Lone Star Nights

by Delores Fossen

  At least Cassie didn’t jump to disagree with that. She glanced at her grandmother, then him. “I did. I was just surprised you’d so easily admitted that you loved her.”

  Easy only because it’d dropped straight from his brain to his mouth without going through any filters. That happened with him way too often.

  “Men like you often have a hard time saying it,” she added.

  “Men like me?” Those sounded like fighting words, and he was already worn-out from the nonverbal battle they’d just had. “I guess you’re referring to my reputation of being a guy who likes women.”

  “A guy who sleeps around. A lot.” She hadn’t needed to add a lot to make it a complete zinger.

  “Rein in your stereotypes, Doc.” While she was doing that, he’d rein in his temper. And he’d do something about that blasted tat.

  Lucky grabbed the felt-tip pen from the table next to the visitor’s book, and he got to work.

  “What are you doing?” Cassie asked.

  “Fixing it.” Not exactly a professional job, but he made a big smudgy i out of the e and an e out of the i.

  Cassie leaned in closer. “Huh. I never noticed it was misspelled.”

  Lucky looked at her as if she’d sprouted an extra nose. “How could you not notice that?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not that good at spelling. I mean, who is, what with spell-checkers on phones and computers?”

  “I’m good at it,” he grumbled. So that made two skills. Spelling and bull riding. At least he succeeded at the spelling more than 30 percent of the time.

  Cassie stepped back, looked around the room. “I need to find the funeral director and then call the hospital and find out if Gran left me any instructions. A note or something.”

  Lucky patted his pocket. “She gave me a letter.”

  Cassie eyed the spot he’d patted, which meant she’d eyed his butt. “Did she say anything about me in it?”

  “I’m not sure. I haven’t read it yet.” And darn it, the look she gave him was all shrink, one who was assessing his mental health—or lack thereof. “I was going to wait until after the service.” Except it was as clear as a gypsy’s crystal ball that there wasn’t going to be an actual service.

  “Well, can you look at it now, just to see if she mentions me?” She sounded as though she was in as much of a hurry as Logan.

  Lucky wished he could point out that not everything had to be done in a hurry, bull riding excluded, but he was just procrastinating. Truth was, as long as the letter was unread, it was like having a little part of Dixie Mae around. One last unfinished partnership between them.

  He huffed, and since he really didn’t want to explain that “little part of Dixie Mae” thought, he took out the letter and opened it. One page, handwritten in Dixie Mae’s usual scrawl.

  Cassie didn’t exactly hover over him, but it was close. She pinned her chocolate-brown eyes to him, no doubt watching for any change in expression so she could use her therapy skills to determine if this was good or bad.

  Dear Lucky and Cassie...

  That no doubt changed his expression. “The letter’s addressed to both of us.” He turned it, showing her the page. “Dixie Mae didn’t mention that when she gave it to me at the hospital.”

  Cassie took it from him, and Lucky let her. Mainly because he really didn’t want to read what was there since it hadn’t gotten off to such a great start.

  “‘Dear Lucky and Cassie,’” she repeated. “‘I need a favor, one I know neither of you will refuse. I’ve never asked either of you for anything, but I need to ask you now. Call Bernie Woodland, a lawyer in Spring Hill, and he’ll give you all the details.’”

  Cassie flipped the letter over, looking for the rest of it, but there was nothing else. “What kind of favor?”

  Lucky had to shake his head. He’d figured it had something to do with the rodeo business, but now that Dixie Mae had included Cassie, maybe not. Cassie had never participated in the rodeo, or in her grandmother’s finances for that matter.

  He was also confused as to why Dixie Mae would have used Bernie for this. Dixie Mae no longer lived in Spring Hill. Hadn’t for going on ten years. Her house was in San Antonio, and she had a lawyer on retainer there. Why hadn’t she used him instead of Bernie?

  “Did she say anything when she gave you the letter?” Cassie asked.

  It wasn’t hard to recall this part, either. “She said a man wouldn’t be much of a man to deny an old dying woman her last wish.”

  Remembering her words had Lucky feeling another flutter. Not a sexual one like with Cassie, but one that sent an unnerving tingle down his bruised spine and tailbone.

  If it had been a simple request, Dixie Mae would have just told him then and there on her death bed, rather than using her final breath on the bull remark. Instead she’d used the dying card to get him to agree to some unnamed favor, and that meant this could be trouble.

  Cassie must have thought so, too, because some of the color drained from her cheeks, and she pulled out her phone again. “I’ll call the lawyer.”

  She stepped away from the coffin. Far away. In fact, Cassie went all the way to the back of the room, and, pacing behind the last row of chairs, she made the call.

  Lucky was about to follow and pace right along with her, but his own phone buzzed. Because he was hoping Cassie would soon have some info on the favor, he was ready to let the call go to voice mail, but then he saw the name on the screen.

  Angel.

  What the hell? He wasn’t the sort to believe in ghosts and such, but if anyone could have found a way to reach out from beyond the grave, or the coffin, it would have been Dixie Mae.

  Lucky hit the answer button and braced himself in case this was about to turn into a moment that might make him scream like a schoolgirl.

  “Lucky,” the caller said. It was a woman all right but definitely not Dixie Mae. This voice was sultry, and he was about 60 percent sure he recognized it.

  “Bella?” he asked.

  “Who else?” she purred.

  Well, she hadn’t been at the top of the list of people he expected would call themselves Angel, that’s for sure. Bella was more like a being from the realm opposite to the one where angels lived. Lucky had met her about three months ago after a good bull ride in Kerrville, but he hadn’t seen her since.

  “I expected you to call me before now. Naughty boy,” Bella teased.

  Now, that label fit. They had engaged in some rather naughty things during their one night together. But he’d never intended for it to be anything other than a one-nighter. And Lucky had made that clear, with very specific words—just this once.

  He glanced back at Cassie. She was still talking on the phone. Or rather listening, because she didn’t seem to be saying much at all. Unlike Bella.

  “Did you hear me?” Bella asked.

  No, he hadn’t, but Lucky had his own stuff to ask her. “How’d you get my number? And who’s Angel?”

  “Angel’s my stage name, remember?”

  Oh, yeah. Now he did, thanks to her memory jogging. Bella aka Angel Bella was a wannabe actress moonlighting as a cocktail waitress at the Blue Moon Bar.

  “When you were asleep, I added my number to your contact list,” she explained. “And I put your number in my phone to make sure we stayed in touch. Like now, for instance. I remember you saying you’re from Spring Hill, and guess who’s passing through town right now?”

  Lucky didn’t think that was a trick question. “Look, Bella, this isn’t a good time. I’m at a friend’s funeral.”

  “Oh.” She paused and repeated that “oh” again. “Well, darn. I’d really hoped to see you. Maybe in an hour or two? I could...console you.”

  He bit back a groan. “Sorry, but I’m just not up to a good consoling.” />
  Especially Bella’s version of it. And especially not now. Cassie had started to talk, and though body language could be deceiving, he thought she might be arguing about something.

  “I can see you tomorrow, then?” Bella pressed, and even though Lucky couldn’t see her face, he sensed she was doing a fake pout thing with her mouth.

  Lucky was about to come up with a couple of excuses, but then he saw Cassie slide her phone back into her pocket. She didn’t come hurrying to him, though, to tell him about her conversation with Dixie Mae’s lawyer. She just stood there, her back to him.

  “I gotta go,” Lucky said to Bella, and despite the woman’s howling protest, he hit the end-call button and made his way to Cassie.

  “So what’s the favor Dixie Mae wants us to do?” Lucky asked.

  Cassie took her time turning around to face him, but she didn’t actually look at him. Instead, she tipped her eyes to the ceiling as if seeking divine help.

  Then Cassie uttered a single word. A word that Lucky was afraid summed up this mess that Dixie Mae had just dumped on them from the grave.

  “Shit.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  CASSIE HATED TO rely on profanity to express herself, but she didn’t know what else to say after the conversation she’d just had with Bernie Woodland.

  Why in Sam Hill had her grandmother done this?

  “Do I want to know what Dixie Mae’s lawyer had to say?” Lucky asked.

  That was an easy question to answer. “No.”

  Apparently, though, Lucky wanted her to expand on that a bit. And she would. But first, Cassie had to locate the nearest chair and sit down. Sometime during that conversation with Mr. Woodland, her knees had lost all their cartilage.

  Lucky cursed. It was a much worse word than shit, and he dropped down in the chair next to her. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  Cassie nodded, swallowed hard. “There’s no need to panic. It’s something we can work out, I’m sure.”

  Though the lawyer seemed to have a different notion about that last part. Still, he was wrong. He had to be.

  “What’s the favor Dixie Mae wanted us to do for her?” Lucky pressed.

  Best just to put it out there and let Lucky work through his own version of panic. Then they could go to Mr. Woodland’s office and talk some sense into him.

  “Apparently, my grandmother left us custody of some children,” Cassie said.

  Lucky stared at her. Stared some more. Then he laughed. Not the hysterical laugh of someone panicking, either. He thought this was some kind of joke.

  “Custody of some kids?” More laughter from him. It was so hard he appeared to get a stitch in his side because he clamped his hand there for several seconds. “Right. Like I’m daddy material.”

  Cassie agreed with him on that point. Lucky was about as un-daddy-ish as a man could get. He was more the sort to practice making babies than to tend to them. That was something she hadn’t especially wanted to notice about him.

  “Never took Dixie Mae for one to pull a prank like this,” Lucky added when he finally quit ha-ha-ing.

  She hated to say this, but it was something he had to hear. “It’s not a prank. Mr. Woodland said Grandmother had him draw up papers, and she signed them the day before she died.”

  Because Lucky was so close to her, just inches away, Cassie watched that sink in. Slowly. Word by stupid word. It didn’t sink in well.

  A muscle flickered in his jaw. Then another. It didn’t take long for the shock and anger to set in after that.

  Lucky snapped to his feet with military precision. “Those darn papers can just be unsigned. Come on. Let’s go to the lawyer and get this straightened out right now.”

  If he hadn’t caught onto her arm and wrenched her from the chair, Cassie might have had trouble getting her legs to work. But Lucky had no such trouble. He lit out of there with her in tow while he fished through his jeans pocket for his keys.

  Snug jeans.

  That hugged his butt just right.

  Cassie was dumbfounded that she’d even noticed something like that. Then again, she always noticed things like that when it came to Lucky. She made a mental note to talk to a therapist about it. Of course, she had plenty of other stuff to bring up considering her grandmother had obviously lost her mind and Cassie hadn’t picked up on that until it was too late.

  “What kids?” Lucky snapped.

  Throughout most of her life, Cassie had gotten accustomed to Lucky giving her heated looks. Or maybe that was just the way he normally looked when his attention landed on a woman. However, that kind of heat was gone now, and in its place was a whole lot of confusion.

  “I’m not sure, but according to the lawyer, Grandmother had custody of them for the past several months.”

  “Impossible. No one in their right mind would give Dixie Mae kids to raise. Any kids. What do you know about them? Who are their idiot parents? And why didn’t Dixie Mae ever mention anything about them?”

  Three good questions. She had fewer good answers. In fact, Cassie had no answers at all.

  “Mr. Woodland didn’t know. Grandmother didn’t give him any details, only that she was transferring guardianship to the two of us. He was going to call us when the children arrived at his office—which should be any minute now.”

  Just saying the words aloud caused the anxiety to swell in her chest again. Her nerves were already prickling beneath the surface, what with Dixie Mae’s death, and her other problem, but the prickling was well on its way to being full-blown panic.

  Breathe.

  Not that guppy breathing, either. That would cause her to hyperventilate again. Nice, normal, slow breaths. At the end of a few of those, Cassie’s head finally began to clear.

  “It has to be a misunderstanding,” she said more to herself than Lucky, but he latched right on to the idea as if it were a true beacon of hope.

  “You’re right. And Bernie Woodland will tell us that.” Possibly a lie, but she needed a beacon of hope, too.

  Lucky practically stuffed her into a sleek red truck and peeled out of the parking lot. Even though she didn’t need any proof whatsoever of his bad-boy reputation, she got it right away. He sped down Main Street, violating at least three traffic laws while getting the attention of every single female they passed along the way. Two gave him “call me” hand gestures.

  Because Spring Hill was a small town by anyone’s standards, it didn’t take Lucky long to get to the lawyer’s office. Only a couple of minutes. He screeched the truck into one of the tight parking spaces and threw open the door in the same motion that he turned off the engine.

  Cassie had to run to catch up with him. Thankfully, that was easy to do since she was wearing her traveling shoes and not her usual heels. She made it in behind him by only a few seconds. During those seconds, though, Lucky had already managed to get the attention of the receptionist, Wilhelmina Larkin.

  Wilhelmina was sixty if she was a day but obviously still wasn’t immune to Lucky McCord and his crotch-framing jeans. She stood, twirling a coil of her hair around her finger and smiling in a coy way that made it clear she appreciated the view in front of her.

  “I need to see Bernie,” Lucky insisted. His tone was hard enough, but he returned Wilhelmina’s smile as naturally as he drew in his next breath.

  “He’s busy with a client right now,” Wilhelmina said.

  The woman actually batted her eyelashes. Good gravy. If Cassie hadn’t already had enough to sour her stomach, that would have done it. With the way women threw themselves at Lucky, it could possibly turn out that these children in question might be his offspring after all.

  Lucky leaned in, his hands landing on Wilhelmina’s desk. “Unbusy Bernie. We want to talk to him right now. It’s important.”

  Maybe it was
because Lucky quit grinning or maybe it was because he no longer sounded like the hot cowboy women drooled over, but either way, Wilhelmina nixed the eyelash batting and actually slid her gaze toward Cassie, apparently noticing her for the first time.

  “Oh,” Wilhelmina remarked. “This must be about Dixie Mae. What’s going on anyway? Bernie wouldn’t get into it with me. Dixie Mae’s orders, he said. Dixie Mae thought I’d gossip about it. That’s what she said to Bernie—that I would gossip about it—so Bernie typed up the paperwork himself. Didn’t even know he could type.”

  Lucky gave her a flat look, and Cassie thought he might repeat his order to see Bernie. He didn’t. He stormed passed Wilhelmina, heading up the hall. There were several offices, but Lucky seemed to know exactly which one belonged to Bernie because he opened the door without knocking. Bernie was with someone all right.

  Cassie’s father.

  Mason-Dixon Weatherall.

  Cassie stumbled to a stop, her father’s and her gazes colliding like two unconnected burglars who’d broken into the same place at the same time. Instant guilt.

  Well, guilt on her part anyway.

  She’d distanced herself from him years ago because of the way he treated her, and he’d distanced himself from her because of the distancing. Cassie was betting, though, that her father felt no guilt whatsoever about that, what with his my-way-or-the-highway approach to life.

  It was the first time she’d seen him in nearly ten years, and her immediate thought—once she got past the question as to why he was there—was that he looked so old. He was still dyeing his hair the color of crude oil, still wearing clothes straight out of the sixties, but there were a lot more wrinkles on his face than there had been during their last meeting.

  Her father eased himself to his feet. “Cassie,” he greeted.

  “Dad,” Cassie greeted back with the same caution of those two theoretical burglars.

  Lucky volleyed some glances between them. “Does your dad have anything to do with this shit?”

  “Do you?” Cassie asked her father.