Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1)

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Hell-lo.” She snapped me out of my trance.

  I adjusted my tunic, and cleared my throat. “How may I help you?”

  “My father sent me in to find out if this is Jack Holden’s office. He has a meeting with him.” She dragged out the “fa” in father and dropped an octave on “ther.” The girl didn’t like her dad much.

  “Yes, this is the place.”

  “He said to tell him he’s on the phone and will be in as quickly as he can.” She rolled her eyes ever so slightly. “That means don’t hold your breath.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  The girl made a show of giving the place a once-over, then walked out without another word on whisper-soft footsteps that put my scouting skills to shame.

  Twenty minutes later, Paul Johnson joined us in the conference room. Jack and I made small talk with him as we got situated. He didn’t look like any businessman I’d ever known. He looked like a bouncer gone to seed—with a grizzled chin and hooded eyes—who’d stolen himself some fancy cowboy clothes. He stood six foot six in his boots, and he had to be at least three hundred pounds. His buttocks and thighs strained against Cinch jeans, and his girth tested the snaps on his shirt. Despite all of that, he had a ready smile and booming laugh, so I ignored the seediness as best I could and concentrated on the fact that he wanted to bring a lot of business to the firm I worked for, however temporarily.

  Judith rolled in a cart and arranged three place settings in front of us. Addressing Jack, she said, “It’s from Casa de Suenos.”

  “Thanks. Good call. Best New Mexican food in Southern New Mexico.” Jack smiled at her.

  “In all of New Mexico.” Paul reached for one of the two plates of enchiladas. There was red chili and green chili—he chose red.

  I wondered if any of the entrees were meatless. “Thank you.” I reached for a platter of fried things. Fried appetizers were usually veggie. And anything fried was my favorite food group these days. I pushed two onto my plate.

  Judith nodded at me. “Avocados Borrachos. Beer battered fried avocados. They’re good with that jalapeño ranch dressing.”

  This was as friendly as she’d been to me so far, and I was so shocked I couldn’t think of a response before she turned and disappeared, leaving the door open.

  I scooped some of the ranch onto my plate, then added generous helpings of rice and beans. I looked up at Jack, and he nodded at my plate and raised his left eyebrow. It rehabilitated some of the sexiness he’d lost by flying me in a small plane to a dirt runway in the middle of nowhere. I grabbed another avocado and wiggled my eyebrows back. He hadn’t put a thing on his plate. I dipped the avocado in ranch, then bit into it. I groaned, and both men looked over at me.

  “Excuse me.” I coughed into my napkin. “Something stuck in my throat.”

  Jack’s dimple appeared quick as a heartbeat and disappeared just as fast. “Are you okay?”

  I felt my checks heat. “Yes, thank you.”

  Paul dug back into his food, but he was the next one to break the silence anyway, speaking through a big mouthful as he chewed. Raised in a barn, I thought.

  “Thanks for having me over to talk, and for the lunch,” Paul said. “I just bought some property on the south side of 70. I guess that makes us practically neighbors, Jack.”

  I caught a glimpse of a half-masticated bite of red enchilada in Paul’s mouth. My gag response hovered near the surface these days, and that triggered it. I covered my mouth with my hand and pretended to cough again, averting my eyes. I saw the twinkle in Jack’s.

  “You said on the phone you wanted to talk to me about putting my firm on retainer to help you when there are criminal matters impacting your business dealings.” Jack said, not acknowledging Paul’s comment about neighbors.

  Paul said, “That’s right.”

  This time, he showed us green enchilada, but I was able to suppress my gag. I put my fork down.

  “May I ask how you found us?”

  Paul popped a whole fried avocado in his mouth and said, “I read about you in the Alamogordo paper, a few years back—when you were still with the DA’s office. Then I heard on the news that you were representing that woman up in Amarillo, the one that murdered the Roswell guy, and that you had an office here, too. I said, ‘That’s the attorney I need to call.’”

  Jack stuck to the subject, still talking over an empty plate. “You have employees that have been charged with murder?”

  Paul shook his head and held up his hand, still chewing. Too much food crammed in his maw for even him to talk through it? That must be some mouthful. He opened his mouth and sprayed some rice on the table in front of him. I looked away.

  “No,” he said, “but assault and battery. New Mexico and West Texas. You never know when a man will have to defend himself with deadly force in the kinds of work I have them doing, though.” He paused, looked at his food, then back up at Jack. “Is that what that woman in Amarillo was doing? Defending herself?”

  I’d known Jack just long enough to see the change that came over him. His jaw flexed, barely perceptibly, and his pupils dilated. His nostrils flared ever so slightly. And he thumped his pen once, hard on the tabletop.

  “Run me through your businesses and where you operate. Then we’ll need to go over your past legal troubles, and what you’re facing now. See if I can help, and how.”

  I pushed my sadly full plate back, opened my laptop, and started taking notes.

  Chapter Seven

  After our meeting concluded, I devoted the rest of the afternoon to researching the names of businesses Paul had given us. I wouldn’t have thought it in the first ten minutes, but after spending two hours with Paul, I liked the guy. I think he’d even won Jack over. He had a self-deprecating sense of humor and told funny stories about the nightclub business and the escapades of drunken patrons.

  As I worked, I kept flashing back on the signed photo of the Mountain Spirits in the bathroom. I went and studied it again and perused the other photos in the lobby. Lena Holden’s name appeared in the bottom right corner of all of them. Who was she? I returned to my laptop and resumed work. Finally, I broke down.

  “Judith?”

  The woman hadn’t said a word since I’d returned to our shared space after the meeting, hadn’t even glanced my way. In a flat voice, she answered without looking away from her computer screen.

  “Yes.”

  I rolled my chair in her direction—not too close, but close enough that I could talk in a voice that Jack couldn’t hear. “The photographs in the office are so beautiful. They’re signed by Lena Holden. Is she related to Jack?”

  Two eyes sharp as flint slowly rose to meet mine. The hair I’d thought was gray earlier was really more salt-and-pepper. She wore it pulled back into one long braid, and the black strands running through it matched her eyes. Her nose dominated her face, but she was beautiful, nonetheless. Without changing expression, she stared at me until I almost said, “Never mind.”

  Then she looked back at her screen. “Jack’s wife.”

  “Oh, okay. Thank you. I, um, didn’t know her name,” I lied, heart pounding.

  Jack’s wife. I rolled back to my desk, flummoxed. Well, he must have been one of those guys who didn’t wear a wedding band. I should have guessed it, given that he never gave a straight answer to a question, but I couldn’t help feeling misled.

  It took all I had to focus on my work. I’d made it only about halfway through my list when Jack asked me to brief him on what I’d found so far. My research was as happy as the hair on a mangy dog at that point, so I stalled him for ten more minutes and scurried to pull something together.

  When I had myself somewhat organized, I joined him in his office. I gave him the quick run-down on Johnson, looking at my yellow pad instead of up at him. In a nutshell, it was too soon to tell much about his new client but, so far, I’d found nothing that contradicted what Johnson had told us.

  “I’ll finish the rest when we get back to Amari
llo,” I said. “Especially the stuff about Mr. Johnson, personally.”

  “Sounds good,” Jack said. “I have a stack of other clients I need to get you started on soon, too.”

  That made me think about Sofia. And Valentina. “Have you heard anything about Sofia?” I asked.

  I snuck a glance down at the phone in my lap to see if I had any notifications from Wallace, but I didn’t. Other than him texting to confirm that he was picking me up at nine thirty on Monday, I hadn’t heard from him, but it wasn’t as if I’d expected to—it’s just that I’d hoped for good news.

  Jack looked at me funny, like I was funny. “The guards don’t exactly call me with updates on my clients,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, I—never mind.”

  I wanted to pop off at him, but I was tired. Belatedly, I realized that, once again, he hadn’t even answered what I’d asked.

  From the lobby area of the office, Judith called out goodbye. The front door shut behind her and Jack and I were left alone.

  “Time for us to pack up.” He stood and grabbed his briefcase.

  I stood, too, and asked, “Where am I staying?”

  Tularosa didn’t seem like it had a lot of hotels, and I had left everything up to Judith, at his request.

  “The guest suite at Wrong Turn Ranch,” he said as he closed his laptop and disconnected his power cord.

  “Where we landed today?”

  “Um hmm.” He stuck his laptop in his bag. The Anne Hillerman book followed it.

  I hadn’t seen signs for a bed and breakfast at the entrance. Oh well. It must be a nice place, if it had a landing strip. I felt a flicker of hopeful excitement that sent tingles through my body, reenergizing me, enough that my bad mood started to fade away.

  “Okay,” I said.

  I gathered all my things, then stopped. Even if this job with Jack was just short term, it didn’t hurt to try to win Judith over. Plus, maybe I had unknowingly offended her somehow. She’d taken care of everything for me, after all, whether she’d wanted to or not. I would try harder. I jotted a quick thank-you note to her and left it in her chair.

  Jack, Snowflake, and I got in the Suburban and drove out of town, toward the mountains. The setting sun cast a red glow across their slopes, and the desert in front of us looked almost golden in the evening light. A pronghorn antelope with large horns grazed off the highway to our right and, in the distance, the rugged desert topography morphed rapidly into foothills.

  I snuck a glance at Jack’s profile and asked, “Did you grow up here?”

  He nodded—and kept nodding for a few seconds. “My dad bred race horses.”

  My jaw dropped. “You’re kidding me. That’s awesome!”

  The last of my hurt feelings gave way. I could be upset later. This topic was too alluring to resist.

  The way his face moved, I knew his left side was smiling and dimpled, even though the part I could see remained basically the same.

  “Yeah, it wasn’t bad. He and Mom retired to the RV touring life. They stop in a few times a year.”

  “What happened to the horses?”

  “They’re still around. There’s a full staff and a ranch manager who profit-shares, so it runs like a top.”

  “I’d love to see it, if we have time.”

  He shot me a funny look. “I think we can fit it in.”

  He turned on his left blinker, and we turned into the Wrong Turn Ranch gate.

  “That’s a funny name,” I said.

  We drove fifteen feet further and Jack braked at a small sign. I read “If you’re here, you’ve made a wrong turn. Highway 70 is behind you.”

  I laughed. “I love it.”

  He was looking at me, so I got an eyeful of the dimple and lopsided smile this time. His wife must love those. Irritation flickered in me, but it wasn’t enough to overcome the good feelings that had taken over. Jack drove on, and the road split in two in front of us. The left fork was less traveled. He stayed to the right.

  “Airstrip that way.” He pointed left.

  How convenient that the ranch had an airstrip on their property for visitors. I wondered how many people really flew themselves around, though. It made for a unique marketing angle for a remote B&B, I supposed. It could help to differentiate them for an upscale clientele. Maybe that’s why they didn’t have a sign for the B&B on the road. Privacy for the rich and famous. I hugged myself.

  The road wound to the right, toward the mountains. “We came right over these mountains when we landed?” I asked.

  “Yep.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d been completely oblivious to them, but then I had been otherwise occupied. Ahead of us I saw the B&B. It was a large, two-story log house set against the foothills of the mountains. It had what looked like a guest house way off in the distance behind it, and multiple ranch-type outbuildings closer-in of various sizes in tan metal with silver roofs. The main house looked well-kept, but like it had seen a lot of history—the good kind.

  I sighed. “It’s beautiful.”

  “And really warm for this time of year. Some of the trees haven’t even dropped their leaves yet.” Jack said. He gestured toward the mountains, and I saw flashes of yellow and red in the treetops, deciduous outposts in a vast expanse of evergreen.

  I turned my attention back toward the B&B. Beyond the buildings I saw something even better. I drew a reverent breath. Horses. Lots of horses. As we drew closer, I could see that they were quarter horses—really amazing ones—in blacks and rich browns. A truck pulled up to their gate and a black horse with one white sock ran toward it, tail and head both high in the air.

  “They even have horses,” I said. “What a great place.”

  “Yeah, I think it is.”

  Jack pulled to a stop in the circle in front of the house. I got out with my purse and laptop bag and went to the rear to get my suitcase. Jack set Snowflake on the ground and waved me off. I almost scampered up the steps to the front porch, my heart thumping with excitement. What a fantastic getaway this was turning out to be, small planes and barf bags aside. When I reached the door, I stopped. Snowflake sat and looked up at me questioningly. I wasn’t sure of my B&B etiquette. Knock, or go on in?

  Jack solved it for me. He shouted, “It should be unlocked.”

  I held my breath, pulled the lever on the front door, and pushed it open. The front entry opened onto a trussed great room. A stone chimney was centered on one wall, stretching to the high ceiling. The stones were enormous, some at least a few hundred pounds. Leather furniture and Southwestern rugs and blankets filled the space. My heart caught in my throat. Most women dreamed of mansions on grand estates or in exotic cities. Not me. I dreamed of a ranch house and horses and mountains and . . . I faltered, the emotion of my true situation catching up with me: broke, almost single, pregnant, living with her mother in Amarillo, and about to be co-parenting with an ex and his cross-dressing lover. Well, this was still what I dreamed of, even if I only had it for tonight.

  Jack set my bag down behind me. I turned to him, and I could barely contain myself.

  “This place is perfect,” I said. “Thank you so much!” And then I launched myself at him and hugged him so tight, I heard a little oomph as I squeezed the wind out of him. I let him go. “Oh God, I’m so sorry. I just, well, thank you. This is a real treat for me.”

  His eyes were wide, but he was laughing. “I’ll show you to your room.”

  “Are you staying here, too?”

  “Yes, I am. And if you hurry up and grab a jacket in case it cools off, I’ll take you to see the horses.”

  I grabbed my suitcase and yelled, “Let’s go!”

  ***

  Ten minutes later, I was chewing Jack’s already minimal posterior down to a nub.

  “You could have just told me,” I said. “You know, like used words, and said ‘Emily, Wrong Turn Ranch is my place.’ And then you could have given me a choice whether I was even comfortable staying at the house of my boss, whom I’ve know
n less than a week.”

  He listened attentively and calmly, not batting an eye. When I had finished my tirade, he pursed his lips.

  “So you don’t want to go for a ride?” he asked.

  “ARGH!” I said, almost shouting. “I do want to go for a ride. But that’s beside the point.”

  “Well, my point is that we’re going to have to hurry.” He lifted his head and slung it back toward the east. “Sun’s setting.”

  “Fine.”

  He nodded. “Fine.” He started walking toward the barn again.

  “Howdy, Jack,” a man’s voice said as we approached the largest of the tan structures.

  Sliding doors opened to a wide interior corridor. Ah, horse stable—not barn. A sacred place.

  “Hey, Mickey. This is Emily, and we want to get in a quick ride before sunset. She’s an old hand. Can I grab Jarhead for her?”

  A large man with a low black ponytail fastened with a long silver-studded leather strap was halfway down a ladder extending up into a loft area. When he reached the ground, he dusted his hands on his loose jeans, then lifted off a straw cowboy hat and mopped his forehead with his arm. “Evening, Emily.”

  “Hello, Mickey.”

  He put his hands on the back of his hips and leaned back, stretching. “Jarhead’s fine. He’s at the end down there on the left. You want me to saddle him up?”

  “No, but do you mind bringing a saddle to fit Emily? Sun’s sinking. And how’s the big boy?”

  “Hopper’s good. We brought him in this morning and got him ready for you.”

  Jack strode down the center corridor, and Mickey fell in beside him. Instead, I lingered at each stall. The horses stuck their heads out. They were beautiful quarter horses and my heart ached with memories and affection. A mare heavy with foal. A stallion, bellowing. A yearling with a bandage on its face. I loved the tough little quarter horses. They were the horses of my youth, bred for power and sturdy like a tank—the mount of choice for cowhands because their sprinting, spinning, stopping, and backing prowess make them ideal for working cattle. And for racing. In fact, quarter horses got their name because they are the fastest animals in the world at the quarter mile.