* * * *
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 Colora
do.” 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.”
Gambling on a Secret Page 3