Читать книгу Gambling On a Heart - Sara Walter Ellwood - Страница 8

Chapter 3

“How was the Rangers game?”

Jake Parker looked across the console of the semi-truck cab at his brother. Younger by five years, Brent still reminded Jake of a baby with his round face and potbelly. “How the hell am I ’posed to know?”

Brent beetled his flabby brow as they neared Highway-6. “Didn’t you go to the baseball game?”

Jake geared down the truck when the intersection came into view. No one was out at this hour in the morning. “I didn’t even have tickets.”

“But Bobby told me the other day you were going.” Brent chuckled and folded his hands over his gut. “The kid was mad as a hornet he couldn’t go ’cause of Dylan’s weddin’ to that pretty little filly who bought Uncle Jock’s place.”

Jake snorted, stopped at the stop sign, and turned left to head north on Highway 6. “I only told Bobby I wanted to take him to the game to mess with the bitch. I knew he’d cause Tracy all kinds of hell at the wedding.”

Brent shook his head. “You’re one hard bastard, bro. I hope I never get on your bad side.”

“Then don’t ever double-cross me.”

In the side mirror, Jake watched their cousin Johnny Blackwell head south.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.” Brent reached for the radio dial and turned it on to a classic country station. Soon the cab was filled with harmonica and guitar music and the voice of Willie singing about blue eyes crying in the rain. “So, are you still determined to try to get full custody of Bobby?”

“Damn straight. I’m suing Tracy for support, too.” Jake glanced at his younger brother with a smirk. “I know just what to do, too. She’s rich now that she inherited all that money from her grandfather. I deserve to have some of it, don’t I?”

Brent shrugged and fiddled with the seatbelt over his paunch. “I don’t know how you survived being married into that family. Her brother and father are two arrogant assholes.”

Jake glanced at his brother. “Fortunately, General Dickhead and GI Prick were off saving the world when me and Tracy were married.”

They approached the town square and stopped at the red light. He tapped the steering wheel, looking out the side window at the old courthouse and the massive tree in the front of it–the Tree of Justice, it had been dubbed over the years. A shiver slithered down his spine at the sight of the old oak tree where his forbearer Elijah Blackwell, along with his cousins Cole Cartwright and Dylan Ferguson, had hanged anyone who broke the law in their county a century and a half ago.

“Well, Tracy’s still always been too damned skinny,” Brent said. “I can’t imagine what you saw in her.”

Jake shifted the truck into gear, thankful the light turned green. The town was too damned spooky in the dark. “Tracy might be skinny, but she’s sexy skinny–all long legs and tiny waist. I’d still fuck her if she’d let me.”

Brent shook his head. “She has no ass or tits. Huh-uh. Not me. I want some meat on my woman. Hell, she doesn’t even have anything to hold onto. Popeye can have Olive Oyl.”

Jake laughed and shifted the trunk into a higher gear. He wasn’t about to tell his brother just how wild in the sack normally shy, sedate Tracy Quinn was. At least, she was until she found out he didn’t love her.

“Speaking of Popeye and Olive Oyl.” Brent fiddled with his seatbelt. “Is it true Tracy is seeing Zack Cartwright again?”

Jake spared Brent a glace. He’d almost forgotten who gave her that nickname.

Brent’s blubbery gut jiggled from laughter. “Don’t you get it? Tracy is Olive Oyl and Zack was a Marine–Popeye was a sail–”

“I get it. I’m hoping she is screwin’ Sheriff Asshole because that’s how I’m gonna get Bobby. I refuse to let that prick anywhere near my son.”

Brent held out his hands. “Whoa. Bro, you need to get over this anger you have with him.”

“I’d be playing professional football right now if it wasn’t for high and mighty Zack Cartwright. I’ll never forget what he did to me.”

“You know that almost sounds like crazy talk, Jake.” Brent sucked in a deep breath, bent over his belly and reached down between his legs to get the plastic grocery sack at his feet. He pushed his hair back from his fat face before he pulled a bag of pork rinds and a bottle of Dr. Pepper from the sack. He held the bag toward Jake, who winced and shook his head. Brent shrugged and stuffed one of the disgusting deep fried pieces of pig skin into his mouth.

“Speaking of crazy people,” Brent said around the crunching of the fried fat. “You know, I’m still a little freaked by the fact Leon Ferguson was Uncle Jock’s son–and that Leon killed his own father.”

Jake shrugged and let some of the tension leave his shoulders. They’d cross the county line in another few miles. The closer to Fort Worth they got, the easier it was to get lost within the metropolitan morning traffic. The eastern sky was beginning to purple with predawn light.

As a van passed them, he said, “I’m not surprised about Leon killing anyone. He was one sneaky, cold-hearted sombitch, but him being a blood relative of mine makes me wonder about our gene pool.” Jake frowned as he glanced at Brent again. He was still shoving more lard into his already fat body. “Then again, look at Johnny, Darryl and Talon. The three of them are the hardest men I know, and not all of that comes from being Jock Blackwell’s bastards. They have Jock’s crazy genes. Mom missed getting those from Granny Blackwell, I guess.”

“I agree. ’Cause I sure as hell ain’t crazy. But I don’t know ’bout you,” Brent mumbled.

“Ha, ha. You’re a fuckin’ comedian tonight.” Jake glared at his brother. How the hell could they possibly be related? Jake was stocky and muscular, while Brent was mostly blubber. “If you’d lay off the junk, you might actually find a woman.”

“Don’t want one.” He crunched on more deep-fried fat. “Nuttin’ but trouble.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, baby brother.”

Brent settled back into his seat and took a deep breath. “It’s just a shame Mom didn’t inherit Blackwell Ranch when Granddad died. We’d be rich bastards right now with all that oil still under the place. I could buy myself a woman. Maybe one like that stripper that just married Dylan Quinn. She’s one hot number, and rich.”

Jake met his brother’s eyes and grinned. “Shut the hell up. I’m not listening to you yack the whole way.”

He turned the radio up and settled into the seat as Hank Williams, Sr., crooned out Hey, Good Lookin’.

* * * *

The aroma of bacon and blueberry pancakes wafted up the stairs to meet Tracy as she stumbled down the second floor hall. Her belly growled, and she scowled at the treacherous sound.

She never ate a heavy breakfast–a bowl of Cheerios or cornflakes was as elaborate as she got. And always with copious amounts of coffee. She didn’t smell the morning liquor and sighed. Her mother could make a breakfast she really didn’t want, but wouldn’t make the coffee she needed. Mom didn’t drink the stuff and Dad preferred the instant crap–probably because that’s what he was used to drinking.

Tracy turned at the bottom of the stairs. As she headed down the hall toward the kitchen, she overheard Bobby squeal, “Mom never makes me pancakes! Blueberry! Thanks, Grandma, you’re the best.”

The sound of her father’s deep chuckle and her mother’s laugh grated over Tracy like the tines of a rake. “Your mom needs to learn to cook.” His words were salt rubbed into the scratches. “A growing boy can’t live on chicken nuggets and cold cereal.”

“Mom says she hates to cook.” Bobby spoke between slurping sounds. He must have drowned the light and fluffy pancakes with syrup. His mouth sounded full. “I swear only Dad is worse.”

Her belly growled again at the memory of her mother’s special homemade blueberry pancakes. This time she slapped her hand across her middle.

“As long as I’m around you won’t be eating that processed junk.” Her mother’s voice was soft, but her words hurt like a punch.

Mom made it sound like Tracy didn’t take care of Bobby. So what if she couldn’t cook? She hated it and never understood what her mother found so fascinating about it. Who in their right mind wanted to slave over a hot stove? But Tracy didn’t just feed Bobby junk. They ate salads, and she made spaghetti. She baked chicken breasts and pork chops and served them with rice from a box and bag of frozen vegetables–just like every other working mom out there in the world.

She didn’t slave over a simmering pot for hours, but what she made was good and quick. Unlike her mother, Tracy worked for a living.

When she’d been in high school, her mother had tried to equate the mixing of ingredients with chemistry, a subject Tracy had always found interesting, but she just didn’t get it. Now, she only found cooking tedious and something she had to do, like cleaning the toilet.

As she allowed the stress of having her parents in the house continue to boil over, she assured herself that she was a good mom by thinking of the things she did do for Bobby. She’d taken time to play with her son. Bobby never wanted anything, and she’d easily lay her life down to spare his. She’d saved her tips and maxed out one of her credit cards two years ago to take him to Disney World, SeaWorld and the Universal theme park. He still talked about the two-week trip.

Bobby had never complained about her cooking until his grandmother moved in, and suddenly Tracy wasn’t a good mother because she didn’t make blueberry pancakes–from organic wholegrain flour, buttermilk and fresh blueberries.

What does Zack make Mandy for breakfast? Did he make her pancakes and cook up fantastic meals? Or did Zack serve the same things like cereal, canned spaghetti sauce, and boxed mac and cheese?

Zack had cooked for Tracy a few times. She remembered the first time he’d surprised her with a picnic basket full of homemade potato salad and fried chicken. The image of him watching her with anticipation in his blue eyes as she took those first bites still burned in her psyche. After she’d assured him the meal was delicious, he’d blushed and admitted he’d made it himself.

Tracy squashed the memory in its sneaky tracks. Hadn’t being up half the night thinking about the man been enough?

Sucking in a deep breath, she entered the kitchen and kissed Bobby on the forehead. Bobby squirmed in his seat but didn’t fuss. He was too busy stuffing pancakes into his mouth.

Tracy went to the granite-topped counter and began making coffee. Her mother was dishing up more pancakes and bacon. “Tracy, you really shouldn’t drink so much coffee. All that caffeine isn’t good for you.”

Closing her eyes, Tracy breathed through her nose and held the breath. As she let it out, she opened her eyes before turning to face her mother. “I beg to differ. There is absolutely no concrete evidence on whether caffeine is good or bad for you. In fact, that bacon is probably worse to eat than drinking two cups of coffee in the morning is.”

Tracy took the plate her mother held out toward her.

Mom pursed her lips and turned back to the stove. “I hope Dylan and Charli have a nice time in Hawaii. I still don’t understand why they wanted to take that girl with them.”

Tracy took a seat beside Bobby at the big center breakfast island and picked up a fork to dig into the pancakes. “I’m sure they all are having a great time. And that girl has a name. Annie. Charli and Dylan took her along so she could get away from here for a little while. You know her mother was just murdered by her biological father.”

“I think their wanting to adopt her is a lot to take on.” Her father turned the page of his morning newspaper. “Have you heard from them yet?”

“Maybe it is a big responsibility, but I personally think it’s noble of them.” Tracy spread butter on her pancakes and dumped her mother’s special blueberry syrup over them. “Charli’s going to text me when they get to the resort.”

“There was another cattle theft.” Dad laid the paper on the island top.

“Where?” Bobby swallowed the bite around which he’d spoken. “Was it close?”

“A ranch called W bar T.”

“The Westcotts, distant cousins of Zack’s–and ours, too, I guess. Over near Gambler’s Lake on the other side of the county.” Tracy wiped the syrup off her mouth with the paper napkin her mother handed her. Mom also placed a cup of the freshly brewed coffee with cream already added before Tracy. “Thanks, Mom.” She picked up the mug. “That makes the seventh rustling since the end of June.”

Dad shook his head as he scanned the news report. “It says, The Texas and Southwestern Cattle Raisers Association–TSCRA–are assisting the Forest County Sheriff’s Department in determining when the raid occurred. According to Sheriff Zachery Cartwright, the forty-three Herefords were reported missing Friday, but may have been stolen as many as four days ago.” Her father looked up and removed his glasses. “I’m surprised Cartwright didn’t mention this yesterday at the wedding.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to cast a shadow on the day.” Her mother bustled about, cleaning up empty plates. “Which was the polite thing to do.”

Bobby, now finished devouring his breakfast, glanced up at Tracy. “The newspaper always makes everything sound so boring. Can I go outside?”

Tracy nodded and sipped her coffee. “Yes, you may go out, but don’t get dirty. We’ll be going to church in a couple of hours. And stay out of the ranch hands’ way.”

Bobby’s response was his usual roll of the eyes. Why she bothered warning him was beyond her, but she had to try. Bobby missed living in town where he had friends, and she was secretly thankful the workers Bobby attached himself to didn’t mind having the boy around.

When Dylan had invited them to live in the mansion on Oak Springs Ranch, she’d been thrilled to get Bobby out of town and on the ranch. She’d always loved the old house, which had been in her mother’s family for six generations. It was a replica of the original plantation house where her great-great-great grandfather had been born before the Civil War. When he’d returned from the War Between the States, he and his two cousins headed west.

Tracy picked at her pancakes. “Zack sure has his hands full. He’s still helping the Texas Rangers and the FBI investigate Leon’s crimes, and now this.”

Her mother stopped wiping the counter. “I heard yesterday from Winnie Cartwright that Leon’s trying to plead insanity. He’s pulling in doctors from all over to give credence to his claim because his father and grandmother had bi-polar disorders.” Her blue eyes flashed and she huffed. “I’ll tell you I can agree that Leon’s crazy, but if my stepbrother tries to use that crock of classic bull crap to get off murdering his grandfather, his father and the mother of his daughter... Plus, the forgery of my father’s will.” She slapped a hand against the counter. “And he threatened the lives of my son and the mother of his unborn child. If he gets off, I’ll–I’ll...” Her face flushed red as her shrill voice trailed off. She released her death grip on the dishcloth in her hand and ran the fingers of both hands through her short hair.

Her father grinned and raised a dark brow. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll raise Cain,” her mother drawled with a jut of her chin.

Both Tracy and her father laughed. Picking up his empty mug, he stood and went around the island and kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’m sure you will do just that.”

Tracy averted her eyes and focused on eating the now-cold pancakes on her plate.

“Mom! Mom!” Bobby ran into the kitchen from the mudroom with her mother’s two yapping Yorkshire terriers on his heels. “Mom!”

Tracy winced as Cinnamon and Ginger barked very time he called for her. “What?”

While her mother calmed the excited dogs, Bobby looked up with widened eyes from her to his grandfather. Before he could explain what the hullabaloo was all about, Tom Miller, the foreman of Oak Springs Ranch, and Zack Cartwright followed the boy into the kitchen.

Zack stood in the doorway, dressed in a tan uniform that looked too damn good on his lean frame. He took in the entire room with one sweeping glance as he removed his Stetson. His eyes burned with something Tracy couldn’t name when they settled on her. “Someone rustled forty-five Angus steers out of the southeastern pasture of Oak Springs last night. Who wants to break the news to the newlyweds?”

* * * *

“Oh, no!” Eileen and Tracy gasped at the exact same time and both women covered their mouths.

Zack almost smiled at the reactions of the mother and daughter. He looked from Tracy to Bob and couldn’t help slipping into a military stance with his arms at his sides. “Morning, General Quinn.”

Bob’s lopsided grin surprised Zack. “Relax, Zack. Last time I checked I’m not wearing a star on my shoulder. Good morning, Tom.”

When the retired Army general moved around the counter to stand by Tracy, Zack blinked. The tough old general wore a pair of running shorts, a wife beater, and a pair of flip-flops.

“No, I suppose not,” Zack said.

“Bobby, go up to your room and start getting ready for church,” Tracy said.

Bobby started to protest, but when she arched a delicate dark brow, he huffed out a breath and headed out of the room.

She stood from the stool, the long pencil skirt hugging her slender figure as she moved. She tugged on the flouncy sleeves of her white blouse and looked from Zack to Tom. “Would the two of you like some coffee?”

Tom shook his head, but Zack could use a cup. He hadn’t had more than a couple hours of sleep, and now his mouth was dry. “That’ll be good. Thanks.”

As Tracy headed for the coffee maker across the kitchen, Zack’s gaze followed the sway of her slender hips.

“How do you know the cattle were stolen?” Bob broke into Zack’s memory of what Tracy looked like without her clothes.

Zack cleared his throat and focused on business. “I saw the cut in the fence on my way to work this morning. The thief didn’t close up the fence, and a few steers were out on the road. I stopped and got them back in and called Tom.”

The foreman shuffled his feet and twisted his hat in his hands. “I drove out there with a few hands and verified forty-five of the steers are missing. I have the hands driving the rest into another pasture.”

“How can you be so sure the fence didn’t just break and the cattle got out on their own? Daddy used to have that problem all the time along that road.” Eileen placed a creamer pitcher and sugar bowl near Zack.

Tracy returned with Zack’s steaming black coffee. He set his hat on one of the stools by the bar and reached for the sugar bowl. “I already added the sugar.” Their eyes locked as he took the mug from her. She smiled and shrugged. “Four heaping spoonfuls, just as you’ve always liked it.”

Was she flirting with him? “Thanks.” He took the cup from her. His fingers brushed hers and awareness buzzed through him as surely as the caffeine and sugar would, once he drank the coffee.

“It was cut,” Tom said, reminding Zack that he had a job to do. “Dylan checked those fences Wednesday.”

“I really don’t want to ruin Dylan and Charli’s honeymoon with this news.” Eileen took a stool beside her husband.

Tracy glanced at her mother. “I agree. I think we shouldn’t tell them unless something else happens.”

Zack rubbed his chin and shook his head. “I can’t do that. They own this ranch, and it was their property that was stolen.”

“True.” Tracy slid onto the stool beside him and leaned against the edge of the island, facing him. “But I live here, as do Dad and Mom. Dylan and Charli both left it up to us to make any decisions regarding the place while they were gone.”

Zack considered her words. He knew they were true, but he also knew the law. As Tracy regarded him with big gray eyes, he gave in. He didn’t want to ruin his friends’ honeymoon any more than she did. “Okay. But if there’s any other trouble, I’ll have to call them.”

She pushed off the stool and smiled at him. “Good. Now, I have to make sure Bobby is getting ready for church. See you around, Zack. Tom.”

Tom nodded. “Have a good day, ma’am. Ah, tell Bobby I have a job for him when he comes home.”

She smiled. “I will. Thanks, Tom, for putting up with him.”

He shrugged and shuffled his feet. “Not a problem. He’s a good help around the barn.”

As she passed Zack and headed toward the door, he glued his gaze to the swish of her long brown hair and the sway of her behind until she pushed out the swinging door.

“Cartwright, if you’re done lusting after my daughter, why don’t you tell us exactly how you plan to catch these cattle thieves.”

Tom Miller’s chuckle punctuated Bob Quinn’s amused words.

Damn, he needed a woman.

But that woman couldn’t be Tracy, no matter how much he wanted her.