dead.

He wondered where the Delaneys were buried. Would he feel anything if he stood over his father’s grave? Could he curse him then as he had cursed him many times before?

Maybe there was a historical society that kept personal correspondence and histories that were of no interest to anyone except scholars.

Ann’s mother would probably be younger than his father would have been, but she must have known him. He needed some excuse to see her again.

And what about Karen Bingham, his father’s so-called widow? Was she still alive? How could he wangle an invitation to see her?

By the time he pulled his car into a parking space in the road in front of his house, the workmen had apparently left for the day. There were several lights on both upstairs and down, but no trucks parked on his lawn.

He carried the package containing his air mattress and pump to the front door, then set them down so that he could unlock and open it.

As he stepped in, he called, “Hello! Anybody here?”

He heard the click of Dante’s toenails on the wooden floor before the dog skidded around the doorway to the butler’s pantry, slid to a stop in front of him and sank onto his haunches, waiting to be petted.

“Good boy. This time you didn’t knock me down.” He rubbed the dog’s wide forehead. “Where’s your mistress?”

“In here,” came a muffled female voice. He followed Dante through the butler’s pantry and into the kitchen. For a moment he didn’t see her, then he spotted a pair of jean-clad ankles sticking out of the dumbwaiter. A moment later Ann emerged. Her face was dust-smeared and so was her shirt. She carried a large hand lantern.