Gambling on a Secret

by Ellwood, Sara Walter

  When Tracy glanced over at Charli, she looked down at the magazine in her lap. Damn, Tracy hadn’t caught her eavesdropping, had she? She pretended to focus on the article about Brad Pitt.

  In a reserved tone, Tracy said, “Dylan’s getting better. It won’t be too long before he’ll be the man he was before his injuries and the divorce.”

  “He was such a good boy from what I remember of him when he’d visit with my son, Lance. And he did such a wonderful job helping you remodel this old house.”

  Dylan did this? She couldn’t help but look around the lobby of the salon. The Victorian house was beautiful. The rich decor of cream, gold, olive green and rose complemented the rich, red tones of the wood flooring. Moreover, the carved molding was gorgeous, polished to match the unique floor.

  Tracy’s evenly spoken words drew her back into the conversation. “Dylan and Lance are still good friends.” Tracy moved from behind the antique desk and spoke with obvious pride. “He’s always been a talented craftsman. I wouldn’t have been able to live here if he hadn’t helped me fix up this place.”

  “When Zachery came back from Afghanistan two years ago, he was changed, too. I suppose Lisa’s death and having to raise their little girl alone would change anyone, though.”

  Charli flipped the page of the magazine as Tracy glanced over at her again.

  Turning back to the older woman, Tracy asked, “How’s Zack doing? I only see him occasionally.”

  Was Tracy’s voice wistful? Must be a story there.

  Mrs. Cartwright sighed. “I think my dear nephew is burning the candle at both ends, if you ask me. The time of mourning is over. He needs a wife, and Amanda needs a mother. She’s quite the handful.”

  “She takes after her father for sure.”

  The older woman laughed. “Yes, she does.” She turned toward the door and smiled at Charli. “Oh, my, forgive my rudeness. Hello, I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” The woman held out her hand, and Charli stood and shook it. “I’m Winnie Cartwright. The mayor’s wife.”

  Charli returned her smile. “Charli Monroe. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cartwright. I actually have a meeting with your nephew Zack tomorrow concerning some horses I’d like to buy.”

  “Oh, I hate the beasts. Never go near them.” She placed a hand laden with jewels onto her ample chest and shivered to add emphasis to her dislike for horses.

  How could anyone despise horses?

  Winnie smiled and readjusted the strap of her purse. “I was thrilled when my son Lance finally decided to take over my husband’s share of the CW Ranch. Paul, however, still gets involved because Lance is the senior partner of my father’s law firm.” Her brown eyes widened and her pink lips opened slightly. “Oh, you’re the young woman who bought the old Blackwell place. I guess that makes us neighbors, too, since the CW and Blackwell Ranch share a boundary. You must tell me all about it. Jock was such a strange bird. He had bipolar disorder and refused to take his medicines.” Mrs. Cartwright made a tsking sound and shook her head. “It was a shame how he cheated his boys out of the ranch, but then, I guess he had his reasons.”

  The older woman leaned toward her, her voice low. “I heard he did it because there’s still oil under the land and didn’t want them to reopen those oil wells, which makes no sense at all. Jock was always sinking his dwindling family fortune into one scheme after another.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Have you met our neighbor, Leon Ferguson, yet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ferguson and I have met.” She wasn’t offering any more to the old busybody. She may not have been in town long, but she had been here long enough to know Winnie Cartwright was the tried and true queen of the gossip chain the locals called the Colton Grapevine.

  Tracy cleared her throat. “Miss Monroe, I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Charli silently thanked her for the save and said to the mayor’s wife, “If you’ll excuse me?”

  “Of course, dear.” Winnie’s lips compressed in displeasure, no doubt at being so easily dismissed. “We must talk again.”

  Settled into the chair by the shampoo sink after the front door closed, she smiled at Tracy. “Thank you.”

  “Not a problem. Winnie can be a bulldog if she smells a grape.”

  “A ‘grape’?”

  “A juicy story. The folks around here call them grapes–you know, like what grow on a grapevine.”

  She nodded her understanding, and Tracy turned on the water.

  “You said when you made the appointment you wanted a trim?”

  “I’d like to have my hair layered and shortened a little.” At least, she hoped that’s what she wanted. “Maybe see if you can do something with the front. I’m tired of pulling my hair back all the time.”

  “Sounds doable.” After a few uneasy moments of silence, Tracy commented, “Your hair is such a pretty color. And the curl’s natural, too, isn’t it?”

  She sighed. “I tried to straighten it once, but it didn’t work. As for the color, I’m stuck with it, too. I have too many freckles and too pale a complexion for any other shade.”

  Tracy cocked her head to the side as she applied shampoo and worked it into her hair. “With your skin tone, I’d have to agree. But really, I like the golden red.”

  “Thanks.”

  The other woman worked with her fingers to massage her scalp. A butterfly clip held Tracy’s twisted, golden highlighted brown hair at the back of her head. Friendly gray eyes were set in a face sharp with angles, much as her brother’s, except Tracy’s features were delicate, feminine.

  Tracy rinsed the lather from her hair. “I can’t imagine what the old ranch house must look like on the inside. I heard it was neglected for a lot of years even before Jock Blackwell died.”

  Tracy was hoping to harvest her own juicy grapes. Charli hated nosy people and suspected anything she told this woman would end up all over town. Nevertheless, she had to give a little if she hoped to get a little. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “It’s in pretty bad shape, I’m afraid. Every day I live there, I find more needs fixing.”

  Tracy motioned for her to move onto the swivel chair before the gilt-framed mirror. “What are you planning on doing with the ranch? You’re not married, are you? The house is so big.”

  “No, I’m not married.” Nor would she ever be. She’d never trust a man with her heart again. Love didn’t exist in a man’s world, even when they professed it. They used those pretty words to get what they wanted from a woman, but they never gave any of themselves in return. She’d learned that too many times the hard way.

  Biting back the bitterness, she repeated what was already public knowledge. “I want to get into the cattle business, possibly go organic eventually. I’ve done a lot of research on it, and there’s a big market overseas for organically grown beef.”

  “Yeah, there is. If a rancher has the capital to put out, it’s the way to go. So, that’s why you moved to Colton?” Tracy didn’t sound convinced. “Your landlady told me you were going to college. You definitely know how to stay busy.”

  Leave it to Aida Mae Pratt to share her personal information. Thank God, she hadn’t shared much with the elderly woman.

  She’d play along. “I would say I know how to make sure I lose my mind.”

  Tracy joined her in a laugh. “You’re taking social work, right? Whatever made you choose that field?”

  No one knew of her other plans–the real reason she’d bought the ranch. How would the people of Colton feel about those plans?

  Measuring her words carefully, she said, “I want to work with troubled teens someday by opening a halfway house or summer camp. You know, for teenage mothers or for girls who just can’t live at home anymore.”

  “Wow, sounds ambitious.”

  As Tracy finished combing out the tangles in her hair, Charli changed the subject. “So, how long have you lived in Colton?”

  Tracy shrugged and reached for the scissors. “Since I was a teenager, but I consider Colton my homet
own. I was born in England and lived all over. My father was an officer in the Army.”

  “Did your brother join the Army because it’s the family tradition?”

  She knew her question surprised Tracy by the way she paused in her work. “Partly. Dylan had hoped to inherit Oak Springs–not him exactly, our mother–but our grandfather decided to give it to his stepson. Dylan would have made a great rancher. He loves that kind of life. Going to the Army was the only other thing he could think of doing.”

  “Oh.” She hadn’t been expecting Tracy’s straightforwardness, which made her suspicious. She remembered Mrs. Pratt’s comments about Dylan mooching off his sister. Did Tracy simply want to get him out of her house? “I’m still looking for a manager.”

  Tracy scrunched her brows and concentrated on her hair. “I know. My brother applied for the job almost three weeks ago. You haven’t filled the position?”

  “No, I haven’t filled it yet,” she said as Tracy worked with the scissors, snipping at her waist-length hair. “I drove by the house he built near Fort Hood. It’s beautiful.”

  “It is. He built it after he and his wife were stationed in Italy for a while. I don’t know what you’ve heard about my brother, but he’s not really as bad as the rumors claim.”

  “I spoke to Mr. Ferguson. He seemed surprised I interviewed him. He told me some of what happened to Dylan.”

  Tracy stopped in mid-snip of her locks.

  Charli winced. She hoped like hell the woman knew what she was doing. She hadn’t had her hair more than trimmed since she’d walked out of the Florence McClure Women’s Correctional Center in Nevada four and half years ago.

  With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, Tracy looked at her. “Leon and Dylan don’t get along.”

  “I’ve heard. Was the oil business also your grandfather’s?”

  Tracy laughed, but it sounded a bit shaky. “My goodness, no. It came from Leon’s grandfather on his mother’s side. Leon changed the name and moved it to Dallas from Houston. Without having a son, Leon’s granddad taught him the business and left it to him. But my grandfather was a major stockholder in the company when he and his father-in-law were business partners.”

  Tracy turned the chair until she faced her. As Tracy worked on the front of her hair, Charli looked up at the stylist. “What happened to Dylan?”

  Tracy stopped cutting again and met her gaze. “He was in a bad situation in Afghanistan during his last deployment.”

  “I know he was injured.” She remembered Leon’s comment about Dylan having comrades who had died in the bombing. “He has PTSD.”

  His sister swallowed and nodded. “He’s not suicidal or dangerous.”

  “He’s an alcoholic.”

  Tracy stared at her. However, instead of confirming or denying the statement, she turned the tables on her. “I heard you lived in Las Vegas before moving in with your grandfather. Must have been something, growing up in Vegas. Are your parents still there?”

  Her guts twisted into a frozen knot. How had anyone learned about her life in the city? Her life in Vegas was a closed book. No one could ever know what she’d done when she’d lived there. After finding her voice, she said, “No, my mother is dead.”

  “I’m sorry.” Tracy furrowed her brow as if she knew she had avoided answering the entire question, but she didn’t press for more about her parents.

  Done cutting hair, Tracy exchanged the scissors for some styling mousse. They grew quiet as Tracy blow-dried Charli’s hair, using a brush to style her new layered look. After she finished, Tracy turned the chair back toward the mirror. “What do you think?”

  She didn’t know what to think. She never had her hair this short in the front, except when it had all been short while she was in prison. She hated bangs, and now she had them.

  “You don’t like it?”

  She ran her fingers through the back, liking the layers. “I don’t know what I expected. I’ll have to get used to the bangs.”

  “You have wonderful hair. It just needed a style that works with your curls, but I’m sorry if I missed the mark.”

  She met Tracy’s gray eyes and smiled. “Not at all. It’s just that I haven’t had bangs since…for a long time. Thank you. I’ll admit I only made the appointment to find out about Mr. Quinn. But I’m glad I sacrificed my hair for the information.”

  “I figured as much when you called.” Tracy sobered, grabbed a vacuum broom, and swept up the hair clippings on the floor. “Dylan’s not a bad man, Miss Monroe. I think he’d be perfect for Blackwell Ranch.” Over the hum of the broom, Tracy went on, “He knows about starting up a ranch. He did it with his own place. As an officer in the Army he had to learn how to manage things and people. And you saw that he’s got talent when it comes to building. He’d know exactly what needs to be done and if the job’s being done right.”

  Tracy met her gaze, love for her brother shining in the misty gray of her eyes. She wasn’t trying to pawn him off; she only wanted the best for him.

  Charli’s heart fluttered as she made her decision. “Tell Mr. Quinn to come by the ranch on Friday. I think he’ll work out fine.”

  “I’ll tell him. Thank you. All he needs is a chance.”

  Chapter 3

  If Charli didn’t soon take a break from cleaning the inside of the house to make the place livable, she feared she’d set a match to it. Why the hell hadn’t she given Tracy a time for Dylan to show up?

  As she headed off the back porch to the potting shed, she looked up at the fluffy clouds dappling the mid-morning sky. On such a warm day, she itched to be in the garden again.

  Mrs. Pratt had spent two whole evenings telling her all about the Blackwell clan after she had mentioned she’d bid on the ranch last month. Did every small town have a crazy mixed-up history? Who would have thought the Blackwells, Fergusons and Cartwrights were all distantly related? From what she could tell, the clans despised each other.

  But according to Mrs. Pratt, the county was founded when Cole Cartwright and his two younger cousins–Dylan Ferguson and Elijah Blackwell–won the tract of land making up the county in a poker game just after the Civil War.

  Whether she wanted to know or not didn’t matter to the landlady as she rambled on about the ending of the fifty-year oil partnership between the Blackwells and the Fergusons, spurring a feud between Jock Blackwell and Jason Ferguson.

  However, what had interested her the most were Aida’s stories about Penelope Blackwell. Jock’s eccentric mother loved gardening and spent hours in the garden healing from her bouts with mental illness. An illness most people in town agreed had been passed down to Jock.

  After Charli retrieved the tools from the shed, she placed them by the bed near the wraparound porch. She ambled around the six massive beds in the front yard and the weedy border along the tattered picket fence until she made her way to the small lake in the front. Maybe once she got rid of the neglect, the garden would be beautiful.

  Wasn’t that the story of her life?

  Horsetails, cattails, water cannas and sweet flags edged the lake created by damming the creek running in the front of her property. A wooden dock, rotted and covered with green slime, jutted into the water. Someday she’d replace it. She could imagine the girls who came to her home to heal from life’s hard knocks paddling around in small boats on the calm water, or fishing along the edge.

  An old concrete bench sat on a stone patio near the water’s edge. With the ivy and weeds, she wasn’t certain the stone path wove through all of the large beds to the house, but here and there part of a path would materialize out of the overgrowth. For a half second, she considered sitting on the bench, until something slithered in the ivy and over the edge of the mossy rocks into the water by the lip of the lake.

  Snake!

  She shrieked and ran through the weeds and high grass to the porch steps, several yards away, clutching her heaving chest. Maybe a match wasn’t such a bad idea after all. Hiring a bulldozer to level the place
completely after the fire was an even better one.

  She held her chest and waited for her breathing to return to normal. How many more snakes were in the garden? “Don’t think about it.” She gingerly made her way down the porch steps. “It was just a water snake.”

  What if it was poisonous?

  Don’t think about it!

  She picked up the hoe and used it to poke in the weeds and ivy in a bed close to the house where she’d left her tools. Once she was sure there were no snakes hiding in the overgrowth to bite her legs off, she got busy pruning the shrubs.

  With one eye on the lookout for another snake.

  As she worked, a pang of grief sneaked up on her. She stopped for a moment and looked at the rosebush she was pruning. She missed her grandfather, not the man he’d been when she’d met him, not the man who worshiped his art and wealth, but the man he’d become after she’d run away. Pink roses would be a perfect reminder of him. She paused and stared at the new leaves unfurling on the stems. The day she’d ventured out into the garden at the Long Arrow for the first time soon replaced the vision of new growth.

  When she had first gone to live with Hank, there hadn’t been even a flowerpot at the ranch house. But sometime between when she’d left with the rodeo cowboy who’d taken her to Las Vegas and the day she’d come home after being released from the correction center in Nevada four years later, he’d taken up gardening.

  She had wandered around the mansion for three days after coming home from the rehab in which she’d been treated for alcohol poisoning. Bored and needing to get out, she’d ventured outside. She’d been surprised to find Hank bending over a purple daisy-like flower meticulously snipping off dead buds.

  “What kind of flower is that? It looks like something that would grow wild.”

  He straightened his back and put a big work-roughened hand on his hip. “Echinacea purpurea. Purple coneflower, and it is a wild flower.”

  Since when did the businessman have dirt under his fingernails? Had he retired from being CEO of his manufacturing business?