by Jo Barrett
Felix snapped his fingers, and his men bolted into action.
They struggled to pick up C. Todd, flagged down a passing taxi, and carried him like he was in a parade.
Forty-six
Dylan rolled over in bed and groaned. Kat threw her arm around him and held him tight against her body.
“You okay, honey buns?” she whispered.
Dylan grunted and let out a loud snore.
Kat kissed her fiancé on his bruised shoulder. His body was warm and his skin covered in sweat. A few hours earlier, he and Wyatt had dragged themselves back to the apartment looking battered, bruised, and drunk.
Boys will be boys, Kat thought.
She’d heated up a can of chicken noodle soup and forced them to drink the broth before they both collapsed. Wyatt crashed on the couch, and Dylan stumbled into the bedroom.
She’d been surprised to see Dylan in that condition because he’d never been one to overindulge in alcohol. He’d always felt extra cautious about drinking, because of the childhood he’d endured. Kat had met Butch Grant only a few times, and each time it hadn’t been a good experience.
Once, when she and Dylan had been in high school, Dylan’s father had even attempted to grope her. Kat had never mentioned this to Dylan, or the fact that she’d promptly kicked the senior Mr. Grant in his knee and called him a “perv.”
Some secrets were meant to be kept. There was no reason to fuel the fire, in Kat’s opinion. Especially since Dylan was already suspicious of Butch Grant’s behavior.
Kat tousled Dylan’s wet hair. Her fiancé seemed particularly stressed about their financial situation, the impending wedding, and the possibility of drilling a dry hole on Tangled Spur.
She lay in bed with the lights out and considered her options. She wanted to become more involved in Dylan’s work. More educated about oil and gas in general. Although her mother would’ve considered this to be the eighth deadly sin.
Never involve yourself in your husband’s business affairs, her mama had always told her, unless you want to be treated like a secretary.
Kat figured she could involve herself just fine, as long as she played the right role. That of visiting dignitary. Perhaps she could use the foundation dinner as a platform to get inside the deal flow. Kat didn’t want to be the last to know information, especially since it was her Pa Pa’s property that was being drilled.
It’s time to get off the sidelines, Kat thought as she fluffed up the pillow underneath her head.
It’s time to be inside the loop.
Forty-seven
Jonathan Whipley sat across the conference table from Dylan. The doughnut heir was wearing his usual crisp suit and tie combo that looked like a million bucks, and made Dylan want to head straight for Neiman Marcus.
Mr. Doughnut was staring down at the photograph of the stake in the ground.
“So you want me to invest in this deal?” he asked, in his posh, Ivy League voice.
“That’s correct,” Dylan said. C. Todd Hartwell had already contributed a small cash infusion from his other investors, but Dylan still needed the big fish. Someone to write a monster check that would take them over the goal line. Jonathan Whipley was just that fish.
“But you don’t have any seismic data?” Jonathan asked.
“Nope.” Dylan blinked a few times and rubbed his temples with his thumbs.
“So you have no real proof that the minerals are below ground?”
Dylan tapped the photograph on the conference table. “This photograph is the proof. I also found a well log at the railroad commission showing that Cullen King intended to drill his own land before he died.”
Jonathan Whipley leaned back in his chair. He took a sip from his coffee and shot Dylan a dubious look. “You have no clue whether the stake you found on Tangled Spur is the same stake that’s in the photo. You’re essentially asking me to fund a project which is half-cocked in its inception.”
Dylan sucked in his breath and stood from his chair. Jonathan Whipley was calling his idea “half-cocked.”
Stay calm, he thought.
“I’m getting coffee. Anyone want one?” Dylan asked around the table, as he walked to the coffee machine.
“I’m good,” C. Todd Hartwell replied. He’d already had a shot of whiskey this morning, and Dylan knew this because he could smell it on the oilman’s breath from a mile away.
Dylan wanted to start his own oil company; he didn’t want to deal with investors and this dirty art of fund-raising. And yet he had to make his big push. The one big score that would put his name on the map.
Dylan glanced around the conference table. He needed this motley cast of characters. He needed C. Todd Hartwell’s industry connections; Jonathan Whipley’s money; Steve and his Louisiana crew to operate the rig; hell, he even needed Kat’s permission to drill her granddad’s land. The only person Dylan didn’t “need” was Wyatt. But Wyatt would be included because Wyatt—by sheer kismet—always managed to get himself inserted in the action.
Dylan pushed the button on the coffee machine, inserted a Styrofoam cup under the dispenser, and planned his next move. Jonathan Whipley might not want to gamble on this venture, he knew, so Dylan was bringing in his Secret Weapon. The one person in the world who could get anyone to write a check.
Just as the coffee machine stopped whirring, Kat bustled into the conference room like a woman on a mission. She was wearing all white and beige. Like some fund-raising fairy.
“Hello beautiful men,” she chirped. “Sorry I’m late.”
Kat gave Dylan a little sideways wink. She was right on time, and she knew it. Taking a seat at the head of the conference table like she owned the place, she folded her hands calmly and turned her attention toward Jonathan Whipley.
“And who do we have here?” she said, flitting her eyelashes.
Jonathan Whipley cleared his throat and glanced at the other men around the table, who seemed unfazed by Kat’s arrival.
“I live in the building,” Jonathan said.
Kat looked at Jonathan and blinked.
Dylan knew that his fiancée was doing her actress impression. The one she’d learned from her mother.
“Kathleen King,” Kat said, as a matter of introduction. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
She extended her slim hand, and Jonathan Whipley nearly tripped over himself trying to reach it.
“Jonathan Whipley,” he said, grabbing Kat’s hand and pumping up and down.
Nervous as a jackrabbit, Dylan thought. He tried not to smile. He was glad that Mr. Million Bucks had shed his cool, calm persona and was falling all over himself.
“Whipley?” Kat asked, pressing her hand primly to her chest. “Don’t tell me you’re related to Kinkaid Whipley?”
Jonathan Whipley broke out into a smile. “She’s my wife.”
“Oh goodness. That must be such a treat.”
“And how do you know her?”
“Why, Jonathan. Your wife runs my favorite shop in town.”
“Don’t tell me you buy your clothes at Twice Around Texas?” Jonathan asked, looking skeptical.
“Do I ever!” Kat trilled. “I adore vintage!” Kat stood from her chair and modeled the crisp white pants and beige top she was wearing. “This outfit was a steal,” she whispered, as if telling Jonathan a state secret.
Jonathan admired Kat’s outfit and nodded his head approvingly. “When Kinkaid told me she wanted to manage a vintage clothing shop, I just didn’t get it,” he said. “But the children are off at school and I think she got bored sitting home all day. It became a nice change of pace for her. And my wife loved it so much that we ended up buying the store from the old owner. He was ready to retire, and so we took over the whole place.”
“You’re joking!” Kat said. “So you and your wife own my favorite clothing boutique in the whole wide world?” she asked, in her sweet-as-pie tone.
“Looks that way,” Jonathan said.
“I don’t believe you,” Ka
t said, playfully tapping Jonathan on the arm as if he were fooling with her.
“Believe it,” Jonathan said. He bucked out his chest as much as someone from Harvard could buck out his chest, and looked pleased with himself.
“Then I must get together with your wife!” Kat exclaimed, clapping her hands a bit. “I was planning on having a little fashion show at my Annual Foundation Dinner, and I wanted the theme to be vintage fashion. Do you think your wife would be interested in arranging the clothes for my event?”
“For the King Foundation Dinner?” Jonathan Whipley asked. He tugged at the knot in his tie and cleared his throat.
Dylan noticed that the doughnut heir seemed to have stopped breathing.
Kat was in full swing now and had Jonathan’s undivided attention. “So you’ve heard of my little dinner?” she asked.
Jonathan Whipley grinned. “Who hasn’t?”
Kathleen broke out into a smile as if she were surprised that Jonathan Whipley was keenly aware of the most famous fund-raising dinner in Texas.
“You’re too sweet,” she said, rapping his arm again. “So. The details. Every year, we do this private little dinner to raise money for the children’s hospital, and this year I thought it would be fun to have a fashion show. If Kinkaid wanted to dress the models, I think it would be great marketing, don’t you agree?”
“Definitely,” Jonathan said. “How nice of you to think of her.”
“Oh, it’s completely selfish on my part. I just love the clothes,” Kat said.
Jonathan looked like he’d just won the keys to a brand-new Ferrari. Dylan imagined the doughnut heir rushing upstairs to the penthouse floor and announcing to his wife that he’d scored her a fashion show at the King Foundation Dinner.
“If you want, I could also provide some specialty doughnuts or crepes for desert,” Jonathan piped up. The doughnut heir was in full giving mode now. He sliced his arm through the air as if he were announcing a game show. “You know our motto, don’t you?”
Kat opened her mouth and sang the commercial in pitch-perfect tone: “Whipley’s will ‘Whip Up’ something special for your special event…”
“You have a fantastic voice,” Jonathan said. “We should hire you to do all of our commercials.”
“Aren’t you a dear!” Kat trilled.
She reached over and placed her hand on top of Jonathan’s. “I’m tickled to death that you’re joining us on this little oil venture, Jonathan. It’s going to be such a hoot.”
Dylan watched his fiancée in amazement. She spoke of a massive drilling project as if it was an afternoon spent beside a swimming pool. A trifle.
“Pa Pa would’ve been so pleased to know that such a fine group of men were involved in this project,” Kat said, beaming at all the men around the conference table.
Jonathan Whipley swung around toward Dylan. “Count me in,” he said. “I’ll wire the money this week, no problem.”
“Great,” Dylan said. He carried his coffee over to the conference table and took a seat next to Kat. She’d done a fine job with Jonathan Whipley, and now it was time for her to leave the room.
Dylan glanced over at Kat, but she’d taken a notepad out of her purse and was flipping it open as if she were a reporter.
She looked over at him and tapped her pen against the notepad. “I’m ready when you are,” she said.
Dylan gulped back his coffee and managed to scald his tongue. “We’re about to start the meeting, hon,” he said, “and I bet the details will bore you to death.”
“Oh, don’t mind me,” Kat cooed. She beamed a winning smile at each of the men around the table. “Y’all don’t mind if I stay, do you?” she asked.
“We’d be honored to have you,” Wyatt piped up, because he didn’t know any better.
“Make yourself at home, sista,” Steve said.
“Why the hell not?” C. Todd Hartwell said magnanimously, as he shot Kat his usual I-wish-I-could have-sex-with-you look.
“I’m just happy to be here myself,” Jonathan Whipley said.
Dylan gritted his teeth. He didn’t plan on Kat staying for the entire meeting. What had gotten into her all of a sudden? Why did she want to spend three hours going over the fine-line details of an oil and gas deal?
Just then, he felt a soft hand glide over the top of his wrist. Kat was staring at him. “You don’t mind if I stay, do you, dear?” she asked.
“If you want to stay, stay,” Dylan said. “But I think you’re gonna be bored to tears.”
Kat scribbled out a little note on her notepad and thrust it over to Dylan. He picked up the piece of paper and read it quietly to himself.
Thank you for your concern, Dylan Charles Grant. But I’ll be the judge of that.
Dylan took a deep breath. Kat would be Kat. There was no point arguing with her once she’d made up her mind. He stood from the table and began passing around a chart outlining the drilling costs associated with the venture.
To drill a hole was no small feat. Preparing a drill site required many steps. First, Dylan would need to hire various contractors to clear and level the land around the drill site, build an access road, make water available, and dig a pit to serve as a waste protector. Then, Dylan’s contractors would move in the rig and the other necessary equipment. Once the rig was in position over the conductor hole, the drilling would begin to create the surface hole.
There was no such thing as “taking a break” once drilling began. The rig would be in constant motion twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week straight, and the drilling crew would man their posts in twelve-hour-on/twelve-hour-off shifts.
Once the drill rig reached final depth, Dylan’s geologist would determine whether there was enough oil and gas to proceed with the most expensive part of the drilling process—the completion. If the hole ended up being “dry,” then Dylan would order the drilling contractor to plug it up and abandon the project. And all money would be lost.
Part of drilling for oil was skill; the other part was luck. And Dylan needed all the luck he could manage.
As he stood beside Kat, he leaned down to her ear and whispered, “Check out who I named this well after.”
He watched as Kat studied the report—at the top was her name in large bold letters.
KAT #1 DRILLING PROSPECT
“You’re naming the well after me?” Kat whispered.
“Of course, hon. You’re my best luck charm,” Dylan replied. He knew he shouldn’t kiss her on top of her head. He didn’t want to show affection in the meeting—not in front of the guys. But he couldn’t help it.
Dylan crossed his fingers that no one was paying attention. He leaned down and quickly kissed Kat on top of her head, inhaling the scent of her apricot shampoo.
“Oh Lord. Get a room,” C. Todd Hartwell said, rolling his eyes.
Forty-eight
Sailors and baseball players were notorious for being superstitious. That’s why sailors named their boats Serendipity, or God-speed. And why baseball players kissed their bats before stepping up to the plate.
But sailors and baseball players had nothing on wildcatters. Dylan knew that Houston oilmen were the most superstitious group of people on the planet. Some would wear lucky amulets around their wrists or special cuff links; some would refrain from drinking alcohol or having sex during the drilling process in sort of a servitude to the drilling gods; and one wildcatter in particular, by the name of C. Todd Hartwell, would eat only Cheerios for breakfast, lunch, and dinner while a drilling rig was at a site.
For Dylan, his luck was inextricably tied to naming the oil prospect after the one woman whom he loved more than anyone. He’d decided to wear his lucky T-shirt, the one with the screaming eagle emblazoned across the chest, for good measure. He’d owned the T-shirt since college, and even though it sported a few tatty holes around the seams, Dylan had always felt the shirt brought him an extra dose of good energy.
The Tangled Spur Ranch was located in South Texas in an area that ha
d constantly given the big oil companies a headache. First, the soil was too soft, which made drilling a challenge. Soft soil could cause the rig to tilt, and possibly collapse or snap in half if the pressure became too great.
This would be a catastrophic event for most oil companies, which didn’t dare risk losing the equipment, and even possibly the lives of rig workers working on the platform during a collapse.
The ranch was paved with gravel roads, but the area where Dylan had found the stake—the drill site—was about five hundred yards from the nearest paved road. So a new road that could sustain the heavy equipment had to be paved across Kathleen’s land.
Dylan shielded his eyes from the sun, watching the bulldozers and load trucks clearing land and pouring concrete. His meeting with the geologist was on schedule, and he gunned the truck’s accelerator until he made it to the mobile command center.
From the outside, the command center resembled a sleek silver mobile home—nothing spectacular. But as Dylan stepped inside the command unit, he was surrounded by panels of computer imaging rivaling NASA.
Drilling deep into the earth’s surface was akin to plunging the darkest depths of the ocean or sending a rocket into space. It required massive amounts of real-time computer imaging and analysis to determine all the variable factors—from well depth to water content to the massive drill that would break through the layers of shale and rock.
Dylan had always gotten excited upon entering a mobile command center. In the past, he’d been a small player on the stage. Like a guy in a sporting arena happy to get a seat inside the VIP box. But this time, he was in charge. This was his show. His VIP box.
Dylan wiped his hands against his jeans and spotted the Golden Buddha. His real name was Einrich Von Hearn, and it was rumored that he’d emigrated from Germany in the late 1990s. Now the famed geologist spent most of his time scouring the fields of East Texas for oil underneath the surface. He’d been nicknamed “the Golden Buddha” because of his notorious record for producing great wells.