The Tycoon

by Anna Jeffrey

  A few years back, when he and Heather first met, after a few drinks, they had ended up at her house having a sexy good time. For a while, every trip he made to Amarillo became a follow-up with Heather and for Drake, a growing discomfort. Casual sex with the daughter of the man with whom he was discussing a business partnership was tabu. The one thing he had vowed never to do was mix sex and business.

  Heather had wanted, and still wanted, more than a recreational relationship, but the spark wasn’t there for Drake. She was smart and good-looking, but she had tried to manipulate him and he recognized a willful streak that made him uncomfortable. Today’s meeting with her amounted to nothing more than a cocktail and a Merry Christmas wish.

  The week progressed better than expected. His primary purpose for his trip—securing more leases on Lockhart land—was successful. He breathed a sigh of relief. Now more than ever, his family needed the cash stream those leases provided.

  His meeting with Robert Pennington went well, but he couldn’t ignore his dad’s admonishment about investing Lockhart money in Pennington’s company. Nothing was concluded. He would never play with the family’s money without his father’s approval.

  Beyond that, drilling activity in West Texas was flourishing again. Even with the frosty temps, a smattering of snow on the ground, and the distraction of the holidays, he was able to get a seismograph crew out to do tests on investment land he had bought some years back. So far, the government hadn’t stopped private property owners from drilling on their own land, although some group was constantly engaged in opposing it. Just as with cattle grazing and real estate development. He had grown accustomed to dealing with the constant conflict with government and various organizations with idealistic agendas.

  On Friday morning, he flew back to Fort Worth. He was in a good mood. Four days of feverish business activity had pushed the foolish incident after the TCCRA party to the back of his mind where it belonged. He might never know who that Saturday night mystery woman in

  his bed really was, but that was okay. He had moved on.

  Halfway to downtown, his phone jangled with his brother’s personal ringtone. He pressed the phone into the dash cradle, put it on SPEAKER and keyed into the call. “Yo, Brother.”

  Pic didn’t even say hello. “Where are you, Drake?”

  “Nearly home. Listen, Pic, things in Lubbock are looking pretty good. The wind—”

  “Drake, we’ve got a problem. Kate’s barn burned down last night. Can you come down here?”

  Drake’s stomach lurched. “Jesus, what happened?”

  “Don’t know yet.”

  As the adrenaline surge kicked up his heartbeat, a visual of his little sister’s large state-of-the-art horse barn zipped through Drake’s mind. He had been the general contractor on its construction. It was a two-story ultramodern horse facility that had cost as much to build as an upscale home. “You said burned down?”

  “Pile of ashes,” Pic said.

  “Christ, was anyone hurt? Is Kate okay?”

  “She’s upset She’s suffering from smoke inhalation and got a few burns, but she’s okay. She lost some horses, though. Proud Mary’s no longer with us. Damn shame. Kate just had one of her colts at the futurity up in Fort Worth.”

  Drake’s mind reeled. Proud Mary was a seven-year-old award-winning mare Kate had raised from birth. “Oh, my God,” he said. His sister did love her horses. Drake had affection for horses himself.

  Just then, a loud horn blared and an SUV charged past him with only inches between them. The news about Kate’s barn had so totally grabbed his attention, he forgot he was driving. He jerked the steering wheel, veering his truck back into the right lane. “Where’s Kate now?”

  “The EMTs took her to the hospital. She’s still there.”

  “I thought you said she’s okay.”

  “She is, she is. They admitted her as a precaution. I was at the hospital earlier myself, but with Dad gone, I had to come home and take care of some stuff around here. They’ll probably release her tomorrow, or maybe even later today.”

  “Who’s with her?”

  “Will. He said she was in the barn trying to get the horses out and he dragged her out just before the roof fell in. God, Drake, it sounds like he saved her life. If he hadn’t been there, we could be having a different conversation.”

  Will Harrington, Kate’s neighbor. The Lockharts considered him a friend. “Where’s Dad?”

  “Who the hell knows? I haven’t seen him since Monday and he’s not answering his cell. He called and talked to Johnnie Sue a couple of times, but I was out of the house both times. He didn’t tell her where he was.”

  Just ahead, Drake’s exit loomed and he slowed. “So what caused the fire? Electrical—”

  “They haven’t said.”

  “But someone’s looking into it?”

  “The sheriff’s over there. And the fire chief. I’ve called Kate’s insurance man up in Camden. He’s probably there by now. They’ll probably have something to say later today.”

  Drake had little faith in the Treadway County Sheriff who was more a politician than a cop. He doubted the man knew any more about fires than he did about capturing criminals.

  He had more confidence in the fire chief who had earned the Lockhart family’s respect during the range fires back in the summer. The guy managed an all-volunteer fire department and

  was a volunteer himself, but he was dedicated. He had some advanced training, something unusual for Treadway County’s officials.

  “I’m just hitting my exit. Let me go,” Drake said, glancing at his dash clock. “I need to stop by my condo for a few minutes.” I should get down there early this afternoon.”

  “I’ll be waiting for you at the ranch.”

  “And Pic?...Tell Kate to hang in there.”

  “I will. Just don’t drag your feet getting here. Somebody’s gonna have to make some decisions.”

  And if Dad wasn’t around, Drake knew that somebody most likely would be him.

  As he navigated the city traffic toward Lockhart Tower, he was troubled—grief-stricken even. In the world of agriculture, nothing was much worse than a barn burning, especially if it housed live animals. Many farmers and ranchers cherished their barns more than their homes.

  He was also puzzled. The barn had had many safety features, including a sophisticated automatic sprinkling system.

  At his condo, still rattled by the latest catastrophe at the Double-Barrel, he threw some clean clothes into his duffel and informed his assistant of his plans. When he checked his messages on his voice mail, he listened through half a dozen from Donna. He could tell she was drinking heavily. She had gone to Aspen without him, which suited him fine. That chapter had ended.

  Soon he was on the road to the Double-Barrel, ninety miles away, and girding himself for the chaos that thrived there. For the first time, he wondered briefly where his dad was, though it wasn’t unusual for him to go on a bender and be gone several days.

  At the halfway point, he approached the town of Camden, forty miles from Drinkwell. Camden was larger and more scenic than the town where he had grown up. Because it had both a drive-in and an indoor movie theater, as well as a huge freshwater lake, it had been a date destination during his teenage years. Drinkwell and Camden’s high schools had competed in sports. When he was a boy, Camden had been closer to the size of Drinkwell, but now, due to the real estate boom in the nineties, it was several times the size of the small town where he had grown up.

  Nearing a railroad crossing on the outskirts of the town, he slowed, prepared to stop if necessary. At the same time, as he always did, he glanced up at the billboard standing on the right side of the highway. From a white background, a life-size shapely red-haired woman, arms crossed over the chest of a sleek black business suit, smiled down at the passers-by. Drake nearly ran off the road. He slammed on the brakes. Tires squealed behind him, horns blared.

  Shit! It was her! Sharon Phillips!

&nbs
p; He knew it as surely as he knew his own name. Like a whirlpool, a torrent of mixed emotions swirled through him.

  He drove across the railroad tracks, turned around and drove back toward Fort Worth. He turned around again, approached the billboard again and eased off the pavement onto the shoulder. He stared up at the sign, trying to remember what was on the billboard when he had last paid attention to it. If the good-looking woman had been there, he surely would have noticed.

  FOR YOUR REAL ESTATE NEEDS IN CAMDEN

  CALL AN EXPERIENCED PROFESSIONAL

  PIPER REAL ESTATE, SHANNON PIPER, OWNER/BROKER

  A phone number followed.

  Man, oh, man. If he had time, he would drop in on the professional Miz Piper, just to see the expression on her face. No doubt she thought she had pulled off a clever ruse and would never see him face-to-face again.

  He studied the billboard image a few more minutes. After he had convinced himself he was right about the identity, cussing under his breath, he found a notepad in his briefcase and jotted down the professional Miz Piper’s information. Then he picked his phone from his belt, called his assistant in Fort Worth and asked her to find out everything she could about Shannon Piper and Piper Real Estate

  Driving along the highway through Camden, he looked for Piper Real Estate signs on buildings, but didn’t spot one with her name on it. He was soon through the town and on his way southwest toward the Double-Barrel. He didn’t have time to turn around and search for Piper Real Estate, but the image of Sharon Phillips’ womanly body in a glittery green dress compared to Shannon Piper in a smart black business suit filled his head. He thought he had put that woman out of his mind, but now she was back.

  Before he reached the ranch, Debra called him back. In a brief search she had learned that Shannon Piper had owned her own real estate brokerage for four of the six years she had been in the real estate business. Her company specialized in high-end homes. She was a multimillion dollar producer and a respected professional. Had even won some awards.

  That information came as no surprise. Saturday night in his condo, Drake had seen she was no dummy, though she was apparently a liar.

  But something else might surprise the professional Miz Piper’s peers. It was the predominant thing Drake couldn’t get off his mind. Sharon Phillips/Shannon Piper, or whatever her name was, was hell in bed. Not only was her face and body a vision to look at, she liked sex, raw and dirty. Every man’s fantasy. She had ignited a flame in his loins like he hadn’t experienced in a long time and he wanted more. He felt pressure behind his fly just thinking about that Saturday night. And today wasn’t the first time.

  Half an hour later, he rumbled across the iron pipe cattle guard entrance that took him into a different world—the Double-Barrel Ranch. He set thoughts of Shannon Piper aside.

  Pic and his two border collies, Frissy and Fancy, met him in the driveway. He never saw the Double-Barrel dogs without thinking of when they were boys and their mother had refused to allow male dogs in the house or on the porch. To this day, Pic kept only female dogs. Drake scooted out of his truck. He and his brother man-hugged and back-slapped. The energetic dogs danced around them.

  “Is Kate still at the hospital?” Drake asked him, bending over to scruff the dogs’ ears. Pic whistled and ordered the dogs to calm down. “I just talked to her. They’re gonna release her later. Will’s gonna bring her home.”

  “Let’s get over to her place,” Drake said. “I want to see it for myself.” He climbed back into his truck.

  “Let me get a coat.” Pic trotted back into the house. He returned wearing a brown barn coat and a bill cap. He ordered the dogs to stay, then climbed up onto the passenger seat. “I warn you. You’d better get prepared. This is bad.”

  Soon, they were passing through the gate to Kate’s small horse ranch, Blue Horizons. Usually, the barn—a structure much larger than the old frame ranch house where Kate lived—was the first building visible on approaching. Today, Drake saw nothing familiar. Columns of smoke rose into the chilly air and floated into nothingness. He drove directly to the barn site the

  length of a football field away from the house.

  The word “bad” didn’t begin to cover what he saw. He was stunned to silence.

  A tall and wide black heap of rubble lay over a large area where the barn had been. A blackened skeleton of one partial wall still stood, reminding Drake of giant black toothpicks. The barn had been grand. As barns went, it had been an architectural work of art.

  A burned-out truck chassis and the warped frame of a long trailer were parked to one side. Drake knew his sister had recently paid six figures for a luxury six-horse trailer she used to haul her horses to cutting shows. “Is that the Cimarron Kate just bought?”

  “What’s left of it,” Pic replied.

  Without warning, moisture flooded Drake’s eyes. “My God,” he mumbled, struggling to wrap his mind around the destruction. And saying a silent prayer of thanks that their sister hadn’t been killed. “How could this happen?”

  Several other vehicles had parked haphazardly around the site. Half a dozen people engaged in a flurry of activity.

  Pic scooted out of the truck, but Drake stalled. He dug his handkerchief from his back pocket and dabbed at his eyes before exiting.

  As soon as he opened the door and stepped out, the smell of smoke and ash and the stench of charred flesh met him. The idea of horses burning alive made his heart feel like a rock inside his ribcage. His stomach roiled and he swallowed bile. “My God,” he said again, stuffing his handkerchief back into his pocket. “How many of her horses?”

  “Four,” Pic answered. “Will said she had a dozen in the barn, but she got eight of ’em out.”

  Drake scanned the landscape, saw horses grazing on the hillside in the distance. “I thought she had a groom or somebody who stayed in the barn.”

  “Mexican kid. Miguel Lara. Loves the horses. He wasn’t here last night. The futurity’s been going on up in Fort Worth, you know. She still has some horses up at the coliseum and Miguel’s been staying with them.”

  The Treadway County Sheriff, Tom Gilmore, came toward them, accompanied by a man wearing earmuffs and gloves and carrying a clipboard. Drake didn’t recognize him. The sheriff offered Drake his right hand. “Haven’t seen you around here in a long time, Drake.”

  “How’s it going, Tom?” Drake shook hands. “I don’t get down here as much as I used to.”

  “I thought your dad might come over and—”

  “He’s out of town,” Pic quickly replied.

  “We’re about to wrap up for today,” the sheriff said. “Soon be too dark to see.”

  Drake nodded, cursing the short days of winter.

  The man with the sheriff shoved the clipboard under his arm, snapped the glove off his right hand and offered a handshake. “George Mayfield. I’m with Farmers Casualty up in Camden. My company holds the policies on all of Miss Lockhart’s property.”

  “Adjustor?” Drake asked, shaking the newcomer’s hand, too.

  “Yessir. And you are?”

  “Drake Lockhart. I’m Kate’s brother. I built this barn.”

  “Oh, yes, Mr. Lockhart. I’ve heard of you. Sheriff Gilmore says the barn’s about six years old. That about right?

  “Yeah. Six.”

  He wrote something on his clipboard. “You wouldn’t happen to have a blueprint, would you?”

  “In my office in Fort Worth. If you think it’ll help, I can ask my assistant to overnight it

  down here.”

  “Please do.” As Drake reached under the bottom of his jacket for his cell phone, Mayfield handed over a card. “Please ask her to send it to my office in Camden.”

  After Drake made the arrangement with Debra, he returned his phone to his belt, planted his hands on his hips and looked the adjustor in the eye. “So what do we know about this?”

  “Too soon for conclusions.” Mayfield looked toward the rubble and began gesturing with glo
ved hands as he spoke. “It appears to me that the fire started inside the barn, perhaps over there in the hay storage area. Spontaneous combustion is a possibility, but it’s been awfully cold and wet for that. I’ve requested someone more knowledgeable than I am to come from our regional office and look things over.”

  “Where’s your regional office?”

  “Austin.”

  “That’s not the other side of the world from here. This fire took place eighteen hours ago. Why isn’t somebody already here?”

  Mayfield’s face took on a hurt expression. “I’m here, Mr. Lockhart. We do have a procedure that we follow. We do the best we can. A team will be up tomorrow.”

  Arson investigators. Drake was sure of it. He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets, only slightly mollified. “The sooner the better.”

  “We think the fire started in the wee hours, Drake,” the sheriff put in. “It must’ve got so hot so fast, it was already too late by the time Kate got here from the house.”

  “This barn had a sprinkler system,” Drake said. “It didn’t work?”

  “We’ve been talking about that,” the sheriff answered. “But nobody’s figured it out yet. Maybe it was broke.”

  As much as his little sister loved her horses, Drake refused to believe she wouldn’t have kept the sprinkler system in working order. She had been known to sleep in the barn nights in a row when a mare was due to foal.

  Drake also knew how laid back and even bungling small-town officials could be. Giving the sheriff’s comment no credence, he looked across his shoulder at Pic. “Did you hear Kate say anything about the sprinkler system not working?”

  “Nope.”

  Drake turned to Mayfield again. “I assume you’ll be handling the claim all the way through the process. I don’t know what she had this facility insured for, but—”

  “We’ll have to separate the destroyed property from what’s left before we assess value,” Mayfield said.

  Drake’s hackles rose. Being in the construction business, he had tangled any number of times with insurance people, had developed a strong distrust of insurance companies and had little respect for their procedures. And he had short patience when he sensed somebody was about to try to baffle him with bullshit. “As I started to say—George, is it?—I know what this barn cost to build. And I know the value of the lost horses.”