Lone Star Woman
By
Anna Jeffrey
Published by Anna Jeffrey Books
Copyright © Jeffery McClanahan, 2009, 2013. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.
Cover design by The Killion Group http://thekilliongroupinc.com
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Dedication
As always, this is for my husband, George, and my daughter, Adrienne, my biggest fans and strongest supporters.
Acknowledgments
I want to thank Sherry Patterson. Sherry is the owner of Triple "S" Quarter Horse & Paints, in Alba, Texas. Though she doesn't know me from Adam, she was very generous in answering my questions, about paint horses in particular, and their history. If you go to her Web site, mysite.verizon.net/resvyjgr, you can see a picture of Harley, the black-and-white Tobiano paint stallion I used as a pattern for Jude's horse, Patch. Harley's full name is Heza Hollywood Harley, and he is so pretty!
I also want to acknowledge the big, old West Texas ranches. They and their histories are the stuff that Texas legend and spirit are made of.
And a special thanks to my good friend and superb critique partner, Laura Renken.
Chapter 1
The West Texas sun had peaked in a bright blue sky and Judith Ann Strayhorn had already wasted more than half the day. Behind the wheel of her Dodge Ram pickup truck, she raced along the highway on her way from Lockett to Lubbock, a hundred miles away.
Her mind was on Harry Beall, the state cop who had stopped her earlier for speeding. He hadn't been sympathetic when she told him she was on a mission. He had looked at her with cold eyes and a grim mouth. He must have been having a bad day because this time, he hadn't given her the usual warning. This time, he had given her a ticket. Damn. Now Daddy would try to badger her into going to driving school.
Since the first time she had been allowed to drive the twenty-eight miles from the Circle C ranch to the town of Lockett all alone, Jude had found adhering to the speed limit a burden. Today, after getting the ticket, she forced herself to drive slower while she considered whether to go to court and plead not guilty to driving eighty in a sixty.
The judge would probably be accommodating, given that her father and grandfather allowed him and his friends hunting privileges on the Circle C’s rangeland. But in the county where Strayhorn wealth and influence overshadowed everything, Jude was cautious about throwing her family's weight around. She would never deliberately put Daddy or Grandpa in an awkward position.
As the continued to debate the pros and cons of taking the matter to court, she drew near the old 6-0 ranch, her reason for rushing toward Lubbock. The ranch's cattle-guard entrance lay just ahead on the right.
At the end of a quarter mile of caliche driveway stood an old two-story house that had been vacant for months. Its fancy carved wood trim and much of its clapboard siding were bare of paint and weathered to gray. The slatted shutters that had once framed two of the front windows in white had been missing for a while now. Of Victorian style, rising from the middle of a sundrenched Texas Panhandle pasture, it couldn't have looked more out of place.
Parked in front was a tan pickup truck. What was that about?
She lifted her foot from the accelerator, slowed and pulled onto the highway shoulder for a closer look. Not recognizing the pickup, she shoved the gearshift into park and sat a few seconds, studying the trespassing rig and pondering the best way to find out who owned it.
Her attention veered from the pickup to the two-story barn five hundred feet behind the house, canting to the east in sad shabbiness. In a coil the size of a Volkswagen, rusted barbed wire leaned against the barn's east wall. Other outbuildings of both metal and wood in various stages of dilapidation baked in the brittle noonday sun.
This was Marjorie Wallace’s estate. The buildings were an inconsequential part of it. The valuable part was the fifteen sections of land the buildings sat on—9,600 acres of prime, rolling bluestem grassland that had been ungrazed for months. Enough land to run at least two hundred head of cows and calves. The very thought was enough to make Jude giddy with joy.
She wanted to own that 6-0 rangeland more than she had ever wanted to own anything. And she had the wherewithal to do it. She hadn't yet made an offer to buy, but without her father and grandfather knowing it, she had already started the wheels turning to use the money from her trust fund.
She had an appointment this afternoon to meet with the banker in Lubbock to discuss it further and sign documents. No doubt when Daddy and Grandpa learned what she was up to, another family explosion would occur.
She could hear Daddy now: Jude, why don't you spend your energy on finding a husband?
And Grandpa: Why, Judith Ann, that trust fund is for your future and the future of the children you should be concentrating on having.
And the discussion wouldn't end there. Hadn't they already tried to marry her off twice?
But at the moment, she couldn't think about a hypothetical. The unfamiliar pickup had her curiosity jumping up and down. She shifted out of park, made a right turn and jostled and bumped up the neglected driveway until she came to a stop behind the newer-model Chevy Silverado. Its bed was filled with household furnishings: a mattress set, a cabinet-like thing that looked to be a dresser, some chairs and a table.
Having been here several times, she knew the house and all of the outbuildings had hasps and padlocks on the doors. Had the Silverado's owner broken in and taken that furniture from inside the house?
From where she sat, she couldn't see whether the lock on the front door had been removed. A jolt of anxiety hit her stomach. She thought of her cell phone and her cousin Jake Strayhorn, the Willard County sheriff. She thought of her pistol, which she knew how to use and had a permit to carry. It was locked in Daddy's gun cabinet at home. Damn.
She pulled closer to the Silverado's back bumper and angled across the driveway's two tracks. The pickup could still exit the driveway, but only with some skillful maneuvering around her own pickup.
Without killing her engine, she continued to study the unfamiliar vehicle. It was clean and neatly kept. No dents, good tires. Not a rig she would associate with a burglar. The license plate holder said COWTOWN CHEVROLET. The only city in Texas known as "Cowtown" was Fort Worth. Jude's ever-present curiosity began to outweigh her anxiety.
Jake would be able to find the pickup owner's name easily enough. His office could log onto computer networks that knew everything about everyone. She plucked a small spiral notebook from behind the sun visor and jotted down the plate number.
As she returned the notebook to its place, she glanced around but saw no one. She switched off the motor and sli
d out, her boot heels cushioned by clumps of assorted weeds that had almost overtaken the driveway.
Silence engulfed her, so loud it roared in her ears. Rays of brilliant June sun pressed down hotly on her shoulders and the vast blue sky made her feel small—a noteworthy accomplishment on the sky's part, since very little made her, the only daughter of the powerful J. D. Strayhorn, feel small.
A breeze gusted past and swirled her long hair around her face, pressing fine strands to her lips. She combed it back with her fingers, gathering it at her nape while she walked toward the house, still looking for the Silverado's owner.
Then a man—a big man she didn't recognize—came around the corner of the house. He halted for a second, then came directly toward her, long denim-covered legs eating up the space between them.
A squiggle of anxiety zoomed through her stomach again. He was at least as tall as Daddy, who was over six feet. He was wide shouldered but lean. He was clean and wearing a bright blue torso-hugging T-shirt that showed off muscles in his arms and shoulders. The shirt was neatly tucked into starched and creased Wranglers stacked just right around his boot tops. His boots weren’t worn-out, but they were well used. He looked like a cowboy, all right, but not a cowhand. Having spent her entire life around both, she knew the difference.
He was no burglar. But what was he? A shot of panic surged for a reason other than concern for her personal safety. Good Lord, could he be a buyer for this place? She summoned the boldness for which she was notorious. "Hey," she called to him.
His step didn't falter as he continued toward her. "Something I can do for you?" His voice was deep, but soft, with only a hint of Texas twang. It had a raspiness that made her think he had just gotten out of bed. A flutter for which she had absolutely no explanation slithered through her midsection.
As he neared, she strained to see his eyes, but they were shadowed by the bill of a purple cap. It had a TCU logo, embroidered rather than stamped, so it was one of the better-quality caps.
TCU. Humph. She no longer held so much as a shred of trepidation. TCU, Texas Christian University, was a sissy school in Fort Worth. Like her father, Jude Strayhorn was a proud graduate of the only college in Texas—or the whole United States, really—that mattered: Texas A&M.
"This is private property," she said, now standing directly in front of him.
"I know," he replied almost absently, as he continued to look around.
She had to raise her chin to look him in the eye. And those eyes, sitting above wide cheekbones and a lean jaw, were as blue as the Texas sky. He was the most beautiful man she had ever been near.
"Then what are you doing here?" she demanded.
He didn't answer her question, but the intensity of his head-to-toe assessment penetrated her clothing, all the way to her skin. She had been observed by men before, was used to not reacting. What she wasn't used to was the electricity in the air between them and the strange tremble agitating inside her stomach. She stood there sweating in the heat, waiting for him to explain himself.
His gaze moved to her pickup, parked across the driveway, blatantly displaying her intent to inhibit his departure. He looked back at her, his jaw and body taut. "What are you doing here?" His tone would have frozen water on a July day.
"I'm a neighbor from up the road."
"That doesn't tell me why you parked crossways and blocked my exit. Who the hell do you think you are?"
She flinched, but she couldn't back down. "I stopped by, being neighborly. But I'll damn sure get out of your way. If you don't feel like telling me who you are, you can tell the sheriff." She turned and willed herself to saunter toward her pickup as if she hadn't a concern in the world. But her heartbeat drummed in her ears.
"He's my cousin," she added over her shoulder.
"Hold on," he called.
She stopped, turned back and faced him.
He came to where she stood, the corners of his mouth tipping into a hint of a smile that fell somewhere between friendly and smirky. Whatever its meaning, it sent another odd reaction through her stomach. He stuck out his right hand. "Brady Fallon."
He said the name as if it should mean something to her, but she couldn't place it. She had a feeling she had seen him before, but she couldn't think where. She gave him her hand.
His big, rough hand engulfed hers in a strong palm-touching grip. Startled by another odd little disturbance darting through her system, she pulled her hand away and stuffed it into the back pocket of her jeans. "So, uh, I don't think I've seen you around here."
"Haven't been around here....Lately."
Lately? Who was he? Was he kin to someone local? She thought she knew every living human in Willard County, all 1,653 of them.
She had to know what he was up to. Striving for nonchalance, she said, "The, um, owner of this place passed away recently. Are you looking to buy it?"
A faraway look came into his eyes. He glanced back over his shoulder toward the outbuildings and she wished she could read minds. Seconds later, his attention returned to her, his eyes intent on her face. "Nope," he said.
"You're leasing?" The question was no sooner out of her mouth than she thought she knew the answer. "No, wait, you're a bird hunter, right?"
By the hundreds, hunters of game birds ventured from the Fort Worth/Dallas Metroplex to shoot the abundant quail and dove on the West Texas high plains. Fewer came to Willard County than to the surrounding counties because Strayhorn Corp owned more than half of the rangeland in the county and Daddy and Grandpa gave only a chosen few permission to hunt. Years back they had been more generous in allowing hunting, but after too many unfortunate incidents with livestock and fences, Daddy had cut back on allowing hunting by outsiders.
The stranger chuckled, a deep, friendly sound. He flashed a boyish grin loaded with charm. "I never met a bird that deserved killing."
She couldn't keep from staring at his wide mouth and his even white teeth. "Actually, me neither. Personally, I don't like the taste of game birds. These dudes who come out here? They mostly use hunting as an excuse to get drunk and show off the shotgun they got for Christmas. It's a wonder they all don't shoot each other."
He shifted to a cock-kneed stance and propped his hands on his hips. Uh-oh. John Wayne. "You didn't say your name."
"Jude Strayhorn. I live on the place that butts up to this one."
His chin lifted and his brow arched. His annoyance seemed to dissipate. "Ahh."
A telling response, as if he knew who she was.
But then, who in West Texas didn't know or hadn't heard of—good or bad—the Strayhorns? "So, what are you doing here?" she asked.
Those laser blue eyes fixed another steady look on her. Though the temperature had to be above ninety, she thought of icicles. Okay, so he didn't want to discuss it. Maybe she was being nosy. And maybe a little pushy.
A long pause. He looked down, appearing to study his boots. "This place belonged to my Aunt Margie and Uncle Harry.” He looked up, directly into her eyes. "Now I guess it belongs to me."
Jude barely halted a catch in her breath and willed her eyes not to bug. Nooooo! she wanted to scream, but she said, "What do you mean?"
He lifted his cap and reset it, revealing brown hair, streaked by the sun and darkened by sweat and curling at his collar. "They never had any kids to leave it to. They sort of favored me."
How could she not have heard about this? She hadn't known Marjorie Wallace personally, but everyone in Willard County knew that a few months before her death, she had suddenly sold her cattle herd and taken up residence in the town of Lockett's only nursing home. Only then had she revealed she had terminal cancer. Everyone, including Jude, had assumed the 6-0 would be put on the market after its owner passed away.
Jude rarely found herself at a loss for words, but this unexpected news left her scrambling for what to say next. She gave the deceased woman's nephew a nervous titter. "Want to sell it?"
"You’re kidding, right? I'm gonna live here."
/> Now her heartbeat became a bass drum in her ears. She swung her eyes to the furniture in the Silverado's bed, then the house, then back to him. "Unless she kept it buried in the backyard, Margie Wallace didn't have any money to leave anybody. You rich?"
Frowning, he tucked back his chin. "That's no business of yours."
"Mister, I'm just saying, it's going to take a bunch of money to make this place even a little bit livable. I'd be surprised if the water well's even any good." She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and opened her palms in a show of feigned indifference. "But, hey. Like you say, it's none of my business."
She started toward her pickup again, drawing measured breaths to calm herself.
Damn and double-damn! She needed this land, had been planning to buy it for weeks. Owning her own place would give her a chance to try her ideas in cattle breeding without Daddy and Grandpa criticizing her every move and bellyaching about why she didn't just get married. Now, the best chance she had run across lately to prove the points that she constantly argued with her father had been snatched away from her by…by some damn heir.
The only thing that kept her from breaking down and bawling was that Jude Strayhorn didn't cry.
What the hell was that about? Brady watched his visitor walk back to a shiny black truck, his eyes on her butt that was molded into skintight denim. With tomboy agility, she climbed into the driver's seat and slammed the door. A one-ton was a big rig for a woman to be driving, but it was one good-looking truck.
And she was one good-looking woman, like something out of a magazine, all neat and polished and gleaming. Hell, her boots could make his next month's child-support payment. What she had paid for those big-ass sunglasses would buy his groceries for the week. He knew plenty about the cost of women's fashion. He had learned it in a hard lesson from his ex-wife.
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