A Home in Hill Country (Harlequin Heartwarming)

by Rustand, Roxanne

  She’d figured that someone might have side-swiped the truck, and that there could’ve been paint residue on the doors.

  But what if another driver had rammed just the front fender…or had cut sharply into the path of the truck? Could there have been any contact with the corner of Dad’s bumper?

  The piles of auto parts stacked behind Buddy’s Auto… It was a long shot. Probably just another dead end, another disappointment. But if she didn’t at least try, she would never know.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  KRISTIN MADE IT to Buddy’s Auto by three minutes after noon. This time, she ignored the Closed sign and rapped sharply on the door, then skirted the shop and went around back calling his name.

  Sure enough, he soon stepped out of an open garage door leading into the building, wiping his hands on a greasy rag. “Hey,” he called out in greeting.

  She picked her way through the pieces of machinery lying everywhere. “Hey.”

  He cocked his head. “Lookin’ for ole trucks again, or are you just takin’ a tour?”

  “Pieces this time, actually.” She surveyed the jumble of automotive parts stacked in piles or leaning against a long corrugated metal shed. “If you have an old vehicle…not worth much…you part it out, right?”

  “Probably.”

  “Bumpers or front fenders?”

  “Depends, I guess….” His voice trailed off as he surveyed his stock, then glanced up the hill at the junk graveyard, where rows of old trucks, old tractors and cars were parked. “You know your daddy’s truck is long gone.”

  “I’m just hoping you might’ve taken off anything usable before having it crushed.”

  “Maybe.” He rubbed his chin. “Those ’67 Chevys were real popular, but it ain’t always easy to find original parts. Sometimes we’ll even save parts with a little damage, if we figure a body man can fix ’em.”

  “And don’t you have some sort of system, a way to know what you’ve got—by year and model?”

  He released a gusty sigh. “Yes, ma’am. But that don’t mean it’s in some fancy computer. You saw my book last time.”

  Complete with grease stains and half-legible writing, but she’d also seen meticulous detail. “The car parts out here, do they all have some sort of stock number on them? A way for you to keep your inventory straight?”

  He hooted at that. “Mighty good idea, if I had a half-dozen guys working here, round-the-clock.” His expression grew somber. “I do miss your daddy, and I’m real sorry for your loss. Look, I’ll search around a little. If I parted out that old ’67 Chevy, I might have chalked the invoice numbers underneath the bigger pieces. That’s the best I can do. Got a phone number?”

  Kristin dug into her purse and handed him a business card from the clinic. “I’d be happy to help look. I’ve seen photos and I know it was gray with white or cream fenders and a shiny silver front bumper.”

  “Right.” He tipped his head toward the sea of metal behind him. “That will help a lot—but I don’t want no one else back here. My insurance man is pretty doggone firm about that.”

  “But you will check?”

  He pocketed her card in the front center pocket of his overalls. “I’ll check, but don’t be holding your breath. This is a real shot in the dark.”

  “Thank you.” She hesitated, then stood on her toes to give him a peck on the cheek. “Thank you so much.”

  “WE’VE GOT TEN THREE MORE calls on hunting leases, Dad.” Ryan opened a file on the desk and flipped through it. “Two guys from Dallas and one from San Antonio. I figure there’s enough prime hunting land here for you to set up another seven or eight leases.”

  “Tried that ten years ago. Not worth the bother,” Clint said dismissively. “Fools left gates open. Left their trash. Lost two good steers when one idiot didn’t take aim.”

  “It’s worth the trouble now. Hunting is huge in Texas, as you well know. Something like ninety-seven percent of the land is privately owned, so you’ve got to get in there, Dad. Wealthy hunters are willing to pay top dollar to use your land.”

  Clint waved impatiently. “Trevor’s too busy. You’ll soon be gone. Who do you think is going to manage all of this?”

  “Garrett and Trevor. The person you hire to replace me.” Ryan slid a copy of a new ad layout across the table. “We can designate certain areas for three-day hunting party packages at $395 to $500 per gun, and offer the use of some cabins that are empty anyway. Annual leases in other areas of the ranch ought to go for around $2,500 per gun.”

  “And what makes you think that?”

  “Since Trevor got back from Houston, he’s spent the last four days doing flyovers with the chopper, checking for game. This ranch hasn’t been hunted much in years, and he’s counted hundreds of whitetail and uncountable flocks of turkeys, and that’s just what he can see from the air. Ride any direction from the barns and you’ll find flocks of quail and dove. Hunters will bag their limits and beg to come back.”

  Clint pursed his lips as he scanned the advertisement Ryan had created on the computer. “You can get this show on the road before you leave?”

  “We’ll likely be turning people away. Leland is working on several standard contracts specifying dates, liability and so on. Then it’ll just be a matter of fielding calls and answering questions.”

  “Leland tells me he talked to you last weekend, by the way.” Clint drummed his fingers on the desk.

  “He came to the office, looking for you. He thinks Nate was ‘one crafty dude’ to figure out such a slick embezzlement scheme…and he figures that you’ll never track down the money.”

  “I was a fool. A trusting fool.”

  “Well, I don’t think the problem started with Nate. He may have taken the opportunity to continue siphoning, but I’ve found problems that predate his employment.”

  Clint glowered at him. “Minor errors. Sloppy bookkeeping.”

  “Not just that. If you want to know the truth, I’m beginning to doubt Nate was guilty. I think someone else has been cooking the books for a long time. Oscar had the most access to the records…or it could’ve been an assistant foreman. I understand there’ve been several coming and going over the past ten years.”

  “I had an expert in here—an accountant who knew what he was doing,” Clint snapped. “That isn’t what he found. Leland is like a brother to me, and he concurred. Then you waltz in here after all these years and think you know it all. What could you possibly know about this ranch? The people here?”

  “Maybe that accountant just didn’t have the time to dig deep enough.” Ryan shrugged. “Either way, the money’s long gone, but I’m going to get to the bottom of it before I leave. I think it’s only fair to find the truth.”

  “It’s that Cantrell woman, isn’t it?” Clint said flatly. “You think you’re gonna find some way to clear her father’s name and be a big hero.” Clint glared at him as he abruptly rose to his feet. “You can twist the facts however you like, but that doesn’t change a thing. Hiring Nate was the biggest mistake of my life, and you’re a fool if you think you can prove otherwise.”

  Ryan looked right back at him, not giving an inch. “I’m not the enemy here, Dad. I’m on your side, remember?”

  “My side?” Clint laughed harshly. “Your brothers were good sons. They stayed here, and made something of themselves, rather than running off like a fool to some other part of the world just to prove a point.”

  Ryan tactfully resisted the temptation to mention Garrett’s vagabond rodeo career. “I joined the service, Dad, not a circus. Serving my country has been an honorable career.”

  “One you wouldn’t have chosen if you hadn’t been so hell-bent on defying me. And what happened? You nearly got yourself killed.” Clint cursed under his breath and stormed out of the office.

  Bemused, Ryan watched him leave. But when he got back to work, Clint’s words kept playing through his mind.

  There’d never been much love lost between them. Ryan had stood up to Clin
t’s domination even as a small boy. But just now there’d been something besides anger in his father’s voice. Worry.

  And that, Ryan figured, was as close as he was ever going to get to an expression of love from his father.

  AT NINE TWENTY-SEVEN on Sunday morning, Clint marched up the steps of St. Mark’s Episcopal Church as he did each week, nodding to the local ranchers and townsfolk he’d seen there for the past fifty years.

  He ignored the new faces in the crowd until he reached the Gallagher pew, second row from the front, right side—and found a family of squabbling children and a very pregnant woman filling the entire space. His pew.

  His jaw working, he glowered at them.

  There was plenty of room elsewhere, but she was too ignorant to take a hint.

  Another family of homesteaders, no doubt. Freeloaders who’d come to grab good land and waste every precious resource on it.

  The woman smiled back, oblivious to her mistake and the sudden hush that swept through the half-empty church. “We can just slide in,” she stage-whispered. “There’s room.”

  As if.

  Conscious of the openmouthed stares of those at the back of the church, Clint moved stiffly to the next pew up and sat with his arms folded and jaw set.

  A dwindling congregation had led to fading resources, and when there’d been decisions to make, he’d put himself front and center on every score. Gallagher money had kept this church going for the past twenty years. He deserved respect.

  During the sermon, he stared up at silver-haired Father Holden, who stood at the pulpit delivering a strong sermon on tithing, and decided that he and the big-boned Irishman needed to have a talk in the near future.

  Holden’s wife, Ruth, was on that meddling Home Free committee along with Enfield and several others. They were upsetting the balance of how things had always been, and the audacious woman sitting behind him, with a litter of unkempt kids and no husband in sight, was a case in point.

  Soon there’d be even more people on the welfare rolls in Loveless County, and all because of a misguided group who had nothing better to do than stir up trouble. It was definitely time to make his displeasure known.

  Holden had been admonishing the congregation about grateful giving for a full ten minutes when Clint felt someone touch his shoulder. One of the rug rats in the pew behind him, no doubt. He scowled irritably and jerked away, but at the second, persistent touch he glanced over to find Lydia easing into the pew next to him.

  Lydia.

  They’d kept careful distance from one another since their divorce—their mutual animosity as effective as a high-voltage electric fence—and she’d once sworn she would never again set foot in this church.

  Beneath the brim of her lacy beige hat, her skin appeared sallow, her cheekbones sharply defined in her thin face. Her hand felt bony on his arm. “Forgive me. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  He held himself rigid and didn’t spare her a glance for the rest of the service. But his dread grew, and he found himself wishing Holden would double the length of his sermon.

  Because he really didn’t want to hear what Lydia had to say.

  FOR OVER A WEEK, Kristin called Buddy daily, asking if he’d found anything that could have been a part on her father’s truck.

  On Monday morning, he left a message for her at the clinic while she was busy with a physical, and by noon she was nearly biting her nails in anticipation.

  “Wish me luck,” she called out to Max as she grabbed her purse, reached inside for her keys and started for the door. “I should be back in forty-five minutes. Call my cell if you need me.”

  “Uh…before you leave…” Max hiked a thumb toward the waiting room. “There’s someone else here to see you.”

  Kristin sighed. Buddy had promised to meet her at twelve, but then he was going out of town for two weeks. She couldn’t stand the prospect of waiting that much longer. “A drop-in?”

  “Of sorts.” He winked at her. “Better go check him out.”

  In his lab coat embroidered with romping kittens Max really was the most adorable man. Despite his burly frame and all those tattoos, he’d proven to be a gentle soul…rather like a congenial grandpa who just happened to be a bodybuilder on the side.

  Rolling her eyes, she dropped her purse on the counter in the lab on her way back down the hall. “I don’t have much time,” she whispered as she passed him.

  But even before she reached the waiting room she felt a shivery awareness. And sure enough, she found Ryan, his Stetson at his side.

  During the past week he’d invited Cody over after school every day, so her son had taken the school bus home with Hayden, and the three of them had spent an hour or so practicing football passes. She’d come for Cody as soon as she finished at the clinic.

  She and Ryan had been cordial. Even friendly. But neither one of them had mentioned the night of the rodeo or the fact that they’d stepped over an invisible line with that kiss.

  He probably thought it had been a mistake, and she was still embarrassed because she’d so carelessly let her feelings show. With his family’s name and wealth, he’d probably had to fend off his share of golddiggers. Did he think she was just another woman with dollar signs in her eyes?

  “I need to talk to you, without the little cowboys underfoot. I hoped you might have some time over lunch,” he said, a corner of his mouth lifting in a faint grin. “I’ll buy.”

  She shot a swift glance at her watch. “I…can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Max told me you were just leaving. If you have other plans…”

  “An errand. But it can’t wait.”

  “I know things have been a little…awkward, this past week or so. You come by to pick up Cody, and then you’re gone in a flash.” Lowering his voice, he regarded her with troubled eyes. “I want to apologize for what happened after the rodeo. You were just being…kind, and I took things too far.”

  She looked away and felt warmth rise into her face. “I…um…figured it was my fault.”

  “Fault implies something was wrong, Kris. And I…” His gaze veered toward the receptionist’s desk. “Maybe I’d better come by another time. I also need to talk about your father.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at Max, who was now working on medical insurance forms, and swiftly debated what to do. “Look, I need to get to Buddy’s within the next half hour. I could meet you at the café for lunch afterward, if you’d like.”

  “Or I could just tag along.” He grinned and jingled his truck keys. “Four Aces Chauffeur, at your service.”

  He was a Gallagher. One of the enemy camp, and his dad might’ve had something to do with her father’s death, for all she knew. But she’d also heard Ryan express doubt about Nate’s guilt and his determination to uncover the truth.

  Maybe Ryan hadn’t fought hard enough to keep her years ago, but she’d never doubted his integrity or absolute conviction about doing the right thing.

  “All right, then. It might be easier to talk in your truck instead of the café, anyway.”

  BUDDY MET THEM in front of his shop. He gave her a quizzical look when he saw Ryan, but she just shrugged.

  “I think you’ll be interested in this,” he said. “Come on around back and take a look.”

  She followed him through the rubble, cautiously sidestepping sharp bits of metal protruding from the various heaps of junked parts.

  Ryan followed close behind, with his hand at her elbow. “You need something for your truck?”

  “Not exactly.” She debated how much to say. “I’m…looking for something that belonged to my dad.”

  They followed as Buddy ambled to the end of the long metal shed, then over a grassy patch to the door of another, much smaller building. “Careful, ma’am—I got a rattler out here. A five-footer, easy.”

  She shuddered, scanning the ground before carefully making her way to his side. “They’ve got plenty of places to hide around here.”

  “And since I almost nev
er come out here, there’s probably nests of ’em everywhere.” Buddy jangled through a ring of keys suspended from his belt, trying several in the padlock, until one finally worked. The door swung open with a rusty squeal, and he reached inside to flip on a light switch. “Couple years ago, I had an employee help me do some organizing. Big mistake, ’cause I never did figure out his system and then he moved on. God only knows what’s in here—or in some of the other sheds.”

  She tried to hide her growing disappointment. “So you haven’t actually been back here to check?”

  Buddy chuckled. “Scared a lot of rats and a coupla black widows, so I didn’t linger. But with you calling about them parts every day, I finally figured the varmints would be easier to deal with. I think I have what you want.”

  From the way he stepped cautiously across the floor, he wasn’t kidding about the varmints. Suppressing a shudder, she followed him, thankful for Ryan’s reassuring presence at her side.

  Buddy grabbed a long piece of metal pipe off the floor and tentatively poked at some crumbling cardboard boxes, then kicked them aside.

  Stacked against the wall was a collection of car and truck fenders. At least half a dozen of them, in assorted models and colors.

  “I didn’t go through all of them, but I did see a pair of ’67 Chevy front fenders out here last night. Thing is, I think Ralph must’ve smudged my chalk numbers when he was moving things around. And the fenders don’t match.”

  Kristin took a sharp breath. “What color?”

  “Sorta tan and a black.”

  Her excitement kicked up another notch. “Both for a ’67?”

  “Yes, ma’am. They’re a little rusty on the edges, but Ralph must have stripped them off anyway.” Buddy shifted several fenders, then hauled out the two he’d mentioned.

  “So you aren’t hunting down parts for your own truck, then,” Ryan said quietly. “This would be something from your dad’s truck.”