Kitabı oku: «Home To Texas»

“I’m like Luke Skywalker.”

Del continued, “He doesn’t have a dad, but he’s got a buddy. Han Solo. Grady’s like Han Solo. He’s my buddy.”

Tara tried not to flinch. “You have a dad.”

Del’s face went stubborn. “He doesn’t want me. And I don’t want him. I don’t need him. I got a buddy.”

She wanted to tell him that his father still loved him in his own way. It was a lie, but she believed it was a lie he needed. He was too young to deal with the truth. As the movie’s theme music welled up, Tara’s heart sank. What were her choices? Let her son sit like an automaton in front of the television screen? Or let him fall even further under Grady McKinney’s spell?

For Grady could cast a spell, a strong one. She was close to being snared herself. Del was clearly starving for a man’s company. And so, perhaps, was she.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Bethany Campbell was born and raised in Omaha, Nebraska. One of the best things about growing up in Omaha was that, like it or not, every schoolchild was herded at least once yearly through the city’s sumptuous Joslyn Art Museum. Omaha also had a great central public library, not far from Joslyn. As a geeky teenaged bookworm, Bethany spent many a happy Saturday afternoon exploring both spots.

In college she majored in English and minored in art. Her first three ambitions were to be a cartoonist, an illustrator, or a writer. Later, as a freelancer, she worked for several greeting card companies as a writer and doing rough art. She sold her first romance novel in 1984 and has won three RITA^® Awards, three Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice Awards, a Maggie Award and the Daphne du Maurier Award of Excellence

Bethany loves to hear from readers. Please drop her a line through her Web site, www.bethanycampbell.com.

Home to Texas
Bethany Campbell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

“Make new friends, but keep the old;

One is silver, the other is gold.”

To Carol Dankert Stoner, who is pure and solid gold.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

GAVIN CHANCE STARED AT HIS SISTER in disbelief. “You sold the horses?”

“I didn’t sell Licorice or India,” Tara said, her gaze dropping.

She’d kept her son’s pony and her own horse. But the other three animals had been sold a week ago. She’d wanted to cry, seeing them taken off, but she had run out of tears long ago.

She sat with her brother in his hotel room at a small table covered with a linen cloth and set for lunch. His visit was a surprise—he had flown to California out of concern for her. Tara had only picked at her salad, and Gavin had pushed aside his sandwich, half-eaten.

Tara looked out the picture window, but instead of seeing the skyline of Los Angeles, she saw her pretty little ranch outside Santa Clarita. Like the horses, it must be sold. There were already two prospective buyers. Soon her home would no longer be hers.

“But why?” Gavin demanded.

Tara kept staring at the skyscrapers. “We need the money.”

Gavin swore and threw his napkin down, rising from the table to pace the gold carpet. He was three years older than Tara, an exceptionally tall man, whip-lean, with thick, sandy hair. Despite his rangy build, he had an artist’s face, with a sensitive mouth and dark, expressive eyebrows.

He jammed his hands into the pockets of his cargo pants. “I mean why didn’t you ask me for money?”

Tara toyed with a silver fork. “Del and I will get along. We’re tightening our belts, that’s all.”

Gavin came back to the table, pressed both hands on it and leaned toward her. “You’ve sold your horses. You’re selling the ranch. Good God, Tara. I’d have helped you. You know that.”

She laid the fork aside with exaggerated care. Her brother was a rich man—on paper. In real life he was risking all he had trying to develop not one, but two model communities.

Though the first, in Hawaii, was still under construction, Gavin and his partners had taken a dizzying chance on a second. They’d bought a huge tract of land in Texas, paying millions for it. They would pay millions more for its development. Their plans were as ambitious as they were original, and the gamble was enormous.

So Tara had not told her brother all that was happening to her. Gavin had been in Hawaii, desperately trying to finish that project. He hadn’t been to the mainland for months.

When they talked on the phone, she’d held back things. He had, she believed, enough burdens of his own. And she had her pride, her independence. Too much of both, Gavin had often said.

Now he glared at her in frustration. “You mean Sid still hasn’t given you one damn dime in child support?”

“No,” she said, her voice calm. She’d taken Sid to court. It had done no good. She could have him jailed, but the thought made her sick. How could she do that to Del?

“Does Sid ever come to see Del? Does he use his visitation rights at all?”

The questions hurt. Tara looked away from Gavin and out the window again. Her husband had left her and their son for another woman, a younger and very jealous woman. For her he’d given up everything: his home, his honor and, most shamefully, his son. Del, not yet five, was shattered.

Tara shook her head, unable to speak. Gavin leaned in closer to her, but she wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Sid’s still acting crazy?”

She pressed her lips together and nodded. She studied how the smog made the tops of the tallest buildings hazy, how it turned the sky murky.

“Is that why you sold the horses? Because he won’t help?”

She hedged the question. “Partly.”

“And the ranch?”

“I have to be practical. I don’t know what’s ahead. We were living beyond our means. And—and—”

Gavin groaned in anger and frustration. “Don’t tell me. Is Burleigh making trouble again? About visitations with Del? About custody?”

Burleigh was Sid’s widowed father, Del’s grandfather. An imperious man, he’d disowned Sid over the divorce, but he blamed Tara for letting it happen. Del, he claimed, was now his only living kin, and he had a right to have a say in the boy’s life. A big say.

Burleigh Hastings was powerful and, when he chose, he could be as disruptive as a hurricane. He was vice-president of a huge and prosperous company, and he loved control, control of things, control of people. Tara was certain Burleigh was the reason Sid had turned out as he had, and she feared his influence on Del.

“He’s out of the country right now,” Tara said. She was grateful for his absence, but knew that she and Del were inhabiting a false and limited calm. It was as if they were in the eye of a storm.

“But he’ll be back,” Gavin supplied. “Demanding his ‘rights.’ He’ll scare Del and confuse him and do all he can to undermine you.”

“Yes. He will.” She was resigned to it. “But I’m prepared to ask for a restraining order against him if it comes to that.”

“He’ll make your life hell. Where is he? How long will he be gone?”

“He’s in the Middle East. A big government contract. It seems they needed a ‘forceful’ personality there. It’ll tie him up for two months, maybe three. I’m talking to a lawyer. I need to be ready for him.”

Gavin knelt on one knee by her side. “Tara, you should take Del and get out of here.” He took her hand between his. “Out of Los Angeles. Out of California. Away from this crazy situation.”

She shook her head. She had to face facts. “There’s no place to go, Gavin. My job is here.”

Tara had grown up with horses and now she taught riding at Santa Clarita’s Kane Stables—both regular classes and those for special needs students. She loved her job, and she was good at it. But she was also more than a little frightened. There were rumors of cuts in programs and staff.

Gavin pressed her hand more earnestly. “There’re other places. Other jobs. And there’s one that’s perfect. I know California’s always been home, but let it go. Look what it’s doing to Del. What it’s done to you. You don’t look like my Tara anymore.”

Her throat locked and her mouth went dry. Del was becoming an unhappy, nervous child, and she—she wasn’t sure what she was becoming.

Gavin reached into his back pocket, flipped open his wallet and shoved a photograph in front of her. “What happened to this girl?”

She tried not to wince. The photo was a close-up of her, snapped a few years ago at a friend’s wedding. She wore a wide-brimmed white hat, tilted low to emphasize her eyes. They were dramatic eyes, an unusual clear gray, the irises ringed by darker gray.

Her hair fell past her shoulders in loose waves. Her makeup was skillfully applied. The photo showed an elegant, even stylish, woman—she was tall, long-legged and slim.

But now that woman was gone, hidden away. Even today, meeting Gavin here in his hotel, she hadn’t dressed up. After Sid had left, she’d thrown her makeup away and defiantly left her face plain, letting her freckles show.

Sid had once loved her wealth of auburn hair, shot through with red and gold. Now she had pulled it back severely and pinned it into a tight roll. She wore black slacks and a loose black blouse. She tried to look drab, and she had her reasons, but she wasn’t sure she could put them into words to Gavin, or even to herself.

So she looked at her picture and saw someone who was both familiar and utterly foreign. She said, “Gavin, I just haven’t felt like—”

“Like what?” he asked, one hand still grasping hers.

“I’ve had so many other things to do.” She shrugged. The explanation sounded lame even to her.

He tucked the photo into his wallet and slid it back into his pocket. He put his thumb and forefinger under her chin and raised her face so she’d have to meet his gaze. “Tara, we have an offer for you. A job. It’s perfect. You were made for it.”

She cocked her head, puzzled.

“The land we bought in Texas used to be a dude ranch. Most of its buildings got torn down. But the house and lodge still stand. We want to make them the center of a special section of our development. I want one part of this project to be an equestrian community.”

Her eyes widened. An equestrian community? Gavin had spoken of such a place for years. Each house would have enough acreage for one or more horses. There would be a bridal path accessible from every yard, pastures and a communal stable.

Gavin said, “We want to refurbish the lodge, make it into a recreation facility for the community as a whole. But first fix up the house. It’s solid, but it’s been empty for months and there’s been some water damage. How about it? Think you could fix up an old house?”

She smiled in spite of herself. They’d grown up doing exactly that, time after time. Their parents had made a career of buying run-down farms and ranches and transforming them into sound, neat horse outfits. Up and down California they’d moved, from one spread to another.

Tara had loved the challenge. The family always began by camping out in some dilapidated house. There’d been a special excitement in that, like being pioneers. She’d loved the process of restoration and the satisfaction of seeing it done well.

“A house?” She was intrigued.

Gavin nodded. “The house would be your first priority. We want one wing set up for me when I’m in Texas, with rooms for corporate guests. The other will be living quarters for the stable manager. And that, Tara, would be you. The stable needs to be built. You’ll have your say-so in its design. Could you deal with that?”

She looked at him in disbelief. She’d always wanted to run a stable; she had firm ideas of how it should be done. As for building, she and Gavin had entertained themselves for years by planning the dream stable. They had built it in their minds and constructed it in conversations and sketched it on paper.

“You’re kidding,” she said, because she didn’t know what else to say.

“No. I’m not kidding. But you’ll have to go to Texas.”

She felt light-headed at the prospect, and her stomach was full of butterflies. “Texas is a big place. Where?”

Gavin looked more solemn than before. “Just outside a little town called Crystal Creek. About an hour from Austin.”

She couldn’t imagine it and laughed at her own incomprehension. “I don’t know a soul in Texas.”

“You know me,” drawled a low, familiar voice. “I grew up there. I got people there. They’ll watch out for you and Del.”

She whirled to face the second man. He’d been silent so long, and her conversation with Gavin had been so intense, she’d almost forgotten his presence. It was one of her brother’s two partners, Cal McKinney.

She stared at him as if he had just magically appeared in a puff of smoke. He was tall, but not as tall as Gavin. He was wider in the shoulders, and he carried himself like the rodeo cowboy he’d once been. He was a devilishly handsome man with thick brown hair and long-lashed hazel eyes.

In his late thirties, he still had a boyish air, even more so when he smiled and showed his dimples. He showed them now. “You’re perfect for this, Tara. You know it. Gavin knows it. I know it. And Spence goes along with us.”

Spencer Malone was the third partner. She knew him, but not nearly as well as she knew Cal. And Cal, bless him, was generous to a fault. So was Gavin, where she and Del were concerned.

“I—I couldn’t do it. And you’d just be doing it as a favor because Gavin thinks I need to get away from here. I—”

“No.” Cal’s smile faded. “You’re doing us the favor. Didn’t you study design in college?”

“Yes.” Her major was design, her minor equestrian studies. It might seem an odd combination to some, but to her it had been as natural as breathing. It was she, not Sid, who’d done most of the renovation on the little ranch outside Santa Clarita. Sid couldn’t read a blueprint or pound a nail in straight.

Cal said, “Serena and I’ve seen your ranch. You did a top-notch job on it. I know that’s true ’cause Serena tells me and that woman’s got taste.”

“In everything but husbands,” joked Gavin.

“Especially in husbands,” Cal shot back, grinning.

Cal moved to the middle of the room. He and Gavin were both horsemen, but Cal, Texan to his marrow, always dressed the part. His boots and belt were hand-tooled, his sky-blue shirt Western-cut.

He said, “Here’s our plan. I’m gonna have a ranch on the western edge of this land. Spence wants to build the main community section, small estates in sync with the environment. But he doesn’t start until the equestrian section’s finished.”

Gavin moved to Cal’s side. “Cal and I have to get to Crystal Creek, meet Spence, finalize some things. Then I need to get back to Hawaii. When I’m done there, I’ll come back to Texas to keep an eye on the start of main construction. You fix up the west wing of the house for me. Who knows what I like better than you?”

Tara looked at these two men and was staggered by their generosity, fascinated by their offer, yet at the same time wary.

“Texas is a long way off. It’s a long way to take Del.”

“I told you,” Cal said. “I got people there. My daddy’s just retired and is off gallivantin’ for a while. But his cousin Bret’s managing the ranch. Big Bret. He’ll be right next door. My sister and brother-in-law are there. You’ll love my sister—she’s horse-crazy as you. Serena and I have friends there, too, and they’ll help you out. You got my word on it.”

Tara was still uncertain. “No. It doesn’t feel right. I’m not the little match girl. I don’t want to take charity. I don’t want to go imposing on people I’ve never met. I—I—”

“You’re scared,” Gavin said. “Once you would have jumped to go. But Sid and Burleigh have knocked the starch out of you. You’re afraid to take chances.”

Confusion disappeared in a flash of indignation. “I am not afraid. Our parents raised us to take chances.”

“Then what’s the matter? You don’t think you’re up to it? Loss of confidence?”

“Certainly not!” she retorted. “Restore a house? A lodge? Get a stable put up? Damned straight I could do it.”

“You really think so?” he asked.

“Yes, I do. Yes, I could,” she said before she knew the words were out of her mouth.

“Well, then,” Gavin said, as if in philosophic resignation, “That’s that. Cal, how fast you think we could get her set up there?”

“Under ordinary circumstances, two or three months. But put my sister on the job—four weeks, easy.”

Gavin narrowed his eyes. “And Sid won’t try to stop you. You know that.”

To her sorrow, she knew.

With a certain slyness, Cal said. “Texas law’s different from California law. It’ll put another obstacle in what’s-his-name’s path.”

Burleigh, she thought. And any move that slowed down Burleigh was a good one.

“It won’t be easy,” Gavin warned. “There was a flood that did considerable damage downstream. Most construction workers are tied up there. Labor’ll be hard to find.”

“Lynn’ll help her.” Cal shrugged as if the matter were already resolved. He glanced at his plate, sitting empty on the desk, then at Gavin’s. “Gavin, if you don’t want the rest of that sandwich, can I have it? Tara, what about that salad?”

Did I just agree to go to Texas? She asked herself, dazed. Yes. I think I did.

Numbly she passed her salad bowl to Cal. “How can I settle in Texas in only a month? Things would have to be done at warp speed.”

Cal picked up a fork and speared a cherry tomato. “Just leave it to the McKinneys, darlin’.”

Gavin gave him a sardonic glance. “Texans. Always bragging.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Cal answered. “If it’s true, it ain’t braggin’.”

CAL HADN’T BEEN BRAGGING.

Exactly one month later, Tara was in Crystal Creek, Texas.

She sat, temporarily alone, in the kitchen of a kindly, cheerful stranger who was not quite a stranger—Lynn McKinney Russell.

Today Tara and Lynn had met face-to-face for the first time after a frantic month of e-mails and phone calls. Tara had smiled and chatted, asked and answered questions over coffee.

The whole time she’d pretended that all of this was normal. She’d pretended that she was the most confident woman in the world. Inwardly she still wondered how in hell she suddenly found herself halfway across the continent, a California girl in the heart of cowboy country.

She stole another glance out Lynn’s kitchen window to check on Del. He was playing lustily on a backyard jungle gym, almost wildly. After all, he’d been cooped up in the truck so long. His black-and-white terrier, Lono, released from his cage, happily chased about the yard.

This morning had seen the last leg of the journey. Tara had driven from Dallas through Austin, then to this little town and to Lynn’s house. Lynn had already done a hundred kindesses for her and Del, and she had welcomed them like family.

Del was clearly happy and excited because he had, for a while at least, what all only children most desire, a playmate.

A little black-haired boy, Jamie, also about four, clambered and swung on the bars with him. The other boy’s mother, ripely pregnant, watched them. Her name was Camilla, and she was Lynn’s next-door neighbor. She stood with her arms crossed over her round belly, smiling at the children’s antics.

Tara sat in Lynn’s cozy breakfast nook, a mug of coffee warm between her hands. From the oven wafted the spicy scent of a casserole. Lynn had insisted that Tara and Del lunch with her, and afterward Lynn would lead them to the house Tara had seen only in photographs and old blueprints.

We’re almost there, Tara thought, watching Del hang by his knees. We’re almost home.

Except it’s not home. It’s not remotely like home, taunted an inner gremlin of uneasiness.

Near Los Angeles, the hills glowed with such a vibrant, vital green that they seemed to shimmer like emeralds. Palm trees nodded and swayed, their fronds sensitive to the sea breeze.

The hills here are stony, arid. The trees are bare. They’re twisted into strange, low shapes.

Shut up, she fiercely told that treacherous voice. Hills were hills, dammit, and trees were trees. Home was where you made it, and by all that was holy, she vowed she would make a home here.

What she needed to worry about wasn’t the scenery, but if the Texas move could really slow down Burleigh’s plan to be the dominant force in Del’s life. She had sent him a letter on the day she left. She hoped it would take a while to reach him. When he read it, he would not take it kindly.

She took a sip of coffee and straightened her spine defiantly. If he wanted to fight, she’d fight. If he wanted to maneuver, she’d outmaneuver.

“Found it,” Lynn said, bustling back into the kitchen with a fat, leather-covered photo album.

Lynn was petite, and she moved with an efficient briskness and an athlete’s grace. Her hair was swept up into two pert ponytails that made her look like a teenager, not a woman with two grown stepdaughters and a ten-year-old son.

She sat down on the banquette beside Tara and began flipping through the album’s pages. Lynn giggled. “Cal would kill me if he knew I showed you this. Ha! Just let me find it…”

Lynn paused, pointing with amusement at a snapshot. “This isn’t it, but look. The gang of usual suspects.”

Tara looked and smiled. After her long journey, it was good to see familiar faces.

There, with their arms around each other’s shoulders, stood a trio of tall men, mugging and grinning for the camera. One was her brother, Gavin, another was Cal, and the third was Spencer Malone. The Three Amigos, Inc.

Lynn gave Tara a wry look. “But the real hoot is a shot I took last month. The last time they were all down here together.”

She turned the page. The same three men stood on a nearly barren lawn. They wore ludicrously large, sequined sombreros, and they held up margarita glasses in an exaggerated toast.

“Idiots,” Lynn said, but she said it fondly. “That’s the day they signed themselves into debt up to their necks. Recognize where they are?”

In the background only a portion of a house showed. Built of native stone, even that small section managed to look both elegant and on the edge of ruin. Boards barred the door and the windows gaped blankly.

Tara swallowed. She knew the place from other pictures. This was the house she had been sent to save. It was where she and Del would live, perhaps for a long time.

Again she peeped at Del, dangling by his arms from one of the jungle-gym bars. She’d known for his sake and her own, that they needed to be far from Los Angeles. But this far?

Lynn turned pages, paused and tapped another photo. “This is me and both my brothers.”

Tara looked at a slightly younger Lynn, her arms linked with those of two young men in Stetsons, one serious, one laughing. The laughing one, of course, was Cal. The more solemn one Tara had only heard about: Tyler.

Lynn’s finger moved to another picture. “And this is my whole family together.”

Cal had regaled Tara with stories often enough that to her the McKinneys were already the stuff of legend. As the founding family of Crystal Creek, they had cast their fate with that of the Hill Country.

Lynn pointed out a handsome older couple with a young girl. “This is my father, J.T.,” Lynn said fondly. “And our stepmother and little sister. Daddy just retired. The three of them are in Paris now. Believe me, it’s very hard to imagine Daddy in Paris.”

She smiled, then sighed. “This is Tyler again. And his wife and two girls. They’ve gone out to Napa Valley for the year. They’re trying to see if they can handle two wineries—one here, one there.”

Lynn shook her head pensively. “And Cal’s in Mexico, selling his brewery. Everybody’s so…far away. It’s the first time they’ve all been away at once. I feel—abandoned.”

Tara bit her inner lip, knowing how it was to be truly abandoned.

Lynn’s expressed grew abashed. “I shouldn’t complain, heaven knows,” she murmured. “And I’m not really the only one left. Daddy’s cousin’s here. He’s a cousin, but he and Daddy were as close as brothers, so he’s almost like an uncle. Big Bret. We called him that because Mama also had a cousin Bret, and he was short, so he was Little Bret. Big Bret’s managing the Double C for Daddy. I’ve got a picture here—somewhere.”

How different it must feel, thought Tara, to have roots deep and strong in one place. Her family had moved eleven times while she was growing up.

“Here he is,” Lynn said, smoothing the page flat. “Big Bret. Looks like Daddy, doesn’t he?”

Tara studied the man. In his fifties, he gazed into the camera grimly. He did not look like the sort who changed his mind or gave his affections easily.

Yet if affection didn’t show in his unsmiling face, it showed in how his arms draped the shoulders of two younger men. Although they stood close to him, their expressions were as joyless as his.

“His sons,” Tara said, knowing it must be so.

“Yes.” Lynn’s voice was quiet. “This isn’t the greatest picture. It was taken just a little while after my aunt Maggie’s funeral. She really was the glue that held that family together. Without her, it’s become a bit undone.”

She squared her shoulders, forced a smile. “You’ll meet him soon, Big Bret. He’s your neighbor, and he’ll be a good one. This son—”

She indicated a handsome, boyish young man with angel-blue eyes. “This is Jonah, the youngest. I’d kill for eyelashes like that. He came to the Double C to finish his dissertation. A sweetheart. But all he thinks of is books and cows.”

Jonah, Tara mused, was so handsome he was perilously close to being pretty. He was not as interesting as his brooding dark-eyed brother.

“The other one,” Lynn said, “is Lang. He’ll be here soon. He’s kind of at loose ends now. He’s getting a divorce.”

She must have seen Tara’s face tighten in control. She quickly changed the subject. “There’s another brother. Grady. But you won’t meet him.”

Tara looked at Lynn with mild curiosity. “Why not?”

Lynn’s smile was indulgent. “Grady’s the one with the Gypsy in his soul. We’re afraid he’ll never settle down. I wish he would. Of the three brothers, he was always the most…”

She paused, bemused.

“Most what?” prompted Tara.

“The most fun to be with,” Lynn said thoughtfully. “The hardest working. Maybe—it’s a hard call—the smartest. The easiest to talk to. The hardest to understand.”

She shrugged, patted the album cover and smiled. “Whatever. Ready for lunch?”

BRET MCKINNEY WAS GOING about his business in all innocence when he was ambushed by a godlessly seductive nightie.

All he’d done was open a closet door in an unused bedroom of the Double C. There were other clothes in the closet, but it was the nightgown that sneak-attacked him.

Then Bret realized that there was a crowd of nightgowns and negligees. They hung tauntingly empty on their satin hangers, and they reminded him of how long it had been since he’d been with a woman.

Bret slammed the closet door shut in panicky haste. He felt guilty, like an inadvertent Peeping Tom. Whose intimate, gauzy stuff was this? Did it belong to his cousin’s wife? One of his nephews’ wives?

For the first time in years, Bret felt the stirring of a long dormant sensuality. He’d thought such feelings were dead, and he hadn’t mourned them. He meant to be faithful to his wife’s memory. He was a man of iron discipline, and he’d made up his mind.

It disturbed him that his body had rebelled against his mind’s dictate. He stepped to the window and stared out at the miles of rolling Texas range.

Bret still missed his wife, Maggie, dead two years now. He had severed himself from his job in Idaho in part because he could no longer endure the ranch house so painfully haunted by memories of her.

Bret’s plan had been to come back to Texas to learn to live alone and like it. Fate, however, had decreed that solitude was not an option. First, his youngest son, Jonah, had announced he’d join him.

Bret hadn’t minded this so much. Jonah was a good man with cattle; he was serious and he was quiet. He helped work the ranch by day and wrote his doctoral dissertation at night. He was no trouble and made no demands. It was almost the same as being alone.

But now Bret’s middle son was on his way to the Double C, tangled up in money and marriage problems. At thirty-one, Lang was too damned young to be having a midlife crisis, but that wasn’t stopping him.

Bret shook his head in frustration. Lang was due tomorrow, which was why Bret was checking out the room. It was why he’d opened the closet and been bushwhacked by the nighties.

Well, the things would have to be moved, that was all. Lang didn’t need a closet full of female finery to taunt him.

Bret left the room and strode down the hall to the kitchen, from which floated an aroma of Tex-Mex beef and spices. He would ask Millie Gilligan, the Double C’s housekeeper, to move all that frippery somewhere else, anywhere else.

He found her in the kitchen, stirring a pot of chili. She was an odd little gnome of a woman, restless and given to strange pronouncements.

Mrs. Gilligan was almost as new to the ranch as Bret was, and J.T. had cautioned him about her. “She’s the best we could find. She’s a great cook and a fine housekeeper. But, dammit, I think she might be a witch.”

She indeed might be, thought Bret, for she would stir her pots, dropping in pinches of this and sprinkles of that, and produce foods that seemed too delectable to be created by a mere mortal.