The Cattleman (Sons of Texas Book 2)

by Anna Jeffrey

  On any Sunday morning, he met little highway traffic in the thirty-eight miles between Mandy’s house and the ranch. Such was the case today, which gave his mind opportunity to wander. Mandy. In his mind, he could still see her astraddle his hips, riding his cock. He loved it when he was as deeply buried as he could be, loved how she begged and cried his name when she came, loved being that deep when her pussy grabbed him and milked him dry.

  Not only was his Mandy the hottest lay he had ever had, she was the best woman he knew. She never failed him, never failed to support him. She didn’t play games with their relationship. She cared about him enough to worry about him. She even laughed at his corny jokes. She loved him. He knew that, though she never said it because he didn’t say it.

  Did he love her? He must. He liked her more than any woman he knew or had known in recent years, enjoyed her company, trusted her implicitly. She was smart and current on what was going on in the world and they had fun, even if they were doing nothing more than talking. He desired her. Sex between them was off the charts.

  She wanted to get married. Once, that had been a scary proposition. Since his divorce eleven years ago, he had given scant thought to ever getting married again. But for some reason, last summer, he had started wondering how it would feel to wake up beside a woman every morning again and spend his days and nights with a female companion.

  Toward that end, in one of his more fantastical moments, he had hired a Fort Worth architect to design a swimming pool and pool house to be constructed behind the garage in a spot the sun shone on all day. But as things had unfolded, what the pool represented had grown to be so enormous in his mind and fraught with so many complications, when the drawing finally arrived, he had rolled it up and hidden it in the cleaning closet.

  But Mandy wanted more than a wedding ring. She wanted to make babies. His thoughts swung to the calendar on which she kept up with her periods. He had forgotten to look at it, but he remembered what she said. They had cut it close. Not the first time, but…

  His worry that at some point they might get caught had taken a more prominent place in his mind since the new developments in Drake’s life. Pic was as certain as sunrise that his big brother had never planned on getting a gal knocked up, followed by marrying her. Despite how much in love Drake and Shannon appeared to be, Pic still hadn’t figured out for sure if Drake had walked down the aisle because it was the honorable thing to do or if he was madly in love with his bride.

  Circumstances were different between him and Mandy. They knew each other, had been a couple for a long time. If she got pregnant, they, too, would just get married. No big deal.

  A frown tugged at his brow. But it was a big deal. Because after all was said and done, if Pic Lockhart got married again to anybody, it was a big deal.

  And if that hadn’t been an evident hard truth already, it had become one at Thanksgiving last year. At the end-of-year family meeting, Dad had announced the family had made a decision. He would hand over the management of the ranch to Pic and spend the coming months grooming his middle son to be the general manager of the Double-Barrel Ranch.

  From that moment on, Pic had been living a lifelong dream of following in the footsteps of three generations. He gave not another serious thought to marriage or the swimming pool, never followed up on having it built, though the architect had called him a couple of times. He hadn’t even discussed the construction with his dad or Drake.

  Now, seven months later, he felt more comfortable in the role of general manager. He had confidence that he could do the job. Drake’s marriage had started him thinking again about a wife and raising questions in his mind.

  For instance, where would he and a wife live? The ranch house had plenty of room. Jesus, the place had seven bedrooms and nine bathrooms and he didn’t know how many square feet. He, Dad and Johnnie Sue rattled around in all that space like they were in a museum. No one ever went to parts of the house except Johnnie Sue or the cleaning people she hired.

  But it was Dad’s house. If Pic tried to bring Mandy there to live, would she ever feel at home? Would Dad object? He had never talked to his dad about what might happen if he took a wife.

  Then there was Mom. These days, nobody ever knew what to expect from her. She hadn’t been down to the ranch lately, but Dad was always trying to get her to come for one reason or another. If Mandy and he lived in the ranch house, would there be a blow-up every time Mom showed up? Mandy might have accepted her apology, but words of contrition and a steak dinner hadn’t undone Mom’s hostile act against her. Pic was still amazed that Mandy had accepted his mother’s apology.

  He sighed. Where he and Mandy might live was the more easily resolved question . If they didn’t live in the ranch house, he could simply build them a new house somewhere near the ranch house. Or they could remodel one of the houses the ranch already owned.

  In the privacy of his pickup cab, as he sped down the highway, he had to acknowledge the deeper reasons he failed to ask Amanda Breckenridge to be his wife. Number One? Fear. Plain cold fear of making another big mistake hard to repair. Been there, done that.

  When a man got married, he never knew what he was stepping into. For example, he had believed the girl he had married years ago loved him as much as he loved her, but what she had loved most was having access to his bank account and flaunting her newly acquired wealth and connections. Concern over stepping into that trap again might make it impossible for him to ever get married. To anybody.

  And number two? When he and Mandy were together, he didn’t experience that rush of mindless elation Lucianne Shepler had produced within him, that uptick in his heartbeat that came from just seeing her. Though she had been gone from his life for eleven years, deep within his soul, he had longed for that dizzying emotion, that mind-numbing connection ever since it had left him.

  He was twenty-one when he and Lucianne had eloped. A kid, really. Having spent his whole life in Drinkwell, Texas, he had been more naïve than most. He’d had no sexual experience with women except his algebra teacher, followed by the teenage Mandy. Now he was thirty-three. Had maturity taken him past the thunder and lightning stage? If he loved somebody now, could he expect the same emotional roller coaster he had been on with Lucianne at twenty-one? And what happened to emotion and marriage over the long haul? Did it naturally deteriorate into something like Mom and Dad had? If so, what was the point?

  Chapter 11

  Nearing the Double-Barrel’s gate, Pic’s thoughts quickly swung to Troy and his promise to Drake. He keyed in Troy’s cell number and placed the phone in the cradle on the dash.

  Troy came on the line after the first burr. “Hey, Pic? That you, Brother?”

  His voice sounded rough, as if he had just awakened. He had probably been out hell-raising most of the night. “Woke you up, huh?”

  “Shit. I had a late night.”

  “Tell me something new. So you’re home then. I’m gonna stop by and—”

  “I’m in Brenham.”

  Brenham was four hours away. Pic frowned. “What’re are you doing down there? I just saw you in Fort Worth at the coliseum yesterday.”

  “You came to the playday yesterday? Why didn’t you come down to the arena and say hey?”

  “We were on our way downtown to celebrate Mandy’s birthday. She and I and Drake and Shannon stopped in for a few minutes to watch you. That was Pistol’s Darling you were riding? Did you say some pro football player owns her?”

  “Naw, man. Not a football player. A banker from Houston paid big bucks to breed her mama to He’s a Pistol. She’s a good horse, but she’s young and barely broke. She still needs a lot of training.”

  Pic rolled his eyes. The cutting horse world. He was constantly amazed at the array of people who wanted to own a cutting horse. “Well, she looked good to me and Drake. What’re you doing in Brenham?”

  “I drove down here last night to help Kate out. But she got me fixed up doing a clinic this afternoon. Got a flock of people si
gned up who want to learn to communicate with their horses.”

  Pic huffed. “You can’t be making money doing that.”

  “You know I don’t do it for the money. I do it for the horses.”

  Troy’s idealistic goal was to save every horse from abuse and the ignorance of its owner. With the help of a ghostwriter, Troy had written a book for novice horse owners. It was the least he could do for the horses, he often said.

  “What’s Kate doing down there?”

  “She’s been here all week. She’s had Little Boy Blue in the show.”

  “That stud she’s so proud of? The big blue roan?

  From the founding of Blue Horizons, Kate’s horse ranch, she had attempted to specialize in blue roans, an unusual color. Three of the four horses she had lost in last December’s fire had been blue roans she had bred and raised. Breeding for winning bloodlines was challenging enough, but breeding for both superior bloodlines and rare color at the same time was more so.

  Though he joked about how his sister’s horses cost more than they won, Pic admired her tenacity as well as her accomplishment. Those who didn’t know her well thought she was an empty-headed blonde, but she had graduated from Tarleton with a high GPA and a degree in biology, with emphasis on genetics. As a horse breeder, she knew exactly what she was doing. At times, she’d had to choose between class and color, because many of the prettiest blue roans came from blood lines no one in the cutting horse business had ever heard of.

  “That’s him,” Troy said. “He’s in the finals today.”

  “Who’s riding him.”

  “Kate. And unless he comes up lame, I think he’s gonna to win the whole enchilada.”

  “No shit? What’s he gonna win, five hundred dollars?” Pic chortled. Small shows awarded small purses.

  “C’mon, Pic. Any win looks good on his resume.”

  Little Boy Blue was an example of Kate choosing to inseminate her highbred mare with semen from a beautiful blue roan stud that had no standing in the cutting horse world. Little Boy Blue, still to be tested in the performance arena where it counted, was the result. “Well, you’re right. He needs some gravitas.”

  “So why’re you calling me?” Troy asked. “What’s going on?”

  “I talked to Blake on Friday. Tell Kate they took her name off their persons-of-interest list. But not yours. Why is that, Troy?”

  “Hell, I don’t know, Pic. All of a sudden, every time I turn around, one of those friggin’ SUVs is hanging out with me. I’m not even drinking much these days. My nose is so clean my life is boring. I’m not doing a damn thing.”

  “Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe you oughtta do something. Like telling them what you’re not telling them.”

  “And what is that? I’ve already spilled my guts.”

  “They know you’ve still got a romance going on with Dorinda Fisk. Or whatever you’re doing with her. I’m guessing that some of her friends are who they really want to know about.”

  “Romance? Are you kidding? I guaran-damn-tee you we’re not having pillow talk where she’s sharing her deep dark secrets,” Troy said firmly. “We’re just having a good time. That’s all.”

  Pic had no idea what Troy considered “a good time” with a female, but it was probably something different from how Pic interpreted that phrase. More than once, Troy had let comments slip about three-ways and group sex. In Pic’s old fashioned thinking, that was an orgy. He liked sex hot and raw himself, but with only one woman.

  “If you want to get on the good side of the law, maybe you oughtta give up that activity,” he said. Then, as an afterthought, he added, “And maybe you oughtta make an appointment with a doctor for a check-up.”

  “What? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Never mind. Troy, what I’m trying to tell you is I believe Blake and Jack know a helluva lot about Dorinda Fisk and her boys. Stuff they’re not telling me. They’re trying to find out who’s harassing our family and their leads keep taking them back to her. And ultimately you, since they think you’re one of her boys.”

  “But they’re wrong, Pic. They’re just wrong. And I’ve already told them that five or six times.”

  “If they want to question you about her and her friends, you should cooperate. In the first place, you shouldn’t be fucking around with a married woman. Especially one whose husband is a big-shot politician who hates our dad. That right there, plus the fact that she’s cheating on her husband, wipes out her credibility and yours, too. There’s no way you can respect her for that. I can’t believe you can’t find another place to dip you wick. I wish you’d step back and take a good look at the people you’re hanging out with and think about what you’re doing.”

  “Yeah? Well, maybe the family oughtta think about what it’s doing.”

  Pic didn’t know what that meant. This was how every conversation with Troy went these days. Pic couldn’t figure out what had happened to give him such a negative opinion of the family. “Look, I’m not trying to pick a fight with you. When you get home, let’s sit down, just the two of us, and see if we can talk some things out, okay?”

  “I don’t want to fight with you either, Pic. Listen, it’ll probably be late afternoon before Kate finishes up. There’s gonna be a get-together after the show and if Little Boy wins, Kate will want to go to it. She’s hooked up with some local yokel who owns the TV station and—”

  “She’s what?”

  “They’re talking about breeding Little Boy to one of his mares,” Troy answered, cleverly sliding past Pic’s question. Troy was well aware of Pic’s disapproval of Kate’s loose behavior among the horse crowd. “But we’ll get our shit together tomorrow and head home,” he said.

  Pic gave up. This was no time for a conversation about his little sister’s morality. He was in no position to pass judgment anyway. One thing he tried not to be was a hypocrite. “Okay. See you when you get back. And Troy? Tell Kate I said good luck. I’ve always liked that horse.”

  He passed over the cattle guard and between the limestone rock stanchions at the Double-Barrel’s entrance, satisfied he had met his promise to Drake to try to talk to Troy.

  ****

  At the end of the two-mile driveway, he pulled his truck into the detached garage behind the house. The Lockhart ranch house had been built before houses had attached garages, so a separate two-car garage had been added later. Then, after Dad had four kids, all driving separate vehicles, he had expanded it to accommodate six cars and trucks. Now, with no rigs parked in it except his and Dad’s trucks and the Cadillac SUV Dad drove occasionally when he went to Fort Worth or Dallas, the cavernous building reminded Pic of a gymnasium.

  Stepping out of the truck, the aroma of searing meat filled the air. Johnnie Sue cooking something. His stomach made a growl. Toaster pastries did not a he-man breakfast make.

  Frissy and Fancy were waiting for him. Frissy had a stick in her mouth. He bent over, scruffed her ears and took hold of the stick. “Give it to me, girl. Give it to me.”

  The dog released the stick, Pic walked out of the garage and threw it across the yard. Frissy raced after it, picked it up and raced back.

  As he walked to the back door, the dogs busily trotted and bounced beside him. The searing meat aroma wafting through the air intensified. “What’s cooking, girls?” he asked them, stooped, again, took the stick from Frissy and threw it for her. She could do this all day long.

  He left the dogs at the back door, entered the house through the utility room and laid his hat on the long stainless steel counter. He saw Johnnie Sue in the kitchen. Two big pots steamed on the six-burner cooktop. He was starved.

  “Hey,” he said to the housekeeper.

  “Hey, youself. About time you got home.” She came to him, stopped in front of him and looked up into his face. “Your eye’s looking a lot better.”

  “It’s okay. Just needed a little time.”

  “How’s Mandy?”

  Mandy was liked by everybody. Whenever s
he came to the ranch, she always offered a hand in the kitchen and she and Johnnie Sue had become pals. Sort of. “She’s fine,” Pic said. “Already getting into shape for school starting.”

  “Drinkwell’s lucky to have her. If I had teenage girls, I’m make sure they were in Mandy’s swimming class.”

  Pic walked over to the stovetop and lifted a lid on a bubbling pot. Tex-Mex spices met his nose. “What’s cooking? I thought I smelled barbecue.”

  “I’ve got a brisket going outside on the smoker. Your dad asked the new vet and his wife to supper. Smoky and his wife and Silas Morgan are coming, too.”

  The foreman and the horse wrangler. With them being key people in the ranch’s operation, they were invited for a meal often. “Ah. What’s in the pots?”

  “Beans to go with the brisket for supper tonight and chile verde for dinner.”

  Johnnie Sue made the best cowboy beans he had ever eaten. She refused to divulge her recipe. Her chile verde was good, too. Since she had come to work for the ranch, he and Dad were eating very well. “Awesome. You making some cornbread to go with it?” He replaced the lid, ambled across the kitchen to the coffee pot that was always on and poured himself a mug.

  “That’s the plan,” she answered.

  “Great.” He leaned a hip against the counter edge and sipped. “Did Dad get the woman with the flat tire taken care of?”

  “Smoky got one of the mechanic’s helpers to fix her tire.”

  The Double-Barrel had three employees who did nothing but keep all of the ranch’s mechanical equipment running and in top shape. Having some needed piece of equipment broken down and static for a week was too expensive time wise.

  “I put her up out in one of the guesthouses,” Johnnie Sue added.

  Pic’s pulse rate made a little bump. “She’s really staying here?”

  The housekeeper shrugged. “That’s what your dad told me to do.”

  “Is he in the den?”

  “As usual.”

  Spending Sunday morning in the den reading the Fort Worth Star Telegram from cover to cover had been Bill Lockhart Junior’s ritual for as long as Pic could remember, despite the fact that the slant of most of its content conflicted with his philosophy of life. Pic started toward the doorway.