by Judy Duarte
“My ride’s here,” she told Marissa. “I’ll give you a call later and we can talk more.”
Just as Clay was pulling into a parking space, Alana strode toward the pickup and opened the passenger door before Clay shut off the ignition.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“No. I just need to get home.”
He studied her for a moment with a quizzical look, then he checked the rearview mirror, backed up and headed down the street.
If he suspected she’d been lying when she’d told him nothing was wrong, he didn’t say.
Thank goodness for that. Because something was definitely not right. She just didn’t know what.
Chapter Eight
From the moment Clay spotted Alana in front of the diner, he knew something was wrong. He could read it in her pretty face, see it in the crease in her brow, the flush on her cheeks, the tension around her lips.
His gut clenched at the thought of her dealing with anything unsettling or unpleasant. And since she’d been looking forward to having a sweet treat at the Mulberry Café, something had caused her to skip it completely.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
It didn’t take a mind reader to see that she wasn’t telling him the truth and that she didn’t want to talk about it. Certainly not now. And maybe not ever. So he kept his thoughts to himself, turned the old pickup onto the main drag and headed back to the ranch.
Every now and then, he stole a peek at her profile, hoping to see that her mood had lightened, that she’d decided whatever had been bothering her was no longer worth her concern. But worry still marred her brow.
He wished that she’d confide in him and let him carry some of the burden for her, but that wasn’t happening. He supposed he couldn’t blame her for keeping it to herself. After all, who was he? Just some guy she’d met only once at a cattle symposium. She’d said she’d considered him a friend, but they hadn’t met again for four months. So in actuality, he was a virtual stranger who’d stumbled onto her property, battered and bruised. And memory impaired to boot.
She’d taken care of him. And she hadn’t needed to. So she felt something for him. Had their lovemaking created a bond? He suspected it had.
Over the past couple of days, he’d experienced a few disjointed memories, visions that popped up briefly. But they hadn’t been much help. Instead of allowing him to tap into his past, they’d left him uneasy, and he wasn’t sure why.
He was convinced he’d been the victim of a crime. But what if he was wrong? What if he’d deserved the beating he’d received?
He wished he knew. But what he did know—he glanced across the seat at the woman who’d taken him in, and warmth melted in his chest like a slather of soft butter on a hot biscuit—what he’d come to believe, was that he, like Katie, Jesse and Mark, had found something special there, a haven of sorts. And that realization left him feeling appreciative as well as protective of Alana.
Once they’d gotten a few miles outside town, he decided to give her something else to think about, something that might ease her load. “I got a job. It’s only part-time, but it’ll give me some cash.”
At that, she turned to him. “Doing what?”
“Helping Sam at the feed store in the mornings. Manny, the college student who works for him, had a death in the family, so Sam needs some immediate help.”
“I’m sorry to hear that about Manny. Sam has been having a few health issues himself, which is why he hired Manny in the first place. I’m glad you can help him for a while.”
Clay wasn’t afraid of hard work. And the position certainly would make his life a little easier while he was upstream without a paddle. Hell, each time he reached into his pocket and came up empty—no credit card, no cash, no freakin’ ID—he had the urge to run home. Only trouble was, he had no idea where home was.
They’d driven just about a mile or two farther when Alana cut a glance at him. “Do you know anything about eminent domain?”
The question took him aback, but mostly because he realized he knew quite a bit about the subject. “That’s when a government entity or one of its agents wants to convert private property for public use.”
“They can just take it?” Her voice shook, and her brow furrowed as her eyes locked on him.
“Yes, they can. But per the Fifth Amendment, they can only exercise that power if they provide just compensation to the property owner.” He gazed at the road ahead, then slid another glance her way and caught her studying him intently. Why was she asking him about this out of the clear blue sky? And why the worried expression?
“Seems to me like you know a lot about the law,” she said. “I guess you really are an attorney.”
Maybe so. But something niggled at him... Something else he ought to know. Something that was locked up with all the other crap he couldn’t remember.
Property.
Land acquisitions.
A state highway.
A male voice reverberating through the room. I’m not asking you to give it a try, Clayton. I’m telling you to close the deal.
Clay chewed on the sudden awareness, on the brief memory, hoping he could stir up a bit more from those dark, clouded corners in his mind. Who was the man? Where was the room?
A faint recollection seemed just within reach. The scent of a fine Kentucky bourbon and the clinking of ice cubes in a crystal glass. An open legal brief resting on a massive, solid oak desk. An antique clock on the wall, counting out the seconds with each ticktock.
A built-in bookcase filled with law books. A window providing a view of a couple of horses grazing in a pasture.
The edges of the full memory floated in the mist, but the vision stalled, and try as he might, he couldn’t stir up anything else—other than the sense that he hadn’t been too keen on the assignment.
He supposed he ought to be happy that things were coming back to him, even if it was only at a snail’s pace. But instead, it frustrated the hell out of him, and he squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white.
Up ahead, he spotted the yellow-and-green mailbox that was perched next to the road leading into Rancho Esperanza and flipped on the turn signal.
He cut another glance at Alana. “Why’d you want to know about eminent domain?”
When he caught her eye, her lips parted as if she was about to explain. Then she shrugged. “No reason. Not really. Just curious.”
He couldn’t help but doubt her response. Not when he’d seen the concern in her eyes. Besides, topics like that didn’t come out of nowhere. But he couldn’t very well expect her to trust him with her troubles, assuming she had some. And he really had no right to pry.
As he pulled up into the front yard, two of the dogs dashed out of the barn barking at the pickup, wagging their tails. Rascal, the Queensland Heeler, and Licorice. But where was Chewie?
Chasing a squirrel or pestering the chickens, he supposed.
As Clay and Alana climbed out of the pickup, Mark and Jesse rushed out the back door.
“Guess what?” Jesse called out. “Chewie had her puppies!”
“Four of them!” his older brother added. “And one of them looks a lot like Rascal.”
At the boys’ joyful news, Alana’s mood shifted, and she finally broke into a grin, apparently shedding her worries.
The relief that swept through him was short-lived as a growing sense of uneasiness settled over him.
State highways. Eminent domain.
I’m not asking you to give it a try, Clayton. I’m telling you to close the deal.
Who’d issued the order? And why?
As the kids and Alana hurried to see the new puppies in the outbuilding, where Katie and the boys had created their separate quarters, Clay remained rooted in the yard, trying to make sense of it all.
His head started to ache, and he rubbed his temples.
Why was he here? Why had he left Texas, if that’s where he actually lived? What was he doing in Montana? Had he merely come to look up an old lover he’d apparently met only once? Or had there been more to it than that?
No. There wasn’t. He now remembered enough of the night they’d met that he had something to hang on to.
He ticked off the sequence of events again to be sure. He and Alana had met in a Colorado bar and hit it off immediately. They’d made love that night, and she’d slipped away before they could make plans to see each other again. And it had taken him four months to find her.
He had no idea how his head injury had come about, but even in a befuddled state, he’d found his way to Alana—and to Rancho Esperanza.
That scenario, more than anything else, made the most sense. So as far as he was concerned, that’d be his story, and he was sticking to it.
He kicked a rock out of his way as he headed toward the barn to check on Bailey, the mare about to foal. He slowed. Suddenly, the memory of that male voice plus the vision of an office struck him a whole different way, especially when he considered that he knew a hell of a lot about law and real estate.
Had he really come to Montana in an attempt to find Alana because he’d longed to see her again?
And why, when any private investigator worth his salt could have found her in short order, had it taken him four long months?
* * *
Two days later, after Clay had gone to work at the feed store and Katie had taken the boys to the library in town to participate in a children’s summer reading program, Alana went into the ranch office and began paying the regular monthly bills.
She’d barely signed her name on a check to the power company when the dogs began to bark, alerting her that someone had arrived at the ranch. So she got up from her seat and went to see who it was.
Just as she reached the living room, the screen squeaked open and a hard knock-knock-knock sounded.
“I’m coming,” she called out.
When she opened the door, she found an unfamiliar middle-aged man wearing a tie and sports jacket standing on the porch. He held some paperwork in his hand.
Alana offered up a smile, but he didn’t return it.
All right, then.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Are you Alana Perez?”
At his serious tone, her smile faded. “Yes, that’s me.”
He handed her the papers. “You’ve been served.”
Stunned, she remained in the doorway until he returned to the yard, climbed into a nondescript white sedan and drove away. Then she looked over the legal document he’d given her.
Her jaw dropped, and her heart pounded out a scream in a weird, cardiac Morse code. “Seriously?” Olivia McGee was contesting Grandpa’s will and challenging Alana’s inheritance?
This couldn’t be happening. No way.
Alana closed the door, sequestering herself in the small, cozy living room that, in months past, had provided her with peace but didn’t offer her any right now.
She made her way to the brown tweed sofa and plopped down, sinking into the worn, frayed cushions she used to find comfortable. Today, they felt only cold, hard and unyielding. She continued to read the complaint.
Olivia claimed that Alana had taken advantage of a sick and lonely old man, that she’d encouraged him to change his will while he was heavily sedated on pain medication and to leave his entire estate to her.
Her hands trembled as she tried to make sense of it all. Not the fact that the will was being contested. That was obvious. But why now, after more than six months had passed? Weren’t there time limits on this kind of thing?
She needed help. And advice. She got up and returned to the office. She searched through Grandpa’s Rolodex for Henry’s number. He was the one who’d drawn up the will. He’d know what to do. She reached for the telephone receiver, but before she could remove it from the cradle, she froze.
Olivia had been with the woman who worked for Henry. Was Grandpa’s attorney involved?
Instead, she reached for her cell phone, which rested on the scarred dark pine desk. She looked through her contact list and then dialed Ramon Cruz, Callie’s husband. The man was incredibly busy, but she knew if he had a moment to spare he’d give her wise counsel—and, hopefully, some sound advice.
“Hey,” Ramon said. “How’s it going?”
“Not so good. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got a big problem. A legal one, and I didn’t know who else to call.”
“What’s up?”
“I’ve just been served papers.” She gave him the details.
Ramon let out a sigh. “That’s unfortunate. Give me some time. I’ll try to get more information. Then we can come up with a solid game plan.”
We. She liked the sound of that.
After disconnecting, Alana began to pace the office floor. Time seemed to stand still as one ticktock stretched into another.
Finally, nearly thirty minutes later, Ramon called back.
“What’d you find out?” she asked.
“Olivia’s Kalispell attorney not only backs up Olivia’s claims that you hoodwinked your grandfather and stole property that had been previously willed to her and her late husband, but he also believes Jack’s attorney should have retired from practice years ago.”
“That’s a downright lie. And for what it’s worth, Grandpa was completely lucid at the time. He’d even refused pain medication until the day before he died because he wanted to spend as much quality time with me as he could. You can even ask Henry.”
“I’m afraid talking to him won’t be much help. And his testimony could be even more damaging. It’s a known fact around town that he’s been having some memory issues. And lately, it’s gotten worse. He retired last month.”
Alana’s shoulders slumped, and she leaned against the wall. Henry Dahlberg had been her sole witness. Now what?
“For what it’s worth,” Ramon added, “it seems that Olivia recently sold her ranch. The escrow should close within the next week or so.”
A shiver of suspicion slithered up and down Alana’s spine. There was only one man intent upon snatching up ranches in the area. “Don’t tell me. A man named Adam Hastings bought it.”
“That’s what I heard. And confidentially, I heard she got more than it’s worth.”
“Then, why is she going after my property?”
Ramon didn’t answer right away, then he said, “Honestly, none of this passes the smell test. I’ll poke around and see if I can find out anything else.”
“Thank you. Your advice?”
“Lawyer up.”
Alana sank to the couch and pressed her hands over her swelling belly. As reality settled over her, she realized she was in for a costly and lengthy legal battle.
And one she just might lose.
* * *
For a forty-five-year-old man who stood about six foot six and was built like an NFL offensive lineman, Sam Willis, the owner of Fairborn Feed and Grain, wasn’t the least bit intimidating. Surprisingly, he was a soft-spoken, gentle giant. A scraggly beard, mostly in need of a trim, suggested he was a little rough around the edges, but a ready smile that put a sparkle in his eyes argued otherwise.
From what Clay had heard from several of the locals who patronized the feed store, Sam was also honest. “He’s as generous as the good Lord made ’em,” one older gentleman claimed. And it hadn’t taken long for him to agree on all accounts.
On Thursday morning, Clay arrived early, about fifteen minutes before Sam opened for the day, a habit he’d acquired since his first day working at the busy feed store.
“Good morning,” Clay said, as Sam unlocked the front door and let him inside.
Sam gave a tired sigh and
muttered, “G’ mornin’.”
Clay paused in the doorway and studied his slump-shouldered boss. “You okay?”
Sam grimaced as he stroked his stomach. “Yeah. Just got a bellyache. That’s all. Started last night.” He pointed to the rear of the store. “Would you mind bringing in a couple sacks of chicken feed up front? The display stack is getting low.”
“Sure.” After completing the task, Clay glanced at the clock near the register, where Sam was adding coins into the till. “Is Manny coming in today?”
“He said he was, although I told him he didn’t have to. His uncle’s funeral was yesterday, and I think he should stick close to home.” Sam chuffed, then slowly shook his head. “I like that kid. He’s a hard worker, smart and responsible. He’s been a real godsend to me. But he has to help his aunt run the ranch until she can hire a foreman.”
“I can give you as much help as you need,” Clay said. “At least, for the time being.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that.”
After several customers had come in and then checked out, Manny finally came dragging in.
“Sorry I’m late,” he told Sam. “My car wouldn’t start, and my aunt and I had to feed the horses before she could give me a ride.”
Other than Manny getting a late start, the morning began as usual, with customers coming in and out. But by eleven o’clock, the day seemed to shift into one that was anything but typical. The pain in Sam’s gut had clearly gotten worse.
“Maybe you ought to see a doctor,” Clay told him.
Sam lifted the brim of a brown-and-gold Wyoming Cowboys baseball cap he always wore and scrubbed a big, beefy hand over his bald head. After replacing the cap and adjusting it, he stroked his scraggly beard. “Nah. I just took some antacids. It’ll go away pretty soon.”
But it didn’t go away, and by noon, Sam was nearly doubled over in pain. Still, the tough guy continued to work, this time helping a local rancher load several sacks of grain in the bed of a dual-wheeled pickup.
Before Sam could lift another fifty-pound bag, Clay reached for his arm and stopped him. “Put that down. I’ll get it.”
