It had been almost a relief. One less niggle on her conscience. Bad enough she couldn’t find time for her brother or to help her father more out on the ranch when Hank was off fighting bulls; she didn’t need to beat herself up over a horse, too. Or call home and listen to her dad complain about both of them. When Shawnee found a buyer for what had turned into an outstanding rope horse, Melanie had taken the check and her aging pickup and traded them for her shiny new SUV.
“I was busy,” she added, defensive under the other woman’s stony gaze. Grace, who’d had to manufacture her own opportunities in the arena, since her family had never owned a horse.
“Well, now you won’t be so busy,” Grace said. “For a while, anyway.”
“What about you? Are you still roping?”
“Yeah.” Abrupt. Conversation over. Grace paused to unlock the first door on the left and opened it with a flourish. “Welcome to the Madam’s Suite.”
Melanie stopped dead again, this time in shock. It was…wow.
The so-called suite was a single large room, the floor a dark polished hardwood with a gorgeous scalloped area rug, pink florals set off by black. The window hangings were layer upon layer of creamy sheers, draped and looped around oak rods in a way that was both airy and sensual. Every piece of furniture was a work of art. An elegant ladies’ desk and chair stood between the windows, and the sunlight gleamed off a burnished-oak curio cabinet in one corner, filled with delicate crystal and china. By the opposite wall stood an honest-to-God swooning couch, the frame elaborately carved scrollwork with velvet upholstery the color of a dusty-pink rose.
And dear sweet heaven, just sleeping in that bed was probably sinful enough to send a girl straight to hell, let alone…
Melanie tore her gaze off the brass canopy, the silk drapes, and the acres of lace-and-satin comforter. She turned to find Grace trying not to smile. Melanie grinned back. For an instant, there was nothing between them but the perfect ridiculousness of this room.
Melanie threw her arms out. “Why?”
“Wyatt says he’s going to rent it out for special occasions. Anniversaries, weddings…but honestly?” Grace shrugged. “I think he was just having fun.”
Fun. Odd. It wasn’t a word Melanie associated with Wyatt. Even when he was laughing on the surface, there was always a part of him held in reserve. Watching. Weighing. Separate. Joe and Hank threw themselves into their work with a kind of joyful exhilaration, but Wyatt was as cool as a sniper in the arena.
Completely at odds with the over-the-top extravagance of this room.
“The bathroom’s back there,” Grace said, gesturing to a silk-paneled trifold screen that mostly concealed the door, along with an old-fashioned sideboard that—on closer inspection—held a coffee maker, a small toaster oven, and a microwave.
The bathroom floor was black-and-white tile, with a huge, freestanding slipper tub and an antique, marble-topped dresser as a vanity. There was nothing practical here. It was all an elaborate but beautiful inside joke.
“So?” Grace asked. “Whaddaya think?”
“It’s fabulous.” Melanie hesitated, then added, “What’s it going to cost me?”
“That’s between you and Wyatt.”
Grace dropped the key on the desk and started for the door, obviously done with the tour.
“Grace, wait. I just wanted to say—”
Grace stopped and threw up a warning hand. “Don’t. That is not your apology to make.”
“But I should have—”
“What? Handcuffed yourself to his wrist?” Grace’s poof of a ponytail bristled as she shook her head. “We’ve both been stupid about Hank. I got over it. You might want to give it a shot.”
Melanie felt her face hardening. “He’s my brother. My blood. That’s forever.”
Grace stared at her for a beat, something in her expression making Melanie’s breath catch as if she’d stepped onto a ledge and felt it give beneath her weight. The younger girl turned away abruptly.
“Grace.” Melanie reached out a hand, then pulled it back when Grace swung around. “Can we make a deal?”
“Like what?”
“I’ll forget why you’re in Oregon if you’ll do the same for me.” When Grace hesitated, she threw in a pleading smile. “I would really like to be friendly, even if we can’t be friends.”
Grace nodded stiffly. “I suppose I can try.”
Okay. Points for honesty. “Thank you.”
They stood for a few beats, neither knowing what came next. Then Grace said, “I need to talk to Wyatt. You coming?”
“Not right now.” Melanie tucked the key into her pocket, checked her reflection in an ornate wall mirror, and wiped stray mascara from under one eye. She looked tired. Road worn. Forgettable.
Perfect.
She smiled at her reflection. “Tell Wyatt I’m going to have lunch and do some exploring.”
And have a drink. Or three.
Chapter 12
She’s here. She’s here.
Wyatt gulped down the last of his protein drink, rinsed the glass, and set it in the drying rack beside the sink in his condo, trying to ignore the persistent drumbeat in his head. He couldn’t erase the image of Melanie standing in the middle of his bar. His two worlds colliding—hopefully without triggering Armageddon.
Wyatt checked his email one last time—no new answers to any of the queries he’d scattered around the country regarding Hank. There was a text from Gil. Nothing new here. Heard Mel arrived safely. Text #OUCH if you need medical assistance, or #NICETRY if she turned right around and left again.
Wyatt did neither, slapping his phone onto the black-walnut butcher block harder than was healthy. Gil could afford to make jokes. His spot at Miz Iris’s table was permanently reserved, even after spending years doing his damnedest to alienate everyone who got within striking distance. Gil was one of their own, like Melanie and Hank.
Wyatt was just a friend-in-law, included by the grace of Joe.
He stalked into the bedroom, yanking off his street clothes in favor of Lycra shorts and a lightweight nylon jersey. The hard plastic soles of his shoes clacked on the concrete as he lifted his custom-built ultralight bike down from the rack in his garage, an investment he’d made after the third surgery on his right ankle made jogging a poor choice. Today, he almost would have welcomed the distraction of pain.
The Cold Springs Highway wound north through gullies and over hills, bordered by mile after mile of grain fields, the rows of thigh-high wheat planted to within inches of the narrow strip of blacktop, no square foot of precious topsoil wasted. He took the turn onto Juniper Canyon Road and pushed hard, the burn in his lungs and legs searing away the sharpest edges of his thoughts. Melanie. Alone with Grace. What if…
No. Grace could handle it. He should worry more about leaving himself alone with Melanie. The way she tugged at him, mind and body, even though he knew that getting too close was the emotional equivalent of throwing himself off a bridge. The truth would come out, even if it was much later versus sooner. And when it did, everyone—even Joe—would be forced to choose a side.
Wyatt didn’t have much doubt who they’d pick.
He shifted down a gear, winding through a landscape that had first intrigued and then captured him. Even after nearly twenty years, he didn’t feel as if the sentiment was mutual. Pendleton could get by just fine without Wyatt Darrington.
The impression had been magnified tenfold since he’d bought the Bull Dancer. What was he thinking? Buy it, and they will come? Not for him, they wouldn’t. He knew how to pull strings and push buttons. He knew how to sell himself to sponsors. He didn’t know diddly about how to connect with his customers.
But now he had an exceptionally talented marketing professional on retainer, so maybe offering Melanie the job wasn’t entirely stupid.
He pushed his focus
out, to the purpling heads of cheatgrass bobbing in the gentle breeze, between the mounds of Russian thistles that would bake into prickly tumbleweeds and roll away in the summer heat. The warm, bone-dry air carried the sweet scent of blooming greasewood and sucked the sweat off his skin.
Fourteen miles out, the high-tech watch on his wrist beeped that he’d reached the midpoint of his aerobic goal. As he turned around, Wyatt also deliberately changed the direction of his thoughts. He’d exhausted his usual sources of information, tossing subtlety aside to make dozens of calls and ask every cowboy, cowgirl, stock contractor, or rodeo announcer to spread the word. Had anyone seen Hank?
The answer was a resounding no. Hank hadn’t fought bulls at a pro rodeo since the middle of last summer, when he’d rolled in a day late for a backwater show in Missouri and been fired on the spot. After that, one person recalled him working some amateur rodeos in South Dakota in August. Then…nothing.
People rarely disappeared by accident.
Hank had never been a loner. If he’d gone missing, someone should have been expecting to see him and reported his absence. His family would have been notified. His name hadn’t shown up in any court records, so he wasn’t in jail. He had no registered permanent address other than his parents’ ranch. Not even a post office box. Worst-case scenario—if Hank Brookman was dead, his passing was not a matter of public record anywhere in the United States or Canada.
Which left Wyatt with only one last-ditch option. Every living person created some sort of trail—usually financial—and Wyatt could turn a bloodhound loose who was nearly guaranteed to pick up the scent.
He rolled down the final steep draw into Pendleton, past Blue Mountain Community College, then skirted the city aquatic center and the high school and turned straight up North Hill, his quads screaming as he climbed ten steep blocks before swinging into his driveway. Inside his garage, he scrubbed a towel over his damp hair, hung the bike and helmet on the rack, kicked off his shoes, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to guzzle water.
Then he reluctantly dialed the number of an old acquaintance who could track every swipe of a credit card, if he chose. Someone who believed he owed Wyatt a debt that could never be paid. On rare occasions, it served Wyatt’s purposes to let the man try.
The telephone conversation dragged on much longer than Wyatt preferred, but he had to play the game. Pretend an interest in the world and the people he’d rejected with every fiber of his being. Yes, Wyatt had seen that his brother was now a prominent member of the House of Bishops and fully embraced the Episcopalian Church’s progressive doctrines. At least publicly.
One did not let a small matter like complete disagreement with policy push you out of an institution in which your ancestors could trace a direct line of succession clear back to the apostles. The Episcopal Church had long been favored by wealthy, highly educated, and influential people, nowhere more so than in the traditional breeding grounds of old money where Wyatt had grown up. A quarter of all U.S. presidents had been Episcopalian, and there had always been a Darrington close enough to offer counsel and receive the blessing of insider status in return.
When he finally disconnected, he went straight to the shower, cranked up the multilevel jets, and stood, hands braced on the travertine tile and head bowed, letting the water pummel away the film of distaste that always settled over him when he reached back and touched his past.
He’d suffer the punishment to his ulcer if it led them to Hank. Despite what Melanie believed, he had always thought her brother was worth saving. He’d just never been able to figure out how.
But then, neither had Melanie.
* * *
He tried to reach Melanie to arrange a time to introduce her to his bar manager, but his calls went straight to voicemail. No surprise. She’d driven almost straight through from Texas, and he doubted she’d been sleeping much even before she hit the road. Grace had said Melanie was staying in the Madam’s Suite for now, at least. She’d probably turned her phone off to try to grab a nap.
And no, Wyatt was not going to let his mind paint pictures of her in that bed.
As usual, when he arrived at the Bull Dancer late that evening, only one person sat at the bar, his pear-shaped bulk a threat to the future health of the stool, his gray-streaked black hair pulled into a low ponytail that straggled down his broad back. Seeing Wyatt, he casually tilted his newspaper to hide the half-empty glass near his right hand.
Wyatt strolled over, picked up the glass, and tested the contents with the tip of one finger. “Coke?”
“Mostly ice. And the first one this week.” Louie crossed his fingers and touched them to his heart with a quick twist of a grin. “Honest Injun.”
Wyatt smiled despite a niggle of discomfort. Louie, a half-blood Umatilla, could crack those jokes, but Wyatt was never quite sure how to respond. He suspected Louie knew. It suited his sly sense of humor to make Wyatt squirm as often as possible.
“Have you had dinner?” Wyatt asked.
“I grabbed a sandwich right before I came in. And I got all my steps in today.” He tapped the fitness tracker on his wrist, part of the exercise and nutrition program Wyatt and Grace closely monitored to help control his diabetes. Louie waved a hand toward the back corner booth. “If you wanna worry ’bout someone, maybe you should start with her.”
Wyatt turned and squinted at the empty table. Then he saw a pair of running shoes, long, jean-clad legs, the too-familiar curve of a hip…and chestnut-brown hair spilling across the red seat.
“Came in a couple of hours ago.” The stool creaked dangerously as Louie swiveled, folding meaty arms over his chest as he contemplated Melanie. “Introduced herself, friendly as can be, said she had some notes she wanted to go over, and could she get a cup of coffee? I went back to make a pot, and when I came out, she was like that.”
Wyatt stepped gingerly toward the booth. A pocket-sized notebook, a pen, and a cold cup of coffee sat on the table. “And you just left her?”
“She was breathin’. And she looks pretty comfy.”
She did. Her hands were pressed palm to palm, pillowing her cheek, and a strand of hair fluttered in front of her face as she exhaled. She looked so peaceful. So young. So much like—
He cut the thought dead. Separate and compartmentalize. It was the only way he would emerge with his sanity anywhere near intact. Wyatt leaned over and caught the unmistakable scent of alcohol. So much for innocence. “Was she drunk?”
“Not so’s you could tell, but…” Louie jerked his chin toward her, the evidence speaking for itself.
Well…shit. Now what? Wake her? Wait until she came to on her own? There was the slim possibility other customers might wander in, and Wyatt was pretty sure having an unconscious woman sprawled in the back booth was some kind of violation. Health code? Liquor control? Something.
He touched a fingertip to her shoulder. “Melanie?”
Her eyes popped open. She remained perfectly still, taking a few slow blinks to orient herself. Then her gaze cut up toward Wyatt and Louie. She pushed into a seated position, glanced around the bar, then held a palm in front of her mouth, huffed out a breath, and grimaced. “Yuck.”
The two men watched in fascination as she rummaged in her purse for a piece of gum and popped it in her mouth. Then she smoothed her hair back and smiled at them. “Was I snoring?”
“Uh, no. You were just…we were wondering…” Wyatt shoved his hands in the pockets of his chinos, unreasonably flustered by her steady gaze. “Are you okay?”
“Hunky-dory. I’m just a little short on sleep, and the bartenders in this town pour ’em pretty strong.” She picked up the coffee, sniffed, and held it out to Louie. “I don’t suppose you could freshen this up?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took the cup, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth.
Wyatt hovered awkwardly for another couple of beats, then sli
d into the booth opposite her. She leaned back, folded her hands on the table, and watched him, her eyes alert. If it weren’t for the crease on her cheek, he couldn’t have guessed she’d been sound asleep a minute earlier.
“So…you took a tour of the town?” he asked.
“Market research.” She tapped the notebook with one finger. “I wanted to check out the competition before word got around that I was working for you. Very friendly people. And informative.”
Her words were crisp, clear—and Wyatt was too baffled to make sense of any of them.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
“No. I just thought you were…” Right. Accuse her of passing out. That was tactful.
“Oh, that?” She patted the booth she’d been using as a bed. “Sorry. Not very professional of me. I generally handle my booze pretty well, unless I’m really tired. Then I tend to keel over…but it’s all good when I wake up. Which reminds me, what’s the going rate for the room upstairs?”
“Consider it part of the package.”
And why was he not surprised when she shook her head. “That’s not in the contract. I’ll pay you at least the going rate for an extended-stay hotel.”
“That’s too much. I haven’t got around to setting it up as a rental, so it’ll be vacant if you don’t use it, and it costs me nothing if you do.” Except the hours of sleep he would lose, picturing her sliding between the Egyptian sheets, hair spilling over the satin pillows. “It’s a benefit to me because you’re right here where you can soak up the atmosphere of the place.”
She wrinkled her nose at an elaborate gilt-edged mirror. “I think it could use a little less atmosphere. But since you insist…how about five hundred a week?”
“That’s a month’s rent for a studio apartment in this town.”
She laced her fingers together on the table and cocked her head, considering. He waited for her to insist that she wouldn’t take a handout. Instead, she nodded. “I’ll pay you five hundred for the duration of my stay…however long that ends up being.”
Fearless in Texas Page 9