Their Night to Remember

by Judy Duarte

  And so had Alana, with her silky dark hair that sluiced over her shoulders, emerald green eyes with a fringe of black lashes and that pretty, waiflike smile. At that point, his moral compass had gone wonky, his libido had taken over and he would have followed her anywhere.

  He could still see her lying on the bed, her face flushed with desire, her arms raised to him, inviting him to join her. Lust burned in her eyes, lighting him on fire. His hands explored each of her sexy curves. He’d never forget her sweet taste as his tongue sought hers or the sound of her soft mewls as she pressed her sex against his, rubbing. Needing.

  Even if he’d wanted to forget about the woman who’d crossed his eyes and curled his toes, that scene continued to play on a continuous loop in his mind.

  Damn. You’d have thought the memory would have paled by now, but it hadn’t. Making love had been nothing short of amazing, and their chemistry had been off the charts.

  Lulled by a soul-strumming afterglow, he’d fallen asleep while she cuddled beside him. Fully sated, he’d slept better than ever before. But when he’d woken up the next morning, the only thing he’d held in his arms was her pillow, where a hint of her floral scent lingered.

  At the time, he’d had half a notion to fly to Montana and find her, but something had told him he’d better wait and give her a little time to put that evening behind her.

  He’d hoped to do the same thing, but with each passing day, the memory of Alana had grown stronger.

  And so had his guilt. He’d crossed a line that night by taking her to his room without telling her who he really was, and while he had a variety of reasons and excuses for doing so, none of them held water in the light of day.

  As it was, once he’d returned from Colorado, and his father had questioned him about whether he’d been able to track down Alana, the owner of the Lazy M, he hadn’t been entirely truthful. He’d said he had—but that she’d refused to talk to him once he’d mentioned his last name. The dishonesty grated on him, but he’d told himself that it wasn’t an outright lie since that’s probably how it would have played out anyway.

  Of course, he knew that had been a self-serving crock of crap. But if his old man learned that he’d gone rogue—first in Colorado and now today—there’d be hell to pay.

  And speaking of the here and now, Clay was finally going to see her again. He’d have his chance to lay his cards on the table and apologize for not speaking up sooner. He’d blame it on the alcohol-and-hormone-induced buzz. Then he’d negotiate a great deal, one that she’d appreciate after he put the right spin on it. Then he’d ask her out to dinner and take her on a real date, one that required a flight on the family jet to someplace fun and exciting.

  A grin tugged at his lips—until his cell phone rang. The Darth Vader–themed ringtone turned his smile to a frown.

  Clay swore under his breath. What now, Dad?

  As the youngest of three sons—and the only one born on the wrong side of the sheets—Clay had always tried to earn his father’s love, something he’d eventually given up on, but he still sought his old man’s respect.

  Unlike the other men in his family—good ol’ Dad, a brother who spent most of his free time on the golf course or at a high-stakes poker table and another who juggled his lovers like Casanova on steroids—Clay had always been honest although, granted, that honesty had taken a recent fall from grace. But being completely truthful with his father was going to be tough when answering this incoming call.

  In spite of the compulsion to let it roll over to voice mail, he blew out a sigh, then using the display on the car’s dash, pushed Accept. “Hey, Dad. What’s up?”

  “I expected to see you today. Where are you?”

  Clay had learned to be creative when skirting a direct question. “Last night when I was leaving, I told Rosina to remind you that I’d be off-the-grid for a while.”

  “Yes, I know. But where the hell are you?”

  Clay glanced out the windshield at the lush green scenery, at the snow-capped mountain peaks in the distance. “Don’t you remember? I scheduled time off. I thought I’d do a little fishing.” Not exactly a lie. He wasn’t using a rod and reel, just his wits.

  “When will you be back?”

  “In a week.”

  His father let out a disgruntled sigh. “I need some real estate documents drawn up, and I didn’t want Rosina to do it.”

  “What’d you buy?”

  “Another ranch in Montana.”

  That was the best news Clay had heard in months. Ever since he’d met Alana and learned about her background—that she’d been raised in foster care and had finally met her only living relative, a dying rancher who’d made her his heir—he’d understood why she’d been so determined to hold on to the property. And for that reason, he’d been trying to steer his father in another direction. This new land purchase meant his efforts had worked. “I’m glad to hear it, Dad. Now you don’t need the Perez property.”

  His father chuffed again. “The hell I don’t. That new purchase won’t do me much good unless I have that piece of land, too. And that woman’s still not taking my calls.”

  She’d probably gotten tired of being harassed. When Clay’s old man got a moneymaking project in mind, he zeroed in on it, full steam ahead.

  “I don’t mind you taking a week’s vacation,” his father added, “but once you’ve caught a few fish and are back on the grid, I want you to give me a call. You got that?”

  Oh, he’d heard him, all right. For years, whenever Adam Hastings told Clay to jump, he always asked “How high?” In college, he’d even changed his major to please his father—albeit begrudgingly.

  Anyone can run a cattle ranch. You’re smart, kid. Smarter than your brothers.

  I’m not cut out to work indoors, Dad. I actually enjoy ranching.

  You don’t need to waste your life dealing with a bunch of dumbass animals. I see you as my right-hand man—in all my dealings. Go to law school. I need an attorney I can trust.

  Trust had been the magic word. So Clay had given up his own plans for those of his father, a powerful man who’d been little more than a myth to Clay the first twelve years of his life and a conundrum ever since. So he’d done as he’d been told, passed the Texas state bar. Now here he was, five years later, still on his father’s payroll—and still under his thumb, a position that was growing more and more uncomfortable with each passing assignment.

  “Are you still there?” his father asked, pulling him out of his thoughts.

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “You didn’t respond. We must have a bad connection.”

  They’d never had a good one, although Clay had tried to do his part. Always reaching, always seeking to earn a place in a family that resented his sudden appearance in their lives. There were times when he suspected that resentment had never really gone away. But what the hell. He’d learned to live with it. He’d had to. Once his mom died, he’d had no other choice.

  “Clayton?”

  “Sorry. I’m driving. I just passed through a dead zone.”

  “I was talking to you about the Perez property, Clayton, and about you making it your highest priority.”

  It clearly was his father’s. And now it was Clay’s, too, for more reasons than one.

  He slowly shook his head and bit back a sigh of frustration. “What makes the Lazy M so special? Why is it the key to this new real estate deal?”

  “For now, all I can tell you is that it’s strategically imperative we secure that land. When you get back, we’ll discuss a new plan to get the ranch.”

  “Okay, Dad. But do me a favor. Let me have some time to relax. I’ll work on it—you don’t need to call every minute.”

  “I won’t. But time is of the essence, Clayton. We’ve got until July to close the deal.”

  “And then what?”

 
“You’ll see, but that Perez woman is going to wish she’d accepted any one of my generous offers.”

  Something about his old man’s abrupt tone and the implication that he’d do something underhanded if he had to didn’t sit well with Clay. And he’d have to act to circumvent his father’s plans.

  Maybe, once the surprise wore off and he had a chance to have a heart-to-heart business chat with Alana, he’d be able to either close the deal—or negotiate some kind of offer that might appease both parties.

  But he’d need some time to do that. And one week might not be enough. “I’ll tell you what, after my vacation, I’ll stop off at the Lazy M and talk to her again.”

  “Don’t just talk to her. Make her see reason.” Then, on that note, his father ended the call without saying goodbye.

  Clay’s stomach knotted. What was his dad’s plan B?

  He continued down the two-lane country road to Fairborn. But his mind wasn’t on the scenery. For the past three months, he’d been beating himself up for not setting things right with Alana. Or for not being completely honest with his dad. And it was high time he did both.

  He’d make this right. He’d fix things. And he’d rely on his own plan.

  He’d start by telling Alana his last name and admit his affiliation with Hastings Enterprises. Then he’d somehow convince her to sell the ranch and purchase something brand-spanking-new. If she furnished it with her grandfather’s furniture, she could keep that family connection she so badly wanted.

  He wasn’t sure what she’d say when he showed up at her ranch today, but he’d already prepared his speech.

  The way he saw it, he’d work out a win-win for everyone involved. Hastings Enterprises would get the property his father was gung ho on purchasing and Alana would get a beautiful new house in town, where she’d have access to grocery stores and shops and whatever things small-town folks did for fun.

  And, if Clay played his cards right, and assuming Alana was willing, he’d get to spend another evening with her.

  * * *

  On the outskirts of Fairborn, Clay spotted a sign advertising the Tip Top Market and Casino, which was a mile ahead. That ought to be a good place to purchase a thirst-quenching drink and to ask one of the locals how to find the Lazy M since the address wasn’t coming up on his GPS.

  Moments later, he pulled into a graveled lot and parked next to a beat-up white pickup, the engine running, the radio blaring.

  The driver wore a dusty, battered cowboy hat and sported a scraggly moustache. The sleeves of his red plaid shirt had been torn off at the shoulders, revealing a large, coiled rattlesnake tattoo on his left arm, which rested on the open window as his fingers tapped to the beat of the country tune.

  Tattooed Cowboy cut a glance at Clay, then checked out the rented Range Rover. His bushy brow lifted, and the hint of a smile indicated his appreciation for the vehicle. No surprise there. It was an expensive set of wheels and only had about five hundred miles on it.

  As Clay unbuckled his seat belt, he studied the small store. So this was the Tip Top Market and Casino? It looked like a case of false advertising to him. But what the hell.

  After locking the Range Rover, he started toward the entrance to the market.

  “Nice car you got there,” Tattooed Cowboy said with a smile. “Must have cost you a pretty penny.”

  Normally, Clay would have ignored the comment and continued on his way, but there was no need to be rude to the locals, especially if he had his eye on the Lazy M.

  “It’s a rental,” he said, as he continued to the front entrance.

  He’d no more than reached for the door when it swung open and a heavyset guy wearing a red baseball cap and smelling of stale tobacco walked out with a case of beer in his arms. He nodded at Clay. “How’s it goin’?”

  “Not bad.” Clay waited for him to pass, then entered the market, which seemed to carry the basics, including snacks and canned goods. But what really stood out was a pair of slot machines that sat to the right of the cash register.

  An elderly woman wearing a floral-print blouse and pink slacks sat on a stool in front of one of them, her brown purse clutched tightly in her lap, a red walker adorned with a fluffy blue boa parked at her side.

  This wasn’t what Clay would call a casino, but then again, what did he expect? Fairborn was a far cry from Vegas. Apparently, the two slots served their purpose.

  He stood just inside the door of the small store, noting a refrigerator case along the far wall. On top, a white sign with yellow edging had the word Dairy spelled out in blue swirly letters. He figured that’s where they’d stock the cold drinks, too.

  Before he took a step in that direction, a sixty-something blonde wearing a green shopkeeper’s apron approached the register with a roll of receipt paper in her hand. When she spotted Clay, she brightened. “Hello, there. You must be new in town. I’ll bet you’re one of our new neighbors. We’ve had a couple of ranches sell lately.”

  “I’m just passing through,” he said. “Nice town you have here, though.”

  “Fairborn is the best place in the world to live, if you ask me.” She smiled, shifted the roll of paper into her free hand and reached out the right to give Clay’s a shake. “My name’s Carlene Tipton. Me and my husband Ralph own this place. We’ve lived in the area all our lives. We know just about everyone. So if you’re interested in relocating, we know who’s lookin’ to sell.” She laughed. “Heck. Me and Ralph might as well be Realtors.”

  Clay returned her smile. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Can I help you find anything?” Carlene asked.

  “No, I’ve got it.” He’d no more than taken a couple of steps toward the refrigerator section when a buzzer went off on one of the slot machines and red lights began to flash.

  The elderly gambler threw up both arms, knocking her purse to the floor, and yelled, “Woo-hoo! Yahtzee! I win again!”

  Carlene gave a little clap and called out, “Way to go, Betty Sue. You’re the luckiest woman I know.” Then she leaned toward Clay and lowered her voice. “That’s my husband’s aunt. She has a little dementia, so she lives with us. She’s also got a little gambling problem. So we put the slot machines here in the store so we could control her spending. She’s pretty much the only one who uses them. We’ve got ’em set up to randomly pay out a third of the time. It keeps us from having to file for bankruptcy. And, since Betty Sue hangs out at the store with me now, I can keep a good eye on her.”

  Clay chuckled. “That’s smart.”

  Carlene puffed out her chest. “It was my idea. And I gotta tell you, it sure takes a lot of stress off me.”

  Clay walked over to the refrigerator case, retrieved a bottle of cold water and headed back toward the register. As he neared the slot machines, the woman, in her late seventies, stopped playing and gave him a once-over.

  She’d tied a light blue scarf on her head to hold her curly red hair away from her craggy face.

  He gave her a polite nod, prepared to go about his business, until she chuckled and offered him a bright-eyed smile. “Well, now. Aren’t you a pleasant surprise? We don’t see too many good-lookin’ strangers around here, let alone city slickers.”

  Clay wasn’t sure how to respond, but he sent her a charming smile. “What gave me away?”

  “Them loafers. That fancy white shirt. The stain on your cuff looks like ink. No matter how you wash it, that ain’t gonna come out.” Her green eyes twinkled. “You got a name?”

  He hadn’t planned to introduce himself to anyone, but he supposed a woman who probably wouldn’t remember him tomorrow didn’t count. “My name’s Clay. How ’bout you?”

  “Betty Sue McInerny. Everyone around here calls me Aunt Betty.” She sat upright, her brown purse still clasped tightly in her lap. “My nephew and his wife own this place. Where’re you from, Clay?”

 
“Originally? California.” Until his mom died. “But I live in Texas now.”

  “Auntie,” the store owner called out as she swept in to rescue him from the chatty woman. “Please don’t bother the customers.”

  Betty rolled her green eyes, mumbled something then went back to her gambling.

  Clay and Carlene returned to the register, just as the tattooed cowboy entered the store.

  “I’ll be right with you,” Carlene told him.

  He nodded. “No rush, I just need a pack of smokes.”

  Carlene tapped her finger on the bottle of water Clay had placed on the counter. “Will that be all?”

  “Yes, that’s it. How much do I owe you?”

  “A dollar forty-nine. I hope you have cash. We can’t take credit cards today. Our server is down. And we don’t take personal checks.”

  Clay reached into his rear pocket and pulled out his gold money clip, a gift from his father.

  Money is power, his old man had said when he gave it to him. You can never have too much. Wear it with pride. Actually, he’d felt a little awkward in accepting it—and more so when using it—but he hadn’t wanted his dad to think he didn’t appreciate the thought behind it.

  After he peeled off a five, he waited for Carlene to make change.

  “There you go,” she said.

  “I need directions to the Lazy M Ranch. I hear it’s called Rancho Esperanza now.” Clay nodded toward the tattooed cowboy. “But why don’t you help this fellow first.”

  “Thanks, man,” Tats said to Clay before making his request to the store owner. “I’d like a pack of Lucky menthols, ma’am.” He glanced at a display of lollipops. “And throw in a couple of those suckers.”

  Carlene turned, opened the locked case behind the register and removed the pack for the guy. Then she handed him the candy. As she rang him up, she continued to chat with Clay. “Jack McGee used to own that ranch. He died last winter.” Carlene clicked her tongue. “Cancer. Tough break. Alana, his granddaughter, inherited his estate—if you can call it that. Needs a lot of work, though. But she’s young. Anyway, it’s about three miles to the south. The gates have been torn down for years, and even though you can see the driveway from the road, there’s a bunch of weeds and shrubs that hide the entrance. But when you see a mailbox that’s painted a pretty John Deere yellow and green, you’ll need to turn to your right about a hundred yards down.”