Texas Born - Diana Palmer

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the fall semester.”

      “Jobs. College.” Roberta looked absolutely furious. “And you think I’m going to stay down here in this hick town while you sashay off to college in some big city, do you?”

      “I graduate in just over three months...”

      “I’m putting the house on the market,” Roberta shot back. She held up a hand. “Don’t even bother arguing. I’m listing the house with a San Antonio broker, not one from here.” She gave Michelle a dirty look. “They’re all on your side, trying to keep the property off the market. It won’t work. I need money!”

      For just one instant, Michelle thought about letting her have the stamps. Then she decided it was useless to do that. Roberta would spend the money and still try to sell the house. She comforted herself with what the local Realtor had told her—that it would take time for the will to get through probate. If there was a guardian angel, perhaps hers would drag out the time required for all that. And even then, there was a chance the house wouldn’t sell.

      “I don’t imagine a lot of people want to move to a town this small,” Michelle said out loud.

      “Somebody local might buy it. One of those ranchers.” She made it sound like a dirty word.

      That made Michelle feel better. If someone from here bought the house, they might consider renting it to her. Since she had a job, thanks to Minette, she could probably afford reasonable rent.

      Roberta wiped her face. She was sweating.

      Michelle frowned. “Are you all right?”

      “Of course I’m all right, I’m just hungry!”

      “I’ll make supper.” She went to her room to put her books away and stopped short. The place was in shambles. Drawers had been emptied, the clothes from the shelves in the closet were tossed haphazardly all over the floor. Michelle’s heart jumped, but she noticed without looking too hard that the baseboards in the closet were still where they should be. She looked around but not too closely. After all, she’d told Roberta that Chief Grier had her father’s stamp collection. It hadn’t stopped Roberta from searching the room. But it was obvious that she hadn’t found anything.

      She went back out into the hall, where her stepmother was standing with folded arms, a disappointed look on her face. She’d expected that the girl would go immediately to where she’d hidden the stamps. The fact that she didn’t even search meant they weren’t here. Damn the luck, she really had taken them to the police chief. And even Roberta wasn’t brash enough to walk up to Cash Grier and demand the stamp collection back, although she was probably within her legal rights to do so.

      “Don’t tell me,” Michelle said, staring at her. “Squirrels?”

      Roberta was disconcerted. Without meaning to, she burst out laughing at the girl’s audacity. She turned away, shaking her head. “All right, I just wanted to make sure the stamp collection wasn’t still here. I guess you were telling the truth all along.”

      “Roberta, if you need money so much, why don’t you get a job?”

      “I had a job, if you recall,” she replied. “I worked in retail.”

      That was true. Roberta had worked at the cosmetics counter in one of San Antonio’s most prestigious department stores.

      “But I’m not going back to that,” Roberta scoffed. “Once I sell this dump of a house, I’ll be able to go to New York or Los Angeles and find a man who really is rich, instead of one who’s just pretending to be,” she added sarcastically.

      “Gosh. Poor Bert,” Michelle said. “Does he know?”

      Roberta’s eyes flashed angrily. “If you say a word to him...!”

      Michelle held up both hands. “Not my business.”

      “Exactly!” Roberta snapped. “Now, how about fixing supper?”

      “Sure,” Michelle agreed. “As soon as I clean up my room,” she added in a bland tone.

      Her stepmother actually flushed. She took a quick breath. She was shivering. “I need...more...” she mumbled to herself. She went back into her own room and slammed the door.

      * * *

      They ate together, but Michelle didn’t taste much of her supper. Roberta read a fashion magazine while she spooned food into her mouth.

      “Where are you getting a job? Who’s going to even hire a kid like you?” she asked suddenly.

      “Minette Carson.”

      The magazine stilled in her hands. “You’re going to work for a newspaper?”

      “Of course. I want to study journalism in college.”

      Roberta looked threatened. “Well, I don’t want you working for newspapers. Find something else.”

      “I won’t,” Michelle said firmly. “This is what I want to do for a living. I have to start somewhere. And I have to save for college. Unless you’d like to volunteer to pay my tuition....”

      “Ha! Fat chance!” Roberta scoffed.

      “That’s what I thought. I’m going to a public college, but I still have to pay for books and tuition.”

      “Newspapers. Filthy rags.” Her voice sounded slurred. She was picking at her food. Her fork was moving in slow motion. And she was still sweating.

      “They do a great deal of good,” Michelle argued. “They’re the eyes and ears of the public.”

      “Nosy people sticking their heads into things that don’t concern them!”

      Michelle looked down at her plate. She didn’t mention that people without things to hide shouldn’t have a problem with that.

      Roberta took her paper towel and mopped her sweaty face. She seemed disoriented and she was flushed, as well.

      “You should see a doctor,” Michelle said quietly. “There’s that flu still going around.”

      “I’m not sick,” the older woman said sharply. “And my health is none of your business!”

      Michelle grimaced. She sipped milk instead of answering.

      “It’s too hot in here. You don’t have to keep the thermostat so high!”

      “It’s seventy degrees,” Michelle said, surprised. “I can’t keep it higher or we couldn’t afford the gas bill.” She paid the bills with money that was grudgingly supplied by Roberta from the joint bank account she’d had with Michelle’s father. Roberta hadn’t lifted a finger to pay a bill since Alan had died.

      “Well, it’s still hot!” came the agitated reply. She got up from the table. “I’m going outside. I can’t breathe in here.”

      Michelle watched her go with open curiosity. Odd. Roberta seemed out of breath and flushed more and more lately. She had episodes of shaking that seemed very unusual. She acted drunk sometimes, but Michelle knew she wasn’t drinking. There was no liquor in the house. It probably was the flu. She couldn’t understand why a person who was obviously sick wouldn’t just go to the doctor in the first—

      There was a loud thud from the general direction of the front porch.

      Michelle got up from her chair and went out onto the porch. It sounded as if Roberta had flung a chair against the wall, maybe in another outburst of temper.

      She opened the door and stopped. Roberta was lying there, on her back on the porch, gasping for breath, her eyes wide, her face horrified.

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