“I heard tell of three or four inches of snow by the time the storm front moves on. We might even have ourselves a white Christmas.”
Ironic that Morton would mention Christmas because, although December 25 was less than three weeks away, not a single decoration adorned his sprawling estate. Kellan felt the absence of a woman’s touch as much as he’d felt it in his own house before he’d thrown a huge decorating budget at Lisa and granted her free reign to fix the problem. Morton’s house hadn’t always been so inhospitable. His wife, Eileen, had managed to make the place downright cheery until the day she disappeared.
Kellan followed the clink of Morton’s black boots through the hall to his office. The dogs jostled Kellan in their push to catch up with their master. Whereas the rest of the house smelled pleasantly of cigar smoke, Morton’s office reeked of it. A collection of stubbed-out stogies crowded a metal ashtray atop a desk the size of a Ping-Pong table. One continued to send a tendril of smoke into the air. Lining the walls were bookshelves weighted with leather-bound volumes of oil and mineral rights laws interspersed with framed photos of Morton’s dogs. Not only the three presently sprawled on the carpet, but every dog that had been lucky enough to call him its owner.
“How many of those mutts are you up to now?” Kellan couldn’t help but ask.
Morton gestured for him to sit in a stiff-looking chair before sloshing caramel-colored liquor into two lowball glasses. “You ought to take more care with your vocabulary, son. These mutts are Dogue de Bordeaux purebreds. They’re worth a helluva lot more than your prized steers, that’s for damn sure.”
Not even a fancy French name could soften the fact that these were mastiffs, bred for bulk and strength, with jaws that could rip a man’s arm off in a heartbeat should they be so inclined. He nudged one’s hind leg with his boot. It whipped its head up and growled a warning. “Still, what’s the count? Fifteen? Twenty? Can you even tell them apart anymore? They all look the same to me.”
Morton huffed and offered Kellan a glass before perching on the edge of his desk.
Kellan sniffed the drink. Bourbon. Probably the good stuff, knowing his uncle. Rubbing his nostrils against the fumes of alcohol still tingling there, he set the drink on the nearest table.
With his legs crossed at the ankles, Morton regarded Kellan over the lip of the glass as he sipped his drink. “It’s nearly one o’clock in the morning, so let’s get right to business. What can I do for you?”
Kellan folded his hands over his chest, faking the same kind of confidence he utilized when negotiating steer prices. “My property, Slipping Rock Ranch, what year did you purchase it?” Kellan knew the answer, but dates and facts seemed like an easy place to start.
Morton scratched his head. “Round about 1985. The spring of that year, I believe.”
“Why? What interested you in the land?”
“That’s a stupid question from an otherwise smart man. Oil, of course.”
“It’s not enough for you to pull a salary and bonuses through the company, is it? Any oil-rich land you personally acquire reaps exponentially more cash because the profits land straight in your bank account. Is that right?”
“That’s how entrepreneurship works. Doesn’t make it criminal, if that’s what you’re implying. Every property I invest in brings me huge gains when the gamble pays off. It doesn’t always, but it’s a risk worth taking.”
“Then it’s fair to assume you’ve gambled on other properties over the years and achieved better results than the Slipping Rock acreage?”
Morton tossed back the remainder of his drink and walked to the decanter for a refill. “Damn right. A man doesn’t become as successful as I have without diversifying.”
“At the expense of home owners.”
Morton inclined his head, but didn’t answer. He sloshed a finger of liquor into his glass.
“Back to Quay County,” Kellan said. “After the Amarex exploration crew determined there was no oil to be had under the property that would become Slipping Rock Ranch, you abandoned it. Until I came along.”
Morton resumed his perch on the edge of the desk. “Why are we rehashing this?”
“Just making sure I understand everything clearly. So you didn’t have any idea before the exploration crew did their thing that my property was dry?”
“Like I said. All the land surrounding it was saturated with pockets of crude oil. It was a fair assumption I’d find oil under that dirt too.”
Kellan took a sip and pushed the bourbon around the roof of his mouth with his tongue. “Not all the surrounding land, as it turned out.”
Morton chortled. “Well, here we are, then. The real reason for your house call. You want to talk about the Sorentino property. Go ahead and talk.”
“Their land is as dry as mine.”
“So the exploration crew declared, yes.”
“According to the documentation I read, three separate exploration crews have scoured the lot over the last twenty years. Found nothing but dirt and rock every time.”
“As we’ve already covered, the oil business involves a bit of gambling and a hefty dose of intuition. Sometimes, that intuition is wrong.”
Kellan rose. Containing his frustration was becoming more difficult by the minute. Already, his hands quivered and he detected a telltale strain in his voice. Sidestepping the dogs and the desk, he walked with a measured stride to the bookshelves and ran his hands over the smooth, leather bindings of the law books. He was struck by their benign, impotent presence in the room. Struck by the absurd notion that the rules governing people’s lives could be harnessed thusly—stripped of humanity, organized, bound, and left on shelves to collect dust.
He picked absentmindedly at a fraying corner of leather. “Why is Amarex fighting so hard to purchase a dry piece of property?”
“It’s none of your concern.”
“None of my concern?” He turned and looked Morton full in the face. “You made it my concern the night you had a courier deliver the file to my house. Why did you do that, if you didn’t want me sticking my nose in your business?”
Morton took a long sip of bourbon, his gaze steady on Kellan. “I have my reasons.”
“I’d like to hear them.”
Smacking his lips, Morton set the glass on his desk and rose to his full height. “I invited you into Amarex’s confidence on this particular problem because you seem to sneak your way into every one of my Quay County business deals whether I want you to or not. Thought I’d save you some trouble by providing the information up front.”
Kellan’s bullshit meter was sounding the alarm again. “You’re being generous, is that all?”
“I’m being generous, yes.”
“Not because you’re a manipulative bastard?”
“Think what you want about me, son. But that still doesn’t explain why you care so much about the Sorentino deal that you’d honor me with a rare visit. Maybe you’re hard for one of those cute, young sisters.” He shoved off the desk, walked around, and opened a drawer. “Ah, my copy of the file.”
He shook the contents onto the desktop and spread the photos out. “Let’s see. Three sisters. Brunette, brunette, and a blond. Whose skirt are you chasing?”
Kellan swallowed, watching Morton poke Amy’s pretty face with his stubby finger, but he kept his expression steady. “Never mind about them. I want to know what it is about the Sorentino property that’s got you falling all over yourself to grab a hold of it.”
“You want to know what I’m thinking?”
“That’s why I drove through a storm and crossed a state line in the middle of the night.”
Morton made a show of placing his lowball glass on a coaster on the desk. “What I think, my dear nephew, is that I’ve given you too much over the years to deserve this sort of insolence.”
Unreal, the nerve of this prick who dared to call himself Kellan’s family. “And what, specifically, have you given me, Uncle Dearest?”
“I gave you
a ranch.”
Kellan felt fury uncoiling inside him. He clamped his molars together, fighting his anger and losing the battle. “No. You loaned me a goddamn piece of dirt and I turned it into a ranch with my own sweat and blood.”
“With fifty thousand dollars of my money.”
Kellan sprang forward, knocking his thigh against the desk. The desk rattled, sloshing bourbon up the side of Morton’s glass. “Which I paid back with interest. Along with your ridiculous asking price for the property.”
The dogs roused, growling. One positioned itself between the two men. Morton stepped from behind the desk, butting his legs against the animal’s side. “You ungrateful son of a bitch. I’ve given you more than you ever deserved.”
Kellan stabbed a finger at the air between them. The growls grew more intense. “You haven’t given me jack shit. Everything I have in my life, I’ve created myself. You had nothing to do with it.”
“That’s a nice story you’ve fabricated, but I’ve got a different recollection. Of an eighteen-year-old homeless punk, nothing but skin and bones, looking for a handout—like your folks did. It got to the point that when I heard a Reed was in town, I hid my wallet.”
“When I was eighteen, I didn’t come to you for a handout. I came here looking for answers about why, when my brother and I needed a place to live, no one in the family stepped up. About why, with relatives rolling in Texas oil money, Jake and I got sent to fucking foster care.”
All three dogs were up now, standing guard over their master, baring their teeth and snarling at Kellan. Their short, brown fur quivered with hostile energy.
Morton’s lips curled into a mean grin. “You think you’ve got it all figured out, don’t you? You sit up there on your pedestal of righteousness and point your finger at me like you’re God himself.”
“Answer my question. Why did you leave us in the system?”
“You already know what I’m going to say. Eileen had a nervous condition, didn’t tolerate children well. Two teenage boys would’ve killed her.”
Kellan sneered. “Wouldn’t that have saved you the trouble?”
“You better watch what you’re implying.”
Kellan glanced side to side and spread his arms, his eyes wide with mock-concern. “Where is Eileen? I haven’t seen her going on three years. What did you tell me last time I asked—Texas was too hot a climate for her? That she’d run off to Hawaii or something?”
“Yes, Hawaii. And you’d do well to back off that line of questioning.”
“One of these days, you’re going to get your comeuppance, Morton. Someone, somewhere, is going to kill you.”
Rocking onto his heels, Morton laughed. “But it won’t be you, Kellan. That conscience of yours will always be a liability.”
“My conscience is what keeps me from turning into you, old man.”
Morton’s eyes twinkled maliciously. “I’m going to ask you one last time. Why the hell did you come to my house tonight?”
Kellan rubbed his upper arms, feeling the pressure of his heart thudding hard and fast against his ribs. The dogs pressed forward, snapping their jaws, pushing him back from Morton. He relented and walked across the room, reaching for the bourbon. They were arguing in circles, like they usually did, but at least they were back to the information Kellan needed. “What do you want with the Sorentino property?”
“I want to own the Sorentino property, you dumb shit. That’s why I’m encouraging the sisters to sell it to Amarex and Amarex to sell it to me.”
“The property’s dry.”
“So it’s dry. I still want it. If you have it in your mind to stop me, you should know you’re going to fail.”
Kellan lifted the lowball glass in a gesture of salute. “You’re throwing down the gauntlet, Morton? All right, I accept.”
Morton relaxed against the desk, folding his arms across his chest. “You and I are playing on the same side. You do know that, right?”
Kellan tossed the bourbon back and relished the rush of heat down his throat. “We might share blood, but that doesn’t put us on the same side.”
“All these years, I’ve been waiting for you to come around to my way of thinking. To join my empire. But you’re so stuck on past resentments, you can’t see the forest for the trees. Damn shame, it is. You and I could’ve been partners.”
Kellan slammed the empty glass onto the desk. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before that happens.”
“I see that now. Doesn’t make it any easier of a pill to swallow.”
The dogs preceded the men to the front door as though eager for the unwanted guest to depart.
Morton paused with his hand on the doorknob. “The Sorentinos have a week to sign the property over to Amarex before I unleash the lawyers.”
Kellan didn’t trust himself to speak. He pushed past Morton and continued to the driveway.
“I forgot to mention,” Morton said. Kellan kept walking. “Tina called me.”
That stopped Kellan in his tracks. Strange, the way his mother’s name set off a clash of emotions within him—revulsion at the idea of receiving a surprise phone call from the woman he’d avoided for nineteen years, and yet anger that she hadn’t at least tried to call him instead of her brother.
“You want details, but you’re too afraid to ask.” Morton’s tone had an edge of triumph.
Kellan thought about turning to face Morton. He thought about socking him in the jaw. He thought about the rifle in his car. But rather than play into his uncle’s hand by pressing for more information, he set his sights on his truck and kept moving.
Morton’s sinister chuckle followed him across the driveway. “Guess what the big news is? Your father’s out of prison.”
Chapter 6
Kellan squeezed his eyes closed. His father was a free man.
Morton’s voice carried across the driveway. “You’ll never guess why Tina called—or maybe you will.” His voice held a note of amusement. “I’ll give you a hint. Nothing’s changed.”
Nothing’s changed. Those two words said it all. She wanted money. She could claim she’d come around to apologize, or that she missed her children, but once she ran out of sweet little lies, the truth came out. Every time.
“She asked me to front her some cash until she can get settled in a new place,” Morton hollered at Kellan’s back before dissolving into cruel chuckles.
Kellan opened his door and climbed into the cab, willing his expression to blank now that Morton had a side view of his face.
Did she sound sober? he wanted to ask. Where are she and my dad planning to live? Did you give them money?
He jammed the key into the ignition and started the engine, drowning out Morton’s laughter.
His truck cut through the snow and wind, through endless miles of dark desert and across the state line. He’d thought he’d breathe deeply once he saw the wooden SLIPPING ROCK RANCH sign waving on the side of the road, but his anxiety only mounted at the sight—the symbol of the life he’d fought to create despite his family’s unrelenting efforts to drag him down.
The truck tires crunched onto the snow-drenched half-mile dirt driveway leading to his house. He would not stand for it. He’d worked too hard, for too long, to let the Reeds and Mortons muck up his peaceful existence. The ranch house stood like a beacon in the storm, stalwart and welcoming. This was all he wanted to be—a quiet rancher in a small town, a respected member of the community, unmarred by gossip or family strife. With a beautiful house, a successful cattle business, and great friends he could count on and who counted on him.
Dread ballooned in his chest, threatening to rip him apart from the inside out. He had to get control of the situation before it came to light. He could not let his parents get their greedy claws in him. Six years ago, the last time his father was a free man, they’d honed in on Kellan’s weaknesses like the criminals they were and blackmailed him, threatening to appear in Catcher Creek unless he paid up.
He tried to inhale a de
ep, lung-filling breath, but it caught in his throat.
He pulled into his usual spot next to the barn and sat in the darkness, fingering the digital recorder. His brother needed to know Dad had been released from prison. He deserved a warning. Somewhere in his desk drawer, he probably had Jake’s number, but it had been a long time since the two last talked, and to say the conversation had been strained would be a gross understatement.
Kellan needed to get straight in his mind before calling Jake. Tonight, he couldn’t cope with any more conflict. After his morning ranch chores, he’d make the call, no matter how difficult it was sure to be. He flipped through the Amarex file on Amy’s family and found her photograph. Her beautiful face and trusting eyes stared up at him. Needing his help. With a curse, he flung the truck door open and stomped through the biting wind to his house.
Enough was enough. He was fresh out of good will.
He wouldn’t waste another thought, another breath on his parents. Or Morton. Or Amy Sorentino. They were nothing more than headaches that made him doubt who he was and what he wanted from his life. What he needed to do was wash his hands of everything and everyone who took his eyes off the prize. He’d call his brother during the day so he’d be sure to get flipped to voice mail. Then he’d cancel his date with Amy and advise her to contact his lawyer buddy, Matt. If his mom called, he’d tell her she’d have to find a handout somewhere else.
He strode through his darkened kitchen to the living room, tossing the digital recorder on his desk, and turned the Christmas tree lights on. Max regarded him curiously from the kitchen before trotting from the room.
A press of a button and holiday music filled the air. The ambiance always calmed him, the glow of twinkling lights, the soothing melodies of Christmas carols. As a kid, the closest he came to this perfect holiday scene was standing in a department store among the floor models of artificial trees. He would sneak to the toy department, load his arms with everything he’d never get, and place them under the trees. And he’d pretend they were for him. He’d playact the Christmas morning of his fantasy, mimicking the ripping open of wrapping paper. He’d act surprised to receive such glorious toys. He’d pretend to hug and thank his imaginary parents for their generosity.
The Trouble With Cowboys Page 8
