Читать книгу Gambling On A Secret - Sara Walter Ellwood - Страница 7

Chapter 2

The Longhorn Saloon was always crowded on Friday nights and tonight was no exception. The place tried to capture the flavor of the Old West, but mostly it reminded Dylan of every other honky-tonk he’d ever stepped foot in. Old sawdust and peanut shells covered the floor. The place smelled of stale liquor, sweat, smoke and fry grease.

As he pulled his old felt hat low over his forehead, he weaved his way past the mechanical bull and the jukebox. On the dance floor, an energetic group of locals and college kids were attempting to follow Ella Larson’s cowboy boots as she scooted and boogied across the worn hardwood to Brooks and Dunn.

He headed for his favorite corner booth to find two barely legal boys sitting there. He pinned the college kids with his best tough-guy scowl. They got up and left so fast they had to stop and go back for their beers.

After sliding into the booth, he didn’t have to wait long for Ella’s younger sister, Julie, to come forward with a bottle of his usual. He handed her his credit card to cover the tab.

He’d thrown back a couple shots of Jack Daniels when a group of college kids shoved into the booth across from him. From the wild look in one of the boy’s eyes, it had to be his first time in a bar.

Julie stopped by the table, checked their IDs and took their orders. He couldn’t help but overhear the blonde, pressed up close to the wide-eyed boy, telling Julie today was his twenty-first birthday. After several minutes of teasing by the other boy, and giggles from the two girls in the group, Julie went to the bar to put in their orders.

Their drinks arrived and they toasted Birthday Boy with more laughter.

He didn’t need this crap. Looking around, he found an empty spot at the bar and reached for his bottle.

Blondie next to Birthday Boy said, “Guess what Charli Monroe’s doing tonight.”

He slid a sideways glance at the table of kids, set the bottle down and stayed glued to the cracked vinyl.

The girl across from her laughed. “Oh, I can only imagine. She’s in my psych class. I bet she’s studying.”

“Yep.” Blondie played with the fruit balls in her prissy drink.

The boy beside the psychology girl lifted his beer and smirked. “She’s one hot number. I’ve thought about asking her out, but something about her is just strange.”

Psychology Girl, who looked too much like the boy sitting beside her to not be his sister, laughed. “I have to agree. She’s weird. I don’t think she even has any friends. She’s been at Colton College since the beginning of the semester, and I’ve never seen her hang out with anyone. No wonder she’s all the teachers’ pet. As if the way she dresses wouldn’t be enough to get their attention, she’s a damned brainiac, and rich.”

Dylan downed another shot of whiskey. His interview had been over a week ago. Charli Monroe hadn’t called. No surprise there. Tracy was hounding him again to crawl to Leon Ferguson for a job. Lucifer would sit on the left hand of God before that happened.

When two familiar couples came into view, he was pouring another shot. His hand shook as he set the bottle on the table with a bang. What was his ex doing in here? At the sight of the skinny geek, Nick Dailey, with Brenda, he gritted his teeth as fire spread up his neck.

He had hated the pencil-neck geek since meeting him at a Christmas party a month before he’d shipped out to Afghanistan. Brenda, an English teacher, had become best friends with the science teacher after he started working at Killeen High School.

Nicky pulled out a chair. How long had his wife screwed around behind his back with her BFF before she ended up pregnant?

Brenda smiled up at her new husband before sitting. Nick took the chair next to her as Brenda’s sister and her husband sat across from them. A few minutes later, Julie came over to take their orders.

Once the waitress left, he slid out of the booth. Somewhere in the fog clouding his good sense, he knew he shouldn’t, but he was spoiling for a fight.

He half-limped, half-staggered to stand at the end of the square table.

Brenda’s dark eyes widened when she noticed him. “Dylan?”

“Forgotten me already, Brenda?”

Sitting across from Brenda, her brother-in-law scowled. “I think you should walk away now.”

“Howdy, Mike. Interesting that you have to stand up for your wife’s sister, while her new husband sits there scared shitless.” He nodded his head at the near replica of his ex-wife next to Mike. “Carrie.”

“Leave now,” Brenda growled.

“I’m crushed.” He put his hat on his head to free up his hands. “I wasn’t invited to the weddin’. I heard all about it, though. Gotta love the Colton Grapevine. Was it as nice as ours?”

She glared up at him. Her chest rose and fell in rapid breaths. “It was better, actually. The Country Club was remodeled since our wedding.”

“That’s something, I guess. Baby Geek doin’ okay?” he asked, referring to Brenda’s baby with Nick.

Brenda’s plump red lips twisted into a cold smile. “He’s doing exceptionally well,” she said a little too sweetly. “We figure he’ll make a great scholar someday. Strive for world peace, unlike the barbarians in your family.”

He let the jab go regarding the Quinns’ long military history, and moved around the table. He rested his palms on the table and leaned over them.

Nick pressed away, and his face lost most of its color.

“So, Nicky, how do you like sleeping in another man’s bed? Livin’ in another man’s house? Oh, wait, that’s right, you were makin’ a baby with my wife while I was in Afghanistan getting blown up.”

“Quinn.” Brenda’s brother-in-law stood, and Dylan straightened. Mike was taller by two inches, but he wasn’t worried. He easily out-bulked the man by twenty pounds. “If you don’t leave–”

Nick sprung from his chair. “If you want a piece of me, let’s go out to the parking lot and go at it.”

Brenda jumped to her feet and grabbed his arm. “Nick, don’t be ridiculous.”

Oh, how he wanted to punch this piss-ant into next week. He laid his hand on the other man’s shoulder. The action looked friendly, until Nick winced in pain when Dylan applied pressure in the right places. “I think you’d better just sit right back down there, geek. I’ve killed bugs bigger than you. I wouldn’t want the new baby to grow up without his papa.”

His sharp tone gained the attention of curious customers sitting close by. Nick’s face flushed, and he drew back his fist and let loose. Dylan saw it coming and nimbly dodged the sucker punch by grabbing the flailing arm. A heartbeat later, he had Nicky in a chokehold.

Brenda and her sister screamed, and Mike stepped closer. The bartender moved in with an old billy club in hand. “That’s enough, Quinn. Let him go.”

He looked over at the big man. “Aww, Sam, can’t a man have some fun?”

Sam Larson slapped the billy club on the palm of his hand with a loud smack. “I’m not tellin’ you again, Quinn. Let him go.”

He glanced around. Every eye was on him. “Fine.” But instead of letting go, he tightening his hold on Nick and said in the other man’s ear, “Just a word of advice, Nicky. Don’t get too comfortable in my house. If she cheated on me, how long do you think it will be before she throws you over?”

He let go of the gasping man, but Brenda grabbed Dylan’s arm. She stood before him toe-to-toe. He looked over the curves the tight jeans and snug T-shirt outlined. What the hell had he ever seen in her?

Brenda fisted her hands by her sides and stood with her feet apart. “I never set out to cheat on you.” Her voice pitched low, and her eyes flashed with rage. “But when I came to Fort Benning to see you off before you went to Afghanistan, you refused to even discuss us having a baby.” Brenda swallowed and glanced at Nick, who was rubbing his neck and watching them. “I wanted kids. I was thirty-four and got tired of waiting on you to deal with your screwed up issues with your father.” She returned to Nick and glared at Dylan over her shoulder. “Don’t ever come near us again, or I’ll press charges for harassment.”

He snorted in response, turned away and stepped right into the path of Zack Cartwright.

“Shit, this night just keeps gettin’ better,” he mumbled.

The sheriff stood with his feet apart, hands on his waist above his service belt and scowled at him. “What’s the problem here?”

He shrugged and glanced back at his ex-wife fawning over Nicky. “Nothin’, Sheriff. Just congratulatin’ the happy couple.”

“That so?” Cartwright continued to throw off big-bad-lawman vibes. “Let’s go, Captain.”

He dodged the sheriff’s hand before it landed on his upper arm. “You takin’ me to jail?”

“Not tonight. I’m taking you home. You aren’t in any shape to drive, but since you’re still on your feet, I’ll let Tracy deal with your sorry ass.”

As they headed to the exit, he said, “Geez, Zack, you and my sister seem to be getting quite cozy these days. You rekindlin’ those old flames?”

Zack stiffened and narrowed his eyes again. “You’re a comedian when you’re shitfaced, Quinn. Let’s go. I don’t have all night to deal with your bullshit. My daughter’s home with a sitter.”

* * * *

Charli sipped coffee from the Styrofoam cup she clutched, and stared at the beautiful house across the county road from where she’d parked. The afternoon sun rode high in the big clear sky and made the Italian single-story glow.

Spurred by a crazy impulse, she’d driven south to Killeen to Dylan Quinn’s second reference. Almost two weeks had passed since she’d met him. She never let anything interfere with her schoolwork, but she’d nearly flubbed her criminal sociology exam–which meant she almost got a B–because she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Even now, she should have been at the ranch unpacking. Instead, she’d left the moment the movers finished unloading the truck.

Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been the yellow stucco house. With its red tile roof and arched entry, oddly it didn’t seem out of place on a Central Texas ranch. In the background stood a barn painted the same buttery hue, and the metal roof was red to match the tile roof of the house.

She took another sip of the strong coffee. What inspired the house? The things she’d learned about Dylan Quinn since meeting him didn’t jive with this place. This builder understood design and craftsmanship. The man who’d built such a beautiful home for his wife hadn’t been the drunk Mrs. Pratt had told her was freeloading off his sister.

He glanced at her watch. Damn, she had to hurry. The last thing she wanted was to be late for her appointment with Leon Ferguson. After shifting her Lexus into gear, she pulled away, but not before taking one last look at the house.

On the long drive back to Colton, she tried to piece together what she knew about Dylan. Mrs. Pratt was totally against her having anything to do with him. The older woman was convinced Charli’s interest in him stemmed from her studying to become a social worker.

Her mind wasn’t on the drive and she nearly missed her turn onto Highway 6 as the GPS dinged at her. As she turned onto the northbound lane and headed back to Colton, her thoughts went back to Dylan.

There had to be a reason for a man, who had built a home for his wife and served his country for thirteen years, to fall so far.

What had happened to Dylan Quinn, and why the hell couldn’t she stop thinking about him?

She left Highway 6 and turned down Oak Springs Road. The same country road went past her ranch. She paused before turning and stared at the elaborate wrought-iron sign over the gate of Oak Springs Ranch. Heading down the long drive, she finally put thoughts of Dylan out of her mind.

She stopped the car and peered out at the antebellum-styled mansion. Manicured lawn surrounded the veranda. White Greek columns circled the house and held a second floor balcony.

“Holy crap. Guess that’s what being an oil tycoon can buy you.”

She cut the engine and got out of the car. Her own ranch would look like this someday. A lake, the focal point at the front of the property, had a manicured edge with a large gazebo overlooking the dock. Grand oaks and pecan trees shaded the drive and the lawn surrounding the mansion.

Somehow this place seemed larger than hers.

She headed for the front door and took one last look around. “I can almost smell the money.”

The housekeeper led her into a formal parlor. The house had an air of wealth and privilege. Damned place reminded her of Hank’s house.

The first time she’d seen her grandfather’s home, she was ten days past turning fifteen and three days after her mother’s death. She blinked, but the memories wouldn’t relent. Before she could stop it, the painful scene from her past rushed her.

She stared out the window of the Silverado pickup at the hundreds of cattle grazing in the field. “You said we were on the Long Arrow. Where’s the house?”

“We’ve been driving on the ranch for the past two miles. The house is just around the next turn.”

She glanced at him. “Two miles? How big is this place?”

“Twenty-five-thousand acres.”

“Is my grandmother at the house?”

“No. She died last summer. You sure ask a lot of questions.”

She hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words until his plane, with her mother’s body and her precious few belongings in the cargo hold, landed at a local airstrip.

When the house came into view, she gasped at the size of the single-story. Later, she would count thirty-seven rooms.

He parked in the big ten-car garage where there were three sports cars and another pickup with the Monroe Farm Equipment logo painted on the side. Why did he need so many cars if he lived alone?

She followed her grandfather, Hank, out of the garage, down a hallway, and into the open foyer of the mansion. A chandelier made from a wagon wheel, with dozens of candle-like lights, hung from the high-beamed ceiling.

The only entry she had ever seen as big was in the bank where Momma had worked before she died in the car accident. The sudden stab of fresh grief took her breath.

Hank set his big hands on his hips. His hard face held no emotion but disdain. “I want you to know I’ve spent a lifetime collecting Old West art and artifacts and expect you to stay out of certain rooms. I won’t have you destroying a million dollar masterpiece just because you want to romp.”

She flinched at the harshness of his voice, but she wouldn’t be intimidated. “Was Momma forbidden from these rooms, too?”

He turned and started walking away. “Yes. Come along, I don’t have all day.”

After showing her where she wasn’t allowed to go in the house, Hank opened a door to one of the bedrooms. “This is your room. It was your mother’s.”

She looked around at the large bedroom. There wasn’t a hint of her mom anywhere in the floral spread and white walls. “Do you still have some of Momma’s old stuff?”

“No,” he said at the doorway. “I got rid of it when she left with you.”

“Why did she leave?”

“You don’t know?”

She shook her head and shivered at his brusqueness. Didn’t he care his only child was dead?

“I disowned her when she refused to give you up for adoption. I’d planned for her to marry a business partner of mine, but when she got pregnant by a saddle tramp, he bailed out of the deal. I lost a fortune because of your mother’s whoring around.” With a sneer, he left the room.

She wrapped her arms around herself and pushed the memory to the back of her mind by looking around the parlor of the Ferguson mansion. A vase in the corner reminded her of one of the famous Mings she’d learned about in an art history class. Several oil paintings graced the walls. One look at them convinced her they were originals, like Hank’s Old West paintings.

At least she wouldn’t have to look at his precious art collection again. After the last pieces sold, she was three quarters of a billion dollars richer.

When the pocket door slid open, she forced a pleasant smile as a man entered the room. Leon Ferguson was tall and lean. His dark suit had designer written all over its perfect tailoring. She guessed him to be in his early forties by the hint of silver at his temples. His tanned angular face, high cheekbones and dark, intelligent eyes hinted at Indian blood. He radiated masculine confidence by the bucketfuls.

“Miss Monroe, welcome,” he drawled, taking her hand into his. A large ruby signet ring graced his finger, reminding her of royalty.

“Mr. Ferguson, hello. Thank you for meeting with me on a Saturday.” After he let go, she clasped her hands in front of her. He moved his gaze over her. Why hadn’t she dressed more conservatively instead of the short black skirt and her favorite periwinkle blue silk sweater? When a chill, which had nothing to do with the temperature of the room and everything to do with the heat in his eyes, skittered down her spine, she hugged herself.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I had an errand to run this afternoon.”

His smile broadened as he turned toward the couch in the center of the vast room. “You must be extremely busy moving in. Besides, I just finished an important conference call. I’m in the middle of a land deal in Colorado.” He faced her and held a hand out to gesture toward the silk-covered couch. “But you aren’t here to be bored by my woes. Please sit and make yourself comfortable.”

She gingerly sat on the edge of the ornate sofa.

Ferguson sat across from her in a matching wingchair. He rested his arms on the sides and folded his hands in his lap. “When you called, you said you were interested in entering a business arrangement.”

The housekeeper entered, carrying a silver tray full of delicate cakes and a coffee set. She served them espresso and Leon dismissed her.

With shaky hands, Charli held onto the fragile china cup and saucer. “Yes, I’m wondering if you’d contract some of your ranch hands and equipment out to me. I’d like to get my pasture land cleaned up, a few fields planted, and my main corrals fixed. I’ll pay ten percent above the going rate for the service. I don’t want to waste any more time while I’m looking for a manager, and can hire my own workers.”

Ferguson leaned back and sipped his coffee. His demeanor was the epitome of politeness. But some underlying magnetism of his dark eyes lured her in. She squirmed with apprehension and excitement at the same time.

He set his cup and saucer down on the low Chippendale table between them. “The old place needs a great deal of work. Quite overwhelming, I’m sure, for someone so young.”

“I may be young, but I know what I’m doing. I helped run my grandfather’s ranch for years.”

“Of course, but Blackwell Ranch is a big investment.” Leon regarded her with shrewd deep brown eyes as he sipped his coffee.

She held her saucer in one hand and laid the other on her thigh below the hem of her short skirt. When his gaze lowered to her legs, she tugged on the hem of her skirt and shrugged. The hot interest showing in his eyes shook her attempt at confidence. “I have a business plan and enough capital to invest. The house and most of the outbuildings need work, but I like the ranch and want to make Colton my home.”

“These old mansions do hold a certain charm.”

“Yes, they do, and I have plans for the house.” She wasn’t ready to share more of her ideas for the future.

“If I can be of service with the renovation, please don’t hesitate to ask. Here in Forest County, neighbors watch out for each other.”

Did she want Leon Ferguson watching out for her? What if he decided to look into her past? Hank had made sure if anyone tried to investigate her past, they’d hit a brick wall regarding her connection with Ricardo Rodriquez, a Las Vegas drug dealer, pimp and nightclub owner. But even Hank, with all his money and power, couldn’t cover up Ricardo’s serving a life sentence with no chance of parole for those crimes, as well as six counts of first-degree murder.

Her stomach twisted into a knot. No way could she drink the dark coffee. What if Leon somehow discovered her former cocaine addiction?

He made a weak gesture toward her cup with a flick of his hand. “Would you prefer something else? Tea, water, wine?”

She swallowed hard to get the stinging taste of anxiety off her tongue, and shook her head. “No, thank you, coffee’s fine.” Maybe one sip would appease him and get the hot pepper feeling out of her mouth. “Neighbors looking out for each other is one of the things I love about the area.”

“Me, too. Colton and Forest County have a wonderful sense of community.” He picked up his cup and took a drink. “I’ll be more than happy to spare a few of the boys to get your place ready. It’ll be easy to come up with a cost workup. Call you tomorrow to set up another meeting to sign a contract?” His smile eased her apprehension as he placed the saucer and cup back on the table. “A crew could start as early as Monday.”

“Wow. That would be wonderful, thanks. You have a beautiful home.”

“Thank you. It was built in 1867. A replica of the plantation house co-founder of the county, Dylan Ferguson, had left to come west with his cousins, Elijah Blackwell and Cole Cartwright, after the Civil War. Much of the art is my mother’s. She’s an art collector. In fact, she left for Greece yesterday for an auction.”

She sipped more coffee. After the initial swallow, the rich brew did ease her nerves a bit. “Does she live here with you?”

“No, she moved to Dallas after my stepfather died.” He leaned over his long legs and cranked up the intimacy of the meeting.

Okay, the nervousness was back, but in a different way. Leon was a handsome man. “This is a big house for only one person.”

He laughed and held her gaze. “Yes, it is. I could say the same about the house on your ranch.”

Heat of a blush prickled her cheeks, and she looked down into her cup. “I suppose it is.”

“I know how daunting starting a business is. When I took over my grandfather’s oil company, it was teetering on bankruptcy. I know how important it is to have the right help from the beginning. I’m willing to subcontract one of my foremen over to you to help manage the ranch.”

He provided the answer to her manager problem. But should she take him up on his offer? She pushed a loose lock of hair behind her ears. Her chin came up, and she met his gaze. No, Dylan was perfect for the job. “Thanks, but I’ve found someone for the job.”

“Of course.” He leaned back, and for a split second, something cold hardened his eyes. “May I inquire who you’re considering? I may be able to provide a reference.”

“Your nephew.” She crossed her legs and sipped the coffee.

“Dylan?”

Dylan had warned her about Leon; was Leon now going to warn her about Dylan? God, she hated all this family feuding crap. “Yes. He has an impressive resume.”

“He worked here before he went to college and joined the military. His mother is my sister. Though, I guess, stepsister would be more accurate.”

“What can you tell me about him, as a ranch hand?” She set her cup and saucer on the table.

“May I be blunt, Miss Monroe?”

Here came the bullshit about why she shouldn’t hire him. She rested her elbow on her knee and stared him in the eye. “I should hope you’d be honest.”

Shifting in his seat, Leon finished off his coffee. “Dylan came back from the war a changed man.”

“He was injured and now has PTSD, I’m assuming. I was always under the impression multiple deployments like his didn’t happen.”

“I believe Dylan volunteered for the last two. He was wounded during the last one. His team was ambushed in a roadside bombing where four of his men were killed and the rest were injured.” He shook his head and looked down at his folded hands. Regret? Had she misread him? “I hate to admit I didn’t follow the war that closely, only its effect on the price of oil until then. We almost lost Dylan.”

She folded her arms around her middle as a chill ran through her. “I’m guilty of not following the war, either. However, I’m discovering Forest County is very patriotic.”

“Yes, it is. Another way we stick together.” He sighed and averted his eyes. A regretful-sounding huskiness deepened his voice. “I offered him a job, but he refused it. Sadly, we don’t see eye to eye. I hope he can turn his life around soon. He lives with his sister in Colton. I know Tracy is at her wits’ end concerning him.”

That sealed the deal. If Hank hadn’t helped her when she came home after running away, she’d probably be dead. “I think he’ll work out fine. I should be going. I can imagine how busy you are.” She uncrossed her legs and stood. Holding out her hand, she smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Ferguson.”

Leon took her hand, but instead of shaking it, he sidestepped the low table and bent over her hand, a real Southern gentleman. As he touched the back of it with his lips, she shivered. His gaze locked with hers, and her heart skipped a beat.

“Please, Charli, call me Leon. After all, we are neighbors and soon-to-be business partners. I hope we can also be friends.”

“I’d like that, too, Leon.”

* * * *

“Hello?” Charli called as she entered the reception area of Tracy’s Classic Chic Salon the following Monday morning.

A tall, slender woman peeked around the archway of the adjoining room. “Oh, hi. I’ll be right there.

“Hi. I’m Charli Monroe. I think I’m a little early for my appointment.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s good to finally meet you,” Tracy said with a smile.

“Same here.” She and Tracy had spoken on the phone a few times regarding Dylan, but they hadn’t met until now. She stopped at the doorway into the salon parlor. An older woman sat in the chair patting her short blonde curls.

Tracy moved toward the other customer, but said to her over her shoulder, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be finished in a few minutes.”

“My dear, you are an artist,” the patron drawled in a strong Texas accent when Tracy stood behind the styling chair.

“Aw, Mrs. Cartwright,” Tracy said. “You say that every time.”

Charli turned toward the floral couch in front of the double window, picked up a People Magazine, and began leafing through it. A few minutes later, the older woman and Tracy came out of the parlor.

“Tracy, dear, I really wish you’d come to the next planning session for the Forest County Charity Ball,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “You have such wonderful taste.”

“Thank you. I’ll consider your invitation.” Tracy punched the keys of an antique cash register to total the bill. “That’s twenty-five dollars.” She accepted the credit card and scanned it. “Isn’t it a little early to be planning for an event that doesn’t happen until July fourth?”

“My goodness, no!” the older woman gushed, aghast. “We have to make sure everything is perfect. Please think about it.” She tucked her credit card into her Gucci handbag. “This year we’re hoping to do something special for all the veterans in town. Too bad your brother is having such a hard time. He’d be perfect to speak at one of the committee meetings.”

Tracy looked puzzled. “Why Dylan?”

“He was over there so many times and was part of the–oh, what are they called?” Mrs. Cartwright tapped her cheek with a long manicured fingernail a few times, then chirped, “The Green Berets. Zachery mentioned he’s still drinking heavily. Must be so terrible for you, honey.”

When Tracy glanced over at Charli, she looked down at the magazine in her lap. Damn, Tracy hadn’t caught her eavesdropping, had she? She pretended to focus on the article about Brad Pitt.

In a reserved tone, Tracy said, “Dylan’s getting better. It won’t be too long before he’ll be the man he was before his injuries and the divorce.”

“He was such a good boy from what I remember of him when he’d visit with my son, Lance. And he did such a wonderful job helping you remodel this old house.”

Dylan did this? She couldn’t help but look around the lobby of the salon. The Victorian house was beautiful. The rich decor of cream, gold, olive green and rose complemented the rich, red tones of the wood flooring. Moreover, the carved molding was gorgeous, polished to match the unique floor.

Tracy’s evenly spoken words drew her back into the conversation. “Dylan and Lance are still good friends.” Tracy moved from behind the antique desk and spoke with obvious pride. “He’s always been a talented craftsman. I wouldn’t have been able to live here if he hadn’t helped me fix up this place.”

“When Zachery came back from Afghanistan two years ago, he was changed, too. I suppose Lisa’s death and having to raise their little girl alone would change anyone, though.”

Charli flipped the page of the magazine as Tracy glanced over at her again.

Turning back to the older woman, Tracy asked, “How’s Zack doing? I only see him occasionally.”

Was Tracy’s voice wistful? Must be a story there.

Mrs. Cartwright sighed. “I think my dear nephew is burning the candle at both ends, if you ask me. The time of mourning is over. He needs a wife, and Amanda needs a mother. She’s quite the handful.”

“She takes after her father for sure.”

The older woman laughed. “Yes, she does.” She turned toward the door and smiled at Charli. “Oh, my, forgive my rudeness. Hello, I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” The woman held out her hand, and Charli stood and shook it. “I’m Winnie Cartwright. The mayor’s wife.”

Charli returned her smile. “Charli Monroe. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cartwright. I actually have a meeting with your nephew Zack tomorrow concerning some horses I’d like to buy.”

“Oh, I hate the beasts. Never go near them.” She placed a hand laden with jewels onto her ample chest and shivered to add emphasis to her dislike for horses.

How could anyone despise horses?

Winnie smiled and readjusted the strap of her purse. “I was thrilled when my son Lance finally decided to take over my husband’s share of the CW Ranch. Paul, however, still gets involved because Lance is the senior partner of my father’s law firm.” Her brown eyes widened and her pink lips opened slightly. “Oh, you’re the young woman who bought the old Blackwell place. I guess that makes us neighbors, too, since the CW and Blackwell Ranch share a boundary. You must tell me all about it. Jock was such a strange bird. He had bipolar disorder and refused to take his medicines.” Mrs. Cartwright made a tsking sound and shook her head. “It was a shame how he cheated his boys out of the ranch, but then, I guess he had his reasons.”

The older woman leaned toward her, her voice low. “I heard he did it because there’s still oil under the land and didn’t want them to reopen those oil wells, which makes no sense at all. Jock was always sinking his dwindling family fortune into one scheme after another.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Have you met our neighbor, Leon Ferguson, yet?”

“Yes, Mr. Ferguson and I have met.” She wasn’t offering any more to the old busybody. She may not have been in town long, but she had been here long enough to know Winnie Cartwright was the tried and true queen of the gossip chain the locals called the Colton Grapevine.

Tracy cleared her throat. “Miss Monroe, I’m ready whenever you are.”

Charli silently thanked her for the save and said to the mayor’s wife, “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course, dear.” Winnie’s lips compressed in displeasure, no doubt at being so easily dismissed. “We must talk again.”

Settled into the chair by the shampoo sink after the front door closed, she smiled at Tracy. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Winnie can be a bulldog if she smells a grape.”

“A ‘grape’?”

“A juicy story. The folks around here call them grapes–you know, like what grow on a grapevine.”

She nodded her understanding, and Tracy turned on the water.

“You said when you made the appointment you wanted a trim?”

“I’d like to have my hair layered and shortened a little.” At least, she hoped that’s what she wanted. “Maybe see if you can do something with the front. I’m tired of pulling my hair back all the time.”

“Sounds doable.” After a few uneasy moments of silence, Tracy commented, “Your hair is such a pretty color. And the curl’s natural, too, isn’t it?”

She sighed. “I tried to straighten it once, but it didn’t work. As for the color, I’m stuck with it, too. I have too many freckles and too pale a complexion for any other shade.”

Tracy cocked her head to the side as she applied shampoo and worked it into her hair. “With your skin tone, I’d have to agree. But really, I like the golden red.”

“Thanks.”

The other woman worked with her fingers to massage her scalp. A butterfly clip held Tracy’s twisted, golden highlighted brown hair at the back of her head. Friendly gray eyes were set in a face sharp with angles, much as her brother’s, except Tracy’s features were delicate, feminine.

Tracy rinsed the lather from her hair. “I can’t imagine what the old ranch house must look like on the inside. I heard it was neglected for a lot of years even before Jock Blackwell died.”

Tracy was hoping to harvest her own juicy grapes. Charli hated nosy people and suspected anything she told this woman would end up all over town. Nevertheless, she had to give a little if she hoped to get a little. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “It’s in pretty bad shape, I’m afraid. Every day I live there, I find more needs fixing.”

Tracy motioned for her to move onto the swivel chair before the gilt-framed mirror. “What are you planning on doing with the ranch? You’re not married, are you? The house is so big.”

“No, I’m not married.” Nor would she ever be. She’d never trust a man with her heart again. Love didn’t exist in a man’s world, even when they professed it. They used those pretty words to get what they wanted from a woman, but they never gave any of themselves in return. She’d learned that too many times the hard way.

Biting back the bitterness, she repeated what was already public knowledge. “I want to get into the cattle business, possibly go organic eventually. I’ve done a lot of research on it, and there’s a big market overseas for organically grown beef.”

“Yeah, there is. If a rancher has the capital to put out, it’s the way to go. So, that’s why you moved to Colton?” Tracy didn’t sound convinced. “Your landlady told me you were going to college. You definitely know how to stay busy.”

Leave it to Aida Mae Pratt to share her personal information. Thank God, she hadn’t shared much with the elderly woman.

She’d play along. “I would say I know how to make sure I lose my mind.”

Tracy joined her in a laugh. “You’re taking social work, right? Whatever made you choose that field?”

No one knew of her other plans–the real reason she’d bought the ranch. How would the people of Colton feel about those plans?

Measuring her words carefully, she said, “I want to work with troubled teens someday by opening a halfway house or summer camp. You know, for teenage mothers or for girls who just can’t live at home anymore.”

“Wow, sounds ambitious.”

As Tracy finished combing out the tangles in her hair, Charli changed the subject. “So, how long have you lived in Colton?”

Tracy shrugged and reached for the scissors. “Since I was a teenager, but I consider Colton my hometown. I was born in England and lived all over. My father was an officer in the Army.”

“Did your brother join the Army because it’s the family tradition?”

She knew her question surprised Tracy by the way she paused in her work. “Partly. Dylan had hoped to inherit Oak Springs–not him exactly, our mother–but our grandfather decided to give it to his stepson. Dylan would have made a great rancher. He loves that kind of life. Going to the Army was the only other thing he could think of doing.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t been expecting Tracy’s straightforwardness, which made her suspicious. She remembered Mrs. Pratt’s comments about Dylan mooching off his sister. Did Tracy simply want to get him out of her house? “I’m still looking for a manager.”

Tracy scrunched her brows and concentrated on her hair. “I know. My brother applied for the job almost three weeks ago. You haven’t filled the position?”

“No, I haven’t filled it yet,” she said as Tracy worked with the scissors, snipping at her waist-length hair. “I drove by the house he built near Fort Hood. It’s beautiful.”

“It is. He built it after he and his wife were stationed in Italy for a while. I don’t know what you’ve heard about my brother, but he’s not really as bad as the rumors claim.”

“I spoke to Mr. Ferguson. He seemed surprised I interviewed him. He told me some of what happened to Dylan.”

Tracy stopped in mid-snip of her locks.

Charli winced. She hoped like hell the woman knew what she was doing. She hadn’t had her hair more than trimmed since she’d walked out of the Florence McClure Women’s Correctional Center in Nevada four and half years ago.

With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, Tracy looked at her. “Leon and Dylan don’t get along.”

“I’ve heard. Was the oil business also your grandfather’s?”

Tracy laughed, but it sounded a bit shaky. “My goodness, no. It came from Leon’s grandfather on his mother’s side. Leon changed the name and moved it to Dallas from Houston. Without having a son, Leon’s granddad taught him the business and left it to him. But my grandfather was a major stockholder in the company when he and his father-in-law were business partners.”

Tracy turned the chair until she faced her. As Tracy worked on the front of her hair, Charli looked up at the stylist. “What happened to Dylan?”

Tracy stopped cutting again and met her gaze. “He was in a bad situation in Afghanistan during his last deployment.”

“I know he was injured.” She remembered Leon’s comment about Dylan having comrades who had died in the bombing. “He has PTSD.”

His sister swallowed and nodded. “He’s not suicidal or dangerous.”

“He’s an alcoholic.”

Tracy stared at her. However, instead of confirming or denying the statement, she turned the tables on her. “I heard you lived in Las Vegas before moving in with your grandfather. Must have been something, growing up in Vegas. Are your parents still there?”

Her guts twisted into a frozen knot. How had anyone learned about her life in the city? Her life in Vegas was a closed book. No one could ever know what she’d done when she’d lived there. After finding her voice, she said, “No, my mother is dead.”

“I’m sorry.” Tracy furrowed her brow as if she knew she had avoided answering the entire question, but she didn’t press for more about her parents.

Done cutting hair, Tracy exchanged the scissors for some styling mousse. They grew quiet as Tracy blow-dried Charli’s hair, using a brush to style her new layered look. After she finished, Tracy turned the chair back toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

She didn’t know what to think. She never had her hair this short in the front, except when it had all been short while she was in prison. She hated bangs, and now she had them.

“You don’t like it?”

She ran her fingers through the back, liking the layers. “I don’t know what I expected. I’ll have to get used to the bangs.”

“You have wonderful hair. It just needed a style that works with your curls, but I’m sorry if I missed the mark.”

She met Tracy’s gray eyes and smiled. “Not at all. It’s just that I haven’t had bangs since…for a long time. Thank you. I’ll admit I only made the appointment to find out about Mr. Quinn. But I’m glad I sacrificed my hair for the information.”

“I figured as much when you called.” Tracy sobered, grabbed a vacuum broom, and swept up the hair clippings on the floor. “Dylan’s not a bad man, Miss Monroe. I think he’d be perfect for Blackwell Ranch.” Over the hum of the broom, Tracy went on, “He knows about starting up a ranch. He did it with his own place. As an officer in the Army he had to learn how to manage things and people. And you saw that he’s got talent when it comes to building. He’d know exactly what needs to be done and if the job’s being done right.”

Tracy met her gaze, love for her brother shining in the misty gray of her eyes. She wasn’t trying to pawn him off; she only wanted the best for him.

Charli’s heart fluttered as she made her decision. “Tell Mr. Quinn to come by the ranch on Friday. I think he’ll work out fine.”

“I’ll tell him. Thank you. All he needs is a chance.”