A Texan for Hire

by Amanda Renee

  Their close relationship with the Langtrys had allowed his parents to keep the family home along with a handful of acres when Joe Langtry purchased the property. The sale had been enough to cover their debts, but the Tanners had been forced to sell off the sheep to other area farmers.

  Clay knew the animals’ fate bothered his mother. She had prided herself on the fiber processing mill she’d built from the ground up and it nearly killed her to watch her beloved sheep taken away by the truckload.

  Clay had paid for college on his own with the aid of student loans, but that hadn’t eased the regret he had for not being around when his father needed him most. Now Clay wanted to regain some of that Tanner pride and raise alpacas, which were much more valuable for their fleece.

  He shook his head. He’d never imagined wanting to follow in his father’s and grandfather’s footsteps, but life changed in a heartbeat—Clay was proof of that. The new ranch wouldn’t be the same as the one his family had once owned, but it would be a chance to regain their rich history in fiber production.

  Clay laughed to himself. He would have gotten somewhere with his dream if more of his private investigator clients actually paid him in cash.

  It didn’t matter that he told people his fees up front, the majority of the time they could barely afford his retainer. Farmers were having financial problems thanks to a multi-year drought and the ever-increasing amount of imported goods into the States. Unable to say no to the people he’d known his entire life, Clay had accepted animals as payment. He now owned a small herd of goats, more pigs than he cared to admit and enough chickens to warrant constructing an addition on the coop. He kept what he could afford, the rest he sold. Except for the chickens, which earned their keep by providing breakfast on most days. The remaining eggs his neighbor graciously sold for him at her farm stand. It didn’t make him a great businessman, but helping his clients helped ease his conscience a bit. He had more than his share of sins to atone for.

  “Thanks for helping me out this morning.” Clay tugged off his gloves and shoved them in his back pocket, irritated that he’d allowed the past to disturb his thoughts. He kept himself constantly busy for that exact reason. To forget. “I need to clean up and head out to The Magpie to meet my potential client.”

  He enjoyed being a private investigator, which was more than he’d anticipated. He had viewed it as a temporary layover after leaving his job at the Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives field office in Houston. Reuniting people was his favorite part of the job, something Clay knew he’d never have the chance to experience himself.

  “Man or woman?” Shane asked.

  “Woman.” Clay snorted. “What does it matter?”

  “A woman, huh?” Shane smiled and pushed his hat back. “Maybe she’s hot, thinks her husband’s cheating on her and is seeking revenge by having an affair with her private investigator.”

  “I think your wife has you watching too many Lifetime movies.” Clay had never thought he’d see the day his friend would become a one-woman man, but marriage suited Shane.

  “And I think you need a woman in your life.”

  “Just because you and Lexi got hitched last year doesn’t mean the rest of us need or even want to walk down the aisle. Let it go. I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.” Shane removed his hat and wiped his brow with the back of his forearm. “Ever since you moved back to town, you’ve been a shell of who you used to be. I get it. Someone broke your heart, but come on, Clay, it’s been almost three years and you haven’t gone out with anyone. Hell, you haven’t even unpacked your house yet. That’s not normal.”

  Clay swallowed. “I’ve been busy.” He averted his eyes from Shane’s. It was more than a broken heart, though. He was still too raw to discuss with Shane, or anyone, what had happened to the only woman he’d ever loved. Clay hated the concern he saw in his friend’s face. It wasn’t necessary. He was fine—as long as he stayed busy, he was fine. Turning around, he grabbed his tools and tossed them into the five-gallon utility bucket. “Why are you bringing this up now? It hasn’t bothered you before.”

  “Because I didn’t realize how bad it still was until I went inside to use your bathroom earlier. It’s the first time I’ve been inside your house in ages. You’re always at our place. Your house hasn’t changed since you moved in. What’s going on?”

  “Leave it alone, Shane.” Clay spun and faced his friend. “I haven’t decided what I’m doing with the house yet, and if I rip out the walls downstairs, I’d have to pack everything up anyway. Remodeling takes time and I don’t have it right now.”

  Shane replaced his hat on top of his head and held up his hands. Despite his friend’s gesture, Clay knew Shane wasn’t buying his excuse.

  “Say no more. Sorry I mentioned it. Just know if you need any help—remodeling—I’m here for you.” He pointed to the chicken coop. “Let’s nail the roof on before I go.”

  “I’ll do it when I get back.” Clay wanted this conversation to end—scratch that, he needed Shane to drop the subject...permanently. The sudden awkwardness between them seemed a mile wide. “I have to clean up and head out in a few. Thanks again for your help and I’ll catch up with you later.”

  Clay headed for his 1940s farm house, leaving Shane no opportunity to say another word. He climbed up the porch stairs. Once inside, he closed the door and stared through the kitchen into the dark dining room. The room was filled with boxes instead of a dining table and chairs. He didn’t own much, but whatever he did was in those boxes. So were the memories of the woman and child he loved more than anything. Their deaths were on his hands and Clay wasn’t ready to let go...not yet.

  * * *

  IT WAS AFTER LUNCH when Abby poked her head through the entrance of The Magpie. The intoxicating aroma of fresh brewed coffee, baked bread and bacon enveloped her.

  This is where he wants to meet me? A luncheonette?

  “Don’t be shy.” A fiftysomething woman with a trendy layered bob called out as she entered the kitchen carrying an armful of dirty dishes. “Have a seat anywhere.”

  Not that there was anything wrong with meeting in a luncheonette, it just wasn’t where Abby thought a P.I. should meet a client for the first time. For one, it wasn’t private, and in her opinion, it wasn’t professional, either. But Kay had raved about him. Though a stranger’s word didn’t really mean much, it was all she had to go on. Her heels clicked as she crossed the black-and-white checkerboard floor, the sound alerting her to how overdressed she was for somewhere this casual. She smoothed the front of her skirt and looked around.

  The place was small and cozy with only a handful of people occupying the tables. Abby locked in on the man sitting at the counter. She was no private investigator, but she was willing to bet he was Clay Tanner.

  The tightening in her chest at the sight of his angular jaw and tousled, sandy blond hair took her a bit off guard. His white long-sleeve Western shirt stretched across broad shoulders. A straw Stetson perched on the stool beside him.

  Maybe there was something to Kay’s matchmaking, after all.

  Abby halted as a statuesque waitress leaned on the counter, her face close to Clay’s. “And to what do I owe the pleasure of serving you twice today?” The ringlets of her ginger ponytail bounced with each word. Her pink uniform and white apron were a throwback to the fifties. The outfit worked for her. Not many people could pull off that look.

  “I’m meeting a client here,” the man drawled.

  Not one to miss a cue, Abby drew her five-foot-one-inch frame straighter—she was five-five if she included the heels—and approached the man.

  “I believe you’re waiting for me,” Abby said.

  He met her eyes and held them, not giving her the typical male once-over she usually received. Abby wasn’t sure if she should be flattered or disappointed.

  He�
�s just polite. Real men don’t treat women as objects.

  Screw polite. Abby wanted to give him the once-over, but she maintained eye contact for fear that, if she didn’t, she’d lose all control of her senses. She didn’t want to start panting over the man!

  “I’m Abby Winchester.”

  Deep sapphire-blue eyes flashed and somewhere in his face there was a hint of a smile. It made her wonder if he was one of those men who didn’t want you to think they were interested in you, even though they really were.

  He gestured to the waitress that he was moving to one of the vacant booths across from the counter, and then returned his attention to her. “Abby Winchester.” The soothing way he said her name had her wanting to hear it again. He rose, long and lean, and held out his hand. Even with her wearing heels, he was a good foot taller than Abby. “Clay Tanner. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The warmth of his grip radiated up her arm, causing a slight tremor along her spine. He motioned for her to have a seat in the booth. She slid in, tugging at the hem of her short houndstooth skirt to prevent it from riding farther up her thighs and becoming a belt. Some clothes weren’t meant for booth-scooting.

  “Mr. Tanner.” Abby removed a black-and-white file folder from her Balenciaga tote and pushed it across the table. “I’m afraid I don’t have much to go on.”

  “Hi, I’m Bridgett. Welcome to The Magpie.” Startled, Abby looked up at the woman. What she wouldn’t give to have legs that long. The waitress placed two glasses of water on the table and handed her a menu.

  Abby didn’t need to look at it. She knew exactly what she wanted. The scent of bacon beckoned, causing her to crave her favorite sandwich.

  “I’ll have a BLT on white toast, mayo on the side and an order of fries.” She returned the menu. “And a black coffee, please.”

  “Sure thing, hon,” Bridgett said. “What about you, Clay? Bert made that jalapeño crawfish chowder you love so much.”

  “How can I say no?” He beamed at the waitress.

  “Coming right up.”

  Abby followed Clay’s eyes and was pleasantly surprised when they didn’t wander to Bridgett’s retreating backside. Was it possible gentlemen still existed?

  “Designer folder?” Clay opened the black-and-white fleur-de-lis file, revealing its hot-pink lining. “Now I’ve seen it all.”

  “There is nothing wrong with being fashionably organized, Mr. Tanner.” She had purposely purchased the folder at the stationer’s to match the outfit she had chosen for their meeting. But now she felt silly.

  “I’m not saying there is.” He leaned back against the booth. “However, if we’re going to work together, I insist you call me Clay. Mr. Tanner is my father.”

  “Agreed,” Abby nodded. “Those are copies of my birth certificate and my father’s death certificate.”

  Clay flipped through the pages. “Both documents list a different father.”

  “My mom remarried when I was two. My stepfather adopted me years later. Legally, it changed all my records naming him as my father, but it didn’t sever my rights as Walter’s next of kin. A copy of all court records and my adoption are in there.”

  “What makes you think you have a sister?”

  “I arrived at the hospital the day after Walter died and a nurse gave me a handwritten note. She said he was adamant I received it. It said find your sister. Nothing more.”

  “Do you have the note?” Clay asked.

  “On me? No.” The piece of scrap paper was all Abby had left of her biological father. It was home, tucked safely in a drawer so she wouldn’t lose it. She’d never thought to keep any of his treasure hunts. Then again, she’d never expected their time to end so soon. “I assure you, that’s all there was.”

  “The note didn’t seem strange to you at all?”

  Abby blinked back tears. “No. Notes were our thing. Every year for my birthday, Walter sent me a clue and I had to search for my real gift. It was never anything of monetary value—it was always something much greater. I guess you could say this is my final clue, a few weeks before my birthday. I need to know what it means. I’m hoping you can help me figure it out.”

  “I promise to do my best.” Clay rested his hand on top of hers. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  His touch rocketed through her. The forwardness alone should have sent Abby in the other direction. Instead, she found his simple gesture comforting, understanding.

  “Thank you. Ours was an unconventional relationship, and as strange as all this must sound, it worked for us. I had no idea he was sick until it was too late.”

  Clay gave her hand a brief squeeze before he withdrew and continued studying the contents of the folder. Instantly, Abby missed his touch and wanted to say, please don’t let go yet. Just a few more minutes. But she needed to find the meaning of Walter’s note, not send the man running in the opposite direction.

  “I see you were born here,” Clay said over the top of the folder.

  “Walter was stationed at Randolph Air Force Base when I was born. My parents rented an apartment here in Ramblewood until on-base housing became available, but I’m not sure how long they lived here. My mom hasn’t been very forthcoming with any information. I figured Ramblewood was the best place to start. I’m hoping you can find someone here who remembers them.”

  “How old is your sister?”

  “Here you are.” Bridgett set their food on the table. “Holler if you need anything else.”

  Abby inhaled the scent of her BLT. She twisted the top off the ketchup bottle and smacked the bottom of it until it poured onto her fries.

  “I don’t know how old she is, or if she exists.”

  Clay remained silent. Abby looked up to find him staring at her incredulously. She placed the bottle on the table and shrugged. “What? I like ketchup.”

  Eyes wide, he asked, “You don’t know how old your sister is or if she’s real?”

  “This is all news to me. The nurse said my father wrote the note hours before he died. Deathbed confessions being what they are, I thought there might be something to it. Although my mother and father—I call my stepdad my father because he raised me so he earned that title—never heard of any sister. My mom says if one existed, she would have known about her since she had remained in contact with his family. Given that Walter was in the service and stationed overseas for a while, anything is possible.”

  “So I’m looking for a woman in no particular age range, possibly not even in this country, who may or may not exist?”

  “I know this is a long shot. Logic tells me she’s younger—maybe there was someone else after my mom and Walter split, although no one I’ve spoken with on his side of the family knows anything, either. A part of me wonders if this is why my parents divorced. Mom has been quick to dismiss it, which makes me even more curious.”

  Clay didn’t respond. He ate a few spoonfuls of chowder and reviewed the documents along with the sparse notes she had jotted down. Abby dove into her sandwich, studying him.

  If she’d met Clay on the street, she wouldn’t have guessed he was a private investigator. Physically, he was more the actor or country singer type with his high cheekbones and the dark blond stubble along his jawline. Clean-cut meets cowboy. He was definitely easy on the eyes, and Abby wondered why he was still single. Not that it was any of her business, but Kay had made it a point to tell her that much.

  “Before I take a case,” he said. “I have to let you know in advance that I run a background check on all my clients. It’s standard practice, so if there’s anything you need to tell me, please let me know now.”

  “I have nothing to hide.”

  Clay regarded her from across the table, and she fidgeted in her seat. She knew she probably appeared desperate, but she needed Clay to help find out if her father’s message was
true. With only two weeks off from work, Abby was on a definite time crunch. Even if Walter hadn’t written the note, she needed the break from the hospital. And, it gave her time to plan her next animal-assisted therapy proposal. Giving up wasn’t an option when her patients’ well-being was at stake.

  Clay cleared his throat and she met his questioning look. “Assuming nothing turns up in your background check, I’ll start with the court house and military records to see what I can discover. Do you know how long he was stationed at Randolph Air Force Base?”

  Abby shook her head. She didn’t have much information to offer him. Her internet searches on her biological dad hadn’t turned up anything.

  “Do you always meet your clients here?” she asked, taking another bite of her sandwich.

  “I meet them wherever it’s convenient. I don’t have an office, per se. I have clients scattered throughout this and the neighboring counties so I usually go to them.”

  “I couldn’t find any record of you online,” she said, in between bites of her fries.

  Clay laughed and pulled a napkin from the chrome dispenser on the table. He wiped his mouth. “Investigating me now, huh?”

  “I’m hiring you to handle a significant matter. If this sister exists, it will change both of our lives, so yes, I did some research on you.”

  “Well, it’s definitely a challenging case, but if she’s out there, I’ll do everything in my power to find her. Just be forewarned of one thing. If I do locate her and she doesn’t want you to have her contact information, I can’t give it to you.”

  Abby almost dropped her sandwich. “That hardly seems fair. What kind of backwards law is that?”

  “Technically it’s not, but it should be. It’s strictly ethics based—my ethics—and any investigator worth his or her salt will tell you the same thing. You have no idea how many cases I’ve turned away because an abusive husband is trying to find out where his wife ran off to with the kids. That’s why most investigators run a background check on their clients first.”