Courted by the Texas Millionaire

by Crystal Green

  Nonetheless, he heard himself saying, “Did you know that the paper didn’t report on Amati’s cause of death? He’s a presence in those saloon photographs and in town history, so why was he practically a nobody in his obituary?”

  “You’ll get to the bottom of it.”

  The same anger that had haunted him for years reared up again. He wasn’t going to let her get away that easily this time. “Something’s going on here. And if it’s big enough, it might even serve to bring in some much-needed tourists to St. Valentine. It could pump up the economy, and that includes the saloon, Vi.”

  She blew out a breath, as if he’d hit a mark.

  It wasn’t fair, but he said it anyway. “This story could really give this town some profile. And working on it might also go a long way in making your stay here easier.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “I’ve seen what you’re going through—the looks, the snide remarks.”

  “Jennifer was the only one offering up the sarcasm.”

  “We both know she won’t be the last.”

  As she took that in, he waited. Say yes, Vi…

  “Do you really think this look-alike will amount to anything?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Just call it a gut feeling.”

  Another hesitation. She was going to tell him to stick this story where the sun didn’t shine, wasn’t she? The worst thing about it was that he knew another no from her would chew at him for the rest of the night, the rest of…

  He wasn’t sure just how long it’d be.

  “Davis,” she said softly, “I can guess how much it would mean for you if you could do something wonderful for this place.”

  “Earlier, I swear I saw the girl who never turned her back on a story. Where did she go?”

  “You know where she went.”

  A short burst from her parents’ pickup horn made her walk away. But he still felt her on his flesh, singeing away at him.

  “Violet?” he asked.

  She stopped in her tracks.

  His pulse was flying. “The newspaper office will be open tomorrow before you get to the saloon.”

  She bit her bottom lip, glancing at the bar and grill.

  He pushed the subject, his heartbeat racing. “I’ll be passing your ranch on the way in.” Damned if he wasn’t going to give up. Damned if he was going out on a limb here, against all his common sense.

  Her parents’ truck purred as she gave him that wide-eyed look that told him the promise of making a gesture of goodwill to the town mattered to her just as much as it did to him.

  “Okay,” she said. “I can look at the archives for about an hour, just to see if there’s anything to this.”

  “And to do a freelance write-up for the Recorder?”

  “If the research pans out. Maybe.”

  Was she about to say something more?

  He never found out, because she’d already jumped into her parents’ truck, leaving Davis with a tight grin.

  He’d lost her once, but he had her for a morning now.

  Chapter Three

  After a night of searching the internet on her laptop without much success, Violet was up just after dawn, the birds chirping outside the window of the little cabin she was staying in on her parents’ ranch.

  Back in the days before her mother and father had purchased the saloon, when Dad was a full-timer at the mine, Mom and the Osbornes’ employees had run this spread that had been in the family for generations. They’d bred American Quarter horses until, after several bad years of business, they’d had to sell off most of the land and stop the operation altogether. That was when her parents had decided to invest everything they had left in the bar and grill, and this decision had left the employee cabins empty, except for this one. Mom had fixed it up just before Violet had arrived, trimming it with gingham curtains and polishing the pine furniture. It was a stark contrast to her old apartment, with its view of Wilshire Boulevard’s skyscrapers in the near distance and the elevator just down the hall, where every doorway seemed to hide an actor or a budding director behind it.

  She left the cabin, knowing Mom would’ve cooked an amazing breakfast—chocolate chip pancakes. It’d been a while since Violet had eaten such a thing; not since her last short trip here months ago. Her job had kept her too busy to be in the kitchen very much, and she’d become accustomed to grabbing hot coffee and limp sandwiches on the fly.

  She opened the main house’s front door, the aroma of those pancakes making her mouth water. From the entryway, she could see the hall leading to the bedrooms—the one she’d grown up in would still be untouched, with its posters of all the places Great-Aunt Jeanne had experienced while writing her upscale magazine travel articles—Monaco, Madrid, Berlin. Whenever Great-Aunt Jeanne had visited, she’d always told Violet about salon talks with poets, riding in speedboats with princes.

  She would’ve been proud that Violet had spread her wings and explored everything outside this “hick town” that she had escaped, too.

  Violet just tried not to dwell on what her aunt would’ve done if she knew her great-niece had landed back in St. Valentine.

  She made her way into the kitchen, the whoosh from an overhead fan chasing away some of the heat already settling in for the day.

  Mom was wielding a spatula at the stove, her curly gray hair in a ponytail. “Just a few more minutes and I’ll be done.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “We can have a family breakfast, just like we used to. Your dad’s going to be out of the shower anytime now.”

  Oops. On the way home last night, Violet had neglected to tell her parents that Davis would be picking her up this morning. Mom would be okay with it, but Dad?

  He emerged earlier than expected from the hallway, his graying head wet from the shower. “It’ll be a scorching one today.” He bent down to kiss the top of Violet’s head and sat for their family meal.

  Might as well get this over with. “I wish I could stick around for a long breakfast this morning,” she said, “but I’m off to town soon.”

  Mom looked over her shoulder, balancing a pancake on the spatula. “How are you going to get there?”

  “It’s covered.” Violet nonchalantly poured herself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the table. “Davis is picking me up.”

  Dad sat up straighter in his chair, so Violet spoke before he could.

  “I’m working on a small story that could bring some positive attention to St. Valentine in time for Founder’s Weekend.”

  “Hmph,” Dad said.

  “Gary,” Mom said. “Don’t start.”

  Violet said, “There’s really nothing to start about. It’s work, and I can add it to my résumé so future bosses can see that I’m still sharpening my craft.”

  She neglected to add that she’d been happy when Davis hadn’t brought up anything personal again last night, after he’d caught her post-closing time at the bar and grill. When he’d started talking about the stranger instead, she’d just about wilted with relief. Yeah, that’s what it had to be—relief. Because surely it hadn’t been some kind of disappointment that they were veering around everything else in favor of talking about the Tony Amati look-alike.

  Mom brought the platter of pancakes to the table, but Dad didn’t dig in just yet.

  “That’s all it is?” Dad asked. “A story?”

  “Yes. I figure it might…I don’t know, it might go a long way in showing everyone that I want to contribute while I’m around. Coming back here made me realize that I have some things to clean up in this town.”

  Mom sat down, too. “And a news story’s going to do that?”

  “It could. It’s a gesture, a way of saying that I’m not an
y better than anyone here. That I do care about this place.” Violet picked up her orange juice glass.

  “So,” Mom said, “does that mean you’re going to stay longer than we first thought?”

  Violet laughed. “Adventure’s in my blood, Mom, just like it was with Great-Aunt Jeanne. I miss running around the city, writing about the different trials at court or about what’s being smuggled in through LAX. I miss meeting my friends for cocktails and going to movies at the Chinese Theatre—”

  Mom held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear about smugglers and criminals.” She liked to pretend that Violet had a nice, cushy desk job.

  Dad stabbed at a pancake on the platter. “I’m about as excited about you working with Davis as I was when you were kids.”

  “Gary…” Mom said again, this time with more warning.

  Dad knitted his bushy brows as Mom continued.

  “Violet’s an adult. Just because she’s living here doesn’t mean we get to poke our nose into her business.” She spread a checkered napkin over her lap. “Besides, you’d think we’ve grown out of all this—who’s rich, who’s poor, especially after Davis went to bat for the miners.”

  “Too bad it backfired,” Violet said.

  Dad stuffed a bite of pancake into his mouth.

  Violet didn’t let him off the hook. “He deserves points for what he’s doing for St. Valentine now, too, Dad. He’s determined to get this place on its feet again.”

  Mom shot Dad a “You hear that?” look.

  Violet polished off one pancake, knowing she could take some with her, plus her juice, then rose from the table just before her dad did. Dad said he needed to do some saloon paperwork before going in for the day.

  She rushed to brush her teeth in her cabin. When she got back into the main house, the sound of a deep, low male voice came from the kitchen. That zinging sensation flew through Violet again.

  Davis.

  She took a big breath. Steady. You’re just helping him with some research.

  But when she saw him standing in the kitchen near the stove—talking with her mom, dressed in a tailored Western shirt, jeans and expensive handworked leather boots—her heart just about leaped out of her chest.

  Her mind scrambled, right along with all the crazy electricity flying through her body, and she wasn’t so sure today was about being professional at all.

  * * *

  They’d taken some pancakes with them, driving the country road in Davis’s shiny, vintage Aston Martin.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Violet nibble on a pancake. He’d never been so interested in the way a woman ate. He’d never even dwelled so much on a mouth and what it might feel like against his own. And this was a very adult craving, too—far from the hormonal interest he’d had in Violet way back when.

  He rested one arm on the open window, welcoming the morning air as it hit his face. It didn’t do much to cool him off, though.

  Davis had just finished telling Violet more of the details he’d culled from his research last night when she brushed a few pancake crumbs from her blouse.

  “I think that a break-in at the sheriff’s home the same week that Tony died under mysterious circumstances is worth looking into,” she said, all business. “I don’t know, it could be my imagination getting spooked, but—”

  “We could have some kind of a lead about how Tony Amati really might’ve died?”

  “Could be.”

  “I even wonder if our stranger, Jared, has come here to find out about Tony, too. If he’s his descendent or something and he’s on a fact-finding trip.”

  Violet turned toward him, and Davis glanced at her. A few dark red hairs had escaped from her ponytail. Her brown eyes had a gleam—that unmistakable sign of the thrill of the chase that used to light her gaze in their high school days.

  Outside the window, white fences and green pastures rushed by. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “What—this story, or having you in my car, riding along with me?”

  She blushed, and it stirred him right back up again. It also warned him that he needed to back off, because it probably wouldn’t take much for her to shy away from him.

  “It has nothing to do with your four-wheeled toys.” Now Violet had that lost expression on her face he’d seen so many times before. “I meant to say that you seem to like the possibility of chasing a real story. More than the usual ‘Fireman Rescues Cat from Tree’ sort of thing.”

  “We get a little more action than that in St. Valentine these days. Last month, we actually covered a knock-down-drag-out fight between Maura Stosser and our own Wiley Scott. She’d bopped him on the head in the general store with an umbrella from the sale rack when he’d given her the wrong look.”

  “What look was that?”

  “Cross-eyed. I don’t know. Wiley and Maura fight like a dog and cat. He’s always straddled the line between the miners and the townies, but Maura’s a…”

  He wasn’t sure how to put it without offending Violet.

  “Devoted east-side girl who doesn’t think anyone should straddle?” she supplied, laughing, letting him know that she didn’t live by all the labels. She never had.

  “Really,” she said, getting back to the previous topic, “you don’t mind the slow pace of this town?”

  He steered onto Ranger Street, which bypassed the newer part of town and led to the old section. “Believe it or not, I’m perfectly content here. Even when I took a break from St. Valentine after high school, I never did get comfortable with skyscrapers and concrete. I like the open blue. I like the sound of silence in the morning just after the sun rises. I’m merely simple at heart, I guess.”

  “You’re not simple at all.”

  She said it as if he’d never been that way.

  Would he have been enough to keep her interested? He didn’t know what the hell he’d do with an answer, but not knowing was eating away at him. He’d spent a lot of time finding himself after she’d left.

  Why did it seem so damned important for her to acknowledge that he would’ve never disappointed her?

  He pulled the car into a spot behind the newspaper office in a plume of dust. As the cloud hovered, they closed up the windows, then alighted, going inside through the back entrance, past the printing equipment and into the main room.

  After he snapped on the light, Violet put her hands on her hips and glanced around. She was wearing a crisp white blouse, creased dark blue shorts and Keds, and Davis took a moment to appreciate how her legs seemed to go on forever.

  Finally, she said, “Every modern convenience known to man, even air-conditioning. This doesn’t feel like the same place Wiley owned.”

  He pulled out a padded leather chair so she could commandeer a computer. She sat right down as he turned on the unit.

  He brought her some bottled water from the office fridge and sat at a neighboring computer station to search the digitized archives for other relevant past editions. Every once in a while, though, he couldn’t help glancing at her. He liked how she bit her bottom lip when she was concentrating, liked how she tilted her head, as if that helped her thought process, too.

  Something in his chest got all warm. She was serious; he wasn’t all that much. She was a mining kid; he was a Jackson.

  But would that matter so much anymore?

  “Look at this,” Violet said.

  She was pointing to her screen, and he leaned in to her, looking over her shoulder.

  His cheek was only an inch away from her hair, and he could feel the light brush of it, plus the warmth from her skin. He could smell more subtleties in the lotion or shampoo she used—cherry laced with…almond. Something that burrowed deep into him.

  It took him a second
to gather his wits, but he eventually forced himself to read the article she’d indicated.

  It was dated a day after those other articles he’d found about the break-in at the sheriff’s house and Tony’s death.

  “Sheriff Hadenfield’s daughter, Tessa…” he said, skimming. “…Hospital…resting comfortably…”

  He backed away before he could do something foolish, like bend down and press his mouth to Violet’s. “This is about as vague as the rest of what we have.”

  “Isn’t that weird? I’ve been reading other articles from this era and they’re not as haphazardly researched and reported.”

  “I hate to say the word conspiracy, but it’s flashing in my mind like neon.”

  They kept looking at each other for a second, then broke into tentative smiles that disappeared all too soon.

  “Right,” he said. “Some kind of conspiracy here in little St. Valentine. Now that would be something to capitalize on. A great legend that outside news stations could report on, making us a countrywide vacation destination, just like Tombstone or Dodge City.”

  But Violet was already tilting her head. “Davis, what if the sheriff had enough power to keep whatever happened under wraps?”

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “I’m not sure. And there are no Hadenfields left in St. Valentine to enlighten us.”

  But she was already out of her chair, the wheels turning, and he couldn’t help feeling the same excitement that was setting her in motion.

  “Do you think the new hospital would have Tessa’s records either in hard copy or online?” Violet asked. “Unless some kind of privacy laws stopped us, could we find out what sort of injuries she had?”

  “When the old hospital burned down in ’63, all the paper went with it. They wouldn’t have had the chance to digitize their files.” In spite of this setback, he grinned at her. Whether she’d admit it or not, she was working with him again.

  She rolled her eyes. “So I’m a little invested already.”

  Then, with a soft smile, she went back to her computer, printing out the article. He didn’t ask her when she’d like to show up to work with him next. He wished he could just offer her a salary, put her on staff full-time, but he expected that would only make her bristle. Getting her to consider doing something freelance had been tough enough.