Sin City Cowboy

by Victoria Vane

  “No, thanks,” she replied tight-lipped, clearly seething. “You move lightning-fast, don’t you, Ty? Me just this morning. And now Cassie? Is that why you were in such a big hurry to leave? One woman a day isn’t enough for you?”

  “I said why I had to leave.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I told you I had business to take care of. Important business. This ain’t what you think, Ms. Brandt, but even if it was, I told you I answer to nobody. I’m not about to tell you how to live your life, and I don’t cotton to anyone dictating mine. Now, if you’d like to come and join us, I’ll be happy to introduce you around.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I’m leaving.” She stood. “Goodbye, Ty.”

  Something about her tone and demeanor suggested far more than just “good night.”

  “Goodbye? What do you mean?” he asked.

  “It means I’m done, Ty. Done with Las Vegas. Done with this hotel. And especially done with you.”

  He watched her walk out with his hands clenched at his sides, fighting the urge to go after her. But what would he say? Apologize for something he didn’t do?

  Fuck that.

  Once again she’d jumped to conclusions when he’d done nothing wrong. He was sick and tired of her thinking the worst of him, and what was the point of explaining himself when she didn’t give a shit about his world anyway? He turned back to the table with a pasted-on smile.

  Hours later, after Just Call Me Phil disappeared with Tamara on his arm, and Ty finally managed to peel a tipsy Cassie off his lap and get her into the limo, he returned to the bar to find Delaney waiting for him.

  “Wasn’t sure you’d be back,” she remarked.

  “It’s a bad idea to mix business and pleasure,” Ty said bitterly, his thoughts returning to Monica.

  “What a surprise,” Delaney remarked dryly. “Admittedly, I didn’t credit you with either the scruples or the self-restraint.”

  “If you’ve got something on your mind, just spill it, Delaney. I’m too fucking tired for our normal bullshit.”

  “Fair enough,” she agreed. “I won’t bust your balls anymore, especially after tonight. It couldn’t have gone any better, Ty. You made yourself look like a damned hero to that man.” She raised her glass in salute. “He wants to partner with you. Say’s he’ll even loan you the rest of what you need for the renovations.”

  “That’s fantastic!” Ty slapped the table.

  “Not so fast, Ty. There’s one little caveat . . . he wants controlling interest.”

  Ty’s elation evaporated. “No deal, Delaney. I’ve put too much into this place to just hand it over.”

  “For all intents and purposes, you’d still be the one in charge, Ty. It’s really no different than your arrangement with Tom.”

  “The hell it isn’t! It’s completely different! I’ve known Tom all my life.”

  “And I’ve known Uncle Phil. He won’t do you wrong, Ty.”

  “I’ m not going to answer to someone else. I’d sell out completely first.”

  “Then it just may come to that. You aren’t going to get another chance like this, Ty. Seems to me you’d better sleep on it before you answer. Uncle Phil’s staying the weekend. That gives you forty-eight hours to decide”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Evan’s Gulfstream had just been cleared for takeoff from Henderson Executive Airport when Monica’s phone buzzed. Recognizing Ty’s number on her caller ID, she scowled at the phone and ignored the call. Whatever he had to say to her was too little, too late. She’d meant every word she’d said. She was finished. The sooner she left this desert wasteland the better. She was leaving Las Vegas for good—with Evan.

  Maybe he was a manipulative asshole at times, but at least he was willing to offer her a commitment. She didn’t love him, but maybe love wasn’t such a good bargain. Her feelings for Ty had only made her miserable. She deserved more from life and certainly wasn’t going to find it in Sin City.

  She glanced out the window at the mountains, an aching reminder of that sunrise with Ty. A text message interrupted that thought. She was about to delete that too, until she saw Tom’s name. The message that followed made her heart leap into her throat.

  Urgent. Tom’s had another stroke.

  “Oh my God! Stop the plane, Evan!” she shrieked.

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” he snapped. “We can’t just turn around.”

  “Oh yes we can! It’s Tom. I mean it, Evan. Stop the fucking plane. I have to get off. Now!”

  ***

  For the second time, Ty found himself pacing the halls of Desert Springs Medical Center, waiting for Tom’s daughter. “Would you like some coffee, Ty?” the unit secretary asked.

  He recognized her as the plump redhead from the last time he’d been there, the one he’d never called for dinner. What the hell was her name again? “No thanks, Sugar,” he dismissed the offer.

  He’d phoned and texted Monica numerous times in the last hour, but she still hadn’t responded. Was she already in New York? Or maybe she was en route with her phone off?

  Just when he was about to dial again, she appeared, ashen-faced, in the doorway. His gaze briefly met that of the man standing behind her. He had both hands possessively anchored on her shoulders, sizing Ty up. Ty nodded and returned the favor. He didn’t need an introduction to know it was Evan.

  “Tom?” Monica whispered hoarsely, her gray eyes wide with fear.

  Fuck. Why did he have to be the one to tell her?

  He opened his mouth, but the words just wouldn’t come. All he could do was shake his head and open his arms. Monica gasped and then launched herself into them, hitting him hard with a body-racking sob. Ty shut his eyes and clutched her tightly to his chest, barely holding his own choking sobs at bay. They stood there for what felt like eternity, anchored to one another in shared grief while Rosa wailed in the background.

  “I’m sorry, Sugar,” Ty murmured into her hair. “He’s gone. But I’m right here, and I swear to God I’ll take real good care of you.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Ty Morgan licked lips that had never felt drier and swallowed with a throat that had never been more parched as he sat staring through a lens of shimmering amber and gold. The row of bottles sat just out of reach on the top shelf in front of the antique diamond-dust mirror, the shelf he’d been painfully aware of but careful to avoid for seven long and sober years. But now he needed something, anything, to numb this desperate ache deep in his chest.

  The craving for a stiff drink that had begun hours ago as a soft, sultry siren’s call was now a steady and relentless pounding against his eardrums. Noticing the direction of his gaze, Gabby slid a foamy mug of beer in front of him.

  Ty pushed it away. “Jim Beam Black. Gimme a double.”

  If losing the one person he cared for most in the whole world wasn’t good reason to get shit-faced, he didn’t know what was.

  Gabby’s brows drew together. “Thought you didn’t touch that stuff.”

  “Only on rare occasion,” he said slowly. “And this one is pretty damned rare. In fact, I’d even call it raw.” The man who’d been a surrogate father to him was gone.

  Gabby leaned her elbows on the bar, getting up close and personal, her brown eyes soft and sympathetic. “I know you’re hurting, Ty. We all are, but you can’t let this get to you. You’ve come too far to fall off the wagon.”

  “I was never on the fucking wagon,” he snapped. “I just didn’t want to drink anymore, okay? Now spare me the platitudes and gimme the bottle, Gabby, before I climb over this bar and get it myself.”

  Gabby pulled back reluctantly to take down the bottle, but poured only half the amount he’d demanded into the glass.

  Ty snatched it up and downed the bourbon in one burning swallow. Relishing the sensation of heat that spread slowly through him, he shut his eyes on a sigh. The welcoming warmth enveloping him was second only to being inside a woman, an experience he hadn’t enj
oyed for far too long. The last time was the morning he’d shown Monica the sunrise from the terrace outside his bedroom. Then, only hours later, the only woman he’d made love to in his own bed in almost eight years had walked out on him and back into her ex-fiancé’s arms. Fuck that.

  He had Gabby pour him another. The second shot went down smoother, but then again, his throat was still tingling from the first. He’d tried to tell himself he didn’t give a shit, but he did. The abject pain in Monica’s eyes when he’d broken the news about Tom had almost broken him. His feelings for her confounded him. Outside the bedroom they mixed about as well as oil and water, but between the sheets they were fire and gasoline. And he still wanted her. He couldn’t understand why he was so damned attracted to a woman who didn’t have the slightest interest in his life or in his world.

  For weeks now he’d been wound as tight as an eight-day clock. He slumped back on the stool, finally beginning to relax a little. He reached for the bottle Gabby had left on the counter. This time he didn’t bother with the glass.

  Gabby’s frown deepened to a scowl as he took a long, savoring swig. “Maybe you should slow it down a little, Ty. The memorial service is in less than an hour.”

  She was right, of course. He should slow it down. He should push the bottle away. A couple of good drinks usually mellowed him out, but three was his limit. Any more than that always sent him over the edge. He stared at the bottle as reason warred with emotion, but the mind-numbing bourbon had already taken possession of him.

  “Some memorial,” he scoffed. “Monica has it all wrong if she thinks Tom would want everyone weeping and wringing hankies in some musty funeral parlor. He despised that kind of thing. He’d be the first to tell us to open some bottles and have a drink in his memory.”

  Ty slapped the bar. “Hell, he’d want an open bar shindig.” Almost as soon as the words left his mouth, a slow smile spread over his face.

  ***

  Dressed in a black Prada dress and stiletto heels, Monica Brandt slid across the seat in her hired limo to join the man inside. She gazed sightlessly out the window as the car swept away and merged smoothly into the flow of Las Vegas traffic, bound for the Desert Palms Crematorium. Her mind was still numb with disbelief, and her chest ached with the dull, incessant throb of grief.

  “Are you okay?” asked a familiar baritone.

  She glanced up, half-expecting to see Ty Morgan’s whisker-shadowed and careworn face, but it was Evan’s instead. Evan’s eyes searching her face. Evan’s hand reaching out to take hers. This was a kinder, gentler Evan than she’d ever seen before. Although he despised emotional displays, he’d surprised her by remaining by her side instead of making an excuse to return to New York. Did he truly care about her loss, or was he just putting up a good front?

  “No,” she replied. “I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay again.” She choked back a sob, but her burning eyes remained dry. She had no more tears left. She’d lost the only person who’d ever truly cared about her. Tom had taught her what it was like to be loved. Deep down it was the only thing she’d ever truly wanted—to love and be loved. But now Tom was gone, and it hurt beyond belief.

  Was it only a month ago that Tom’s first stroke had put her on the plane from New York to Las Vegas? Was it only three days ago that she’d boarded Evan’s private jet, determined to return to New York? It seemed more like a lifetime ago. No, it seemed more like someone else’s life.

  “Look, I won’t pretend to know what you’re going through,” Evan said, “but he’s gone now. Once this is over, why don’t you come back to New York?”

  “It’s too soon, Evan. I’m not ready to discuss it yet.”

  “There’s nothing left to keep you here once you sell the hotel,” Evan continued. “Let’s start over again.”

  Did he want her back, or did he only want the real estate she now controlled? Did it matter? Either way, she was selling out . . . severing all ties to Ty. Ty was the real reason she’d boarded the plane with Evan, but Tom’s sudden death had brought her right back again.

  It was Ty who’d broken the news to her and Ty’s strong arms that had held her as she wept. It had been too damned easy to fall right back into those arms and just as difficult to pull away again. But she had pulled away—to the safety of Evan, a man who didn’t love her any more than she loved him.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Walking into the memorial chapel, Monica was struck at once by the overwhelming, almost nausea-inducing perfume of flowers, and an odd sense of foreboding. White wreaths filled the chamber almost to capacity, but the place was deserted.

  Where the hell was everyone? She’d sent out notifications to half of Las Vegas.

  “Ms. Brandt!” The mortician rushed to greet her with a panic-stricken look. “I swear to you there’s nothing I could have done to prevent this.”

  “Prevent what?” Monica asked, her heartbeat accelerating with trepidation.

  “Your father’s remains have somehow been . . . er . . . misplaced.”

  “Misplaced?” Monica gasped.

  Evan stepped forward. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “The urn has gone missing,” the mortician replied. “We can’t find it anywhere. I assure you this situation is unprecedented. I placed the urn in the chapel myself. A few minutes ago, I found this envelope in its place.”

  Monica snatched the envelope from his hands, tearing it open with trembling fingers.

  “Did you call the police?” Evan demanded.

  “Yes,” he answered. “They should be here any minute. Please rest assured that we’re doing everything in our power to recover the remains.”

  Evan replied with a cold smile. “And you may rest assured that we’ll sue your ass off if you don’t.”

  Monica scanned the terse note. The farewell party has been moved to the Last Chance Saloon. Her next breath had Ty’s name spilling from her lips. “The police won’t be necessary, Evan.” Seething with suppressed rage, she shoved the note into her purse. “I know exactly who did it.”

  ***

  The Last Chance Saloon was so packed that Monica wondered that the fire marshal hadn’t been summoned. It wasn’t only the number of people who crammed the bar that amazed her, but the mix of mourners—high-profile Vegas hoteliers rubbing elbows with cowboys, showgirls, and even a few Elvis impersonators. She wondered cynically how many of then had known Tom or if they’d just come for the free drinks.

  Scanning the room, it didn’t take her long to spot Ty, standing on the bar, hat askew and shirttail hanging out, holding a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam. He was also hugging a worn pair of cowboy boots that she recognized as belonging to Tom. Ty looked much as he had when she’d first met him, right after Tom had suffered his stroke—expression haggard and eyes red-rimmed and deeply shadowed. She forced her way to the front of the bar as he raised his bottle in salute and began a slurred eulogy.

  “I know this is a mighty unconventional way to conduct a memorial, but Tom was an unconventional man. He was an old-school cowboy, the kind whose church was the range and favorite choir was lowing cattle. So we’re gonna say good-bye the way he would have wanted. Like many ol’ timers, Tom was a lover of cowboy poetry. So rather than prosing on about shepherds and valleys, I’m gonna share a few verses from ‘The Lost Range’ by Henry Herbert Knibbs.”

  Monica stepped forward to put an end to the performance just as every cowboy in the joint doffed his hat, holding it over his heart in a salute to Tom. Her protest died in her throat.

  Ty took a swallow from the bottle and began to recite, “Only a few of us understood his ways and his outfit queer, His saddle horse and his pack-horse, as lean as a winter steer, As he rode alone on the mesa, intent on his endless quest, Old Tom Bright of the Pecos, a ghost of the vanished West.

  “He made you think of an eagle caged up for the folks to see, dreaming of crags and sunshine and glories that used to be. Some folks said he was loco—too lazy to work for pay, but we ol
d-timers knew better, for Tom wasn’t built that way. He’d work till he got a grub-stake, then drift, and he’d make his fire, And camp on the open mesa, as far as he could from wire. Tarp and sogun and skillet, saddle and rope and gun . . . And that is the way they found him, asleep in the noonday sun.

  “They were running a line for fences, surveying to subdivide, and open the land for the homesteads—‘The only place left to ride.’ But Tom he had beat them to it, he had crossed to The Other Side. Tom wasn’t strong for parsons—so we didn’t observe the rules, but four of us sang, ‘Little Dogies,’ all cryin’—we gray-haired fools. Wishing that Tom could hear it and know that we were standing by, wishing him luck on the Lost Range, down yonder, against the sky.”

  Ty’s gaze held Monica’s as he continued, now swaying on his feet, “Tom Brandt was the kind of man who treated every stranger like a friend, the kind who’d even take on a troubled boy and raise him up as his own.” His voice broke. He swallowed hard and finished, “And that’s all I’ve got to say.”

  As soon as he finished, Monica went into full offensive. “All right. We’re done here. Party’s over,” she barked out. “Clear it out. We’re shutting the place down.”

  Monica searched the crowd for Gabby and the bouncer, Gus, who stood in the wings. A nod sent them scurrying to help Ty down from the bar. Gabby took the bottle from his hands, but Ty clutched the boots even tighter, hugging them to his chest.

  Once he was safely back on terra firma, Monica demanded, “Where’s the urn, Ty? You had no right to take my father’s ashes. I want it back. Now.”

  “The urn’s right there.” He inclined his head to the counter behind the bar. “You can help yourself to it . . . But Tom’s not in it.”

  “What the hell do you mean he’s not in it?” she asked, struggling to keep her rage in check.

  “He’s right here.” He patted the boots clumsily. “He always said he wanted to be buried with his boots on. I intend to honor that wish.”