Knight in Cowboy Boots: International Billionaires X: The Latinos

by Caro LaFever

Wistful. Dreamy. Forlorn.

  “Nick?” she whispered, shocked.

  He ignored her, leaning forward. “How’s everything, Jackson?”

  “Everything’s going along.” The driver shrugged his burly shoulders. “You know.”

  “Yeah,” he drawled. “I know.”

  What did they mean? Frowning, she peered at the approaching building. It must be this ranch Nick had mentioned. A huge log homestead designed to withstand blizzards, drought, and anything else thrown its way. Just by the way it planted itself on the hill, stout and sturdy, it spoke of ownership of this land and of neverending attachment. The Jeep pulled up to the steps leading onto a long porch, covered with snow. But Jess could imagine summer nights sitting on the deck, taking in the desert sunset.

  The image shuddered through her. Whatever this place was, this was Nick’s place. Not hers.

  He pushed the car door open as soon as the vehicle slid to a stop. Climbing out, he strode up the steps just as the front door opened.

  An old man dressed in jeans and a blue-checked shirt stood in the doorway. The wind whipped his short, gray-blond hair, his hand tightened on the frame, and his expression turned ironic. “Well, if it ain’t the long-lost idiot.”

  Nick stopped, and from the car, she saw his spine straighten and his shoulders grow tense. “Hi, Pa. It’s good to see you, too.”

  Chapter 30

  His father hadn’t changed.

  Why would he ever think he would? And what the hell had he been thinking, bringing his angry wife to the ranch?

  Idiota.

  “Well, idiot,” his father drawled from his usual kitchen chair. “You’ve filled out.”

  Nick supposed he had since he’d last seen his father. Sixteen years was a long time. Obviously, though, not long enough to cure what lay between Edward Townsend and his savage of a son. Pretending not to care, he slouched onto the chair at the other end of the long pine table. “I guess.”

  Behind him, Jessie shifted. He’d offered her a seat moments ago, when they’d walked into the sprawling kitchen, but she’d rejected it with a glare.

  Surrounded by his loving wife and father. What a lucky guy he was.

  Silence fell. The heavy, ugly silence that invariably fell when he sat with his father.

  He felt her thoughts as if they were his own.

  What was wrong?

  Sí, what was wrong? He’d thought that from the moment he’d landed on this cursed land, and in this house he’d so wanted to belong to.

  What was wrong with him?

  “Like usual, you got here just in time for one of Mrs. Wallach’s feasts tomorrow.” His pa narrowed his eyes, his expression going sour. “Thanksgiving with my boy for the first time in years.”

  Thanksgiving.

  Jesús.

  With the wedding and the honeymoon and the funeral taking place in the last few weeks, time had seemed to stand still. But now, he’d landed himself into reality with a hard slap. Sitting around this big kitchen table. With the ranch hands and his father talking shop. Grumbling about cows and weather, feed and fences, while they chowed down on turkey, mashed potatoes, and pecan pie.

  A bittersweet emotion somewhere between an ache and a wish, bloomed inside him.

  He scowled at his pa.

  “You should be glad of it, you old coot.” The housekeeper appeared from behind the bend of the hallway that led to the private suite she’d lived in for as long as Nick could remember. She’d gained weight since he’d last seen her, and her blonde hair had turned gray. Yet she still moved with the energy and verve he remembered, and her face still held a look of warm affection.

  “Mrs. Wallach.” He rose, as he’d been taught, and also because her beaming face was a dear reminder of the acceptance he’d found with this woman.

  “Nicky.” Rushing to his side, she clasped him in a vanilla-scented hug. “It’s been too long.”

  Too long. The words went unspoken, but he understood them.

  Guilt swept into him like a long-lost foe resurrected to slash straight into his gut. He’d pushed aside the feeling for years, had thought he’d conquered it once and for all. Here it was again, though, bringing wretched regret to the forefront.

  “Never mind.” Mrs. Wallach stepped away and gave him a pat on his shoulder. “It’s in the past.”

  How could he explain to this loving woman that his pa had barely spoken to him when he made his monthly calls, until he finally only called once or twice a year? The thought of arriving on the Townsend doorstep to be met with more rejection hadn’t appealed. However, the look on her face made him want to reverse time and change what he’d done. Instead, the only thing he had to offer was… “It’s good to be back.”

  The words rang hollow, because they were as far from the truth as a warm Caribbean beach was to the raging blizzard outside.

  “Is it?” His father’s voice was laced with irony once more, his keen intelligence finding his son’s lie as he always had.

  “Sí,” he punched out, focusing his attention on Mrs. Wallach’s smile.

  “None of that foreign crap in my house.”

  The demand was so familiar, so predictable, Nick laughed.

  Before his pa could pounce on him for this further outrage, the housekeeper turned to the silent woman standing in the kitchen arch. “Jackson told me you brought a guest, but you didn’t introduce her to him.” She tutted. “I taught you better.”

  Mrs. Wallach had taught him many things. She’d guided him around his father’s sullen temper. She’d soothed him when he’d fallen off a horse for the first time, and encouraged him to try again. More than anything, she’d managed to carve out a small place for him here at Ádh Ranch.

  At least for awhile. For a time.

  Bustling across to where his Jessie stood, she smiled a warm greeting. “Welcome. We’re glad you’re here.”

  A tentative smile crossed his wife’s face. “I’m Jessica Mc—”

  “Your wife, I take it.”

  He swiveled to stare at his father. The only thing he’d said when he called ahead to the ranch was that he was returning with a guest in tow. “How did you know who she was?”

  “You might think we’re country bumpkins out here in the wilds,” his pa said. “But I can navigate my way around the Web. And I talked to Clyde McDowell before he died, as well.”

  “You talked to my father?” Jessie’s voice went high as she pulled herself away from Mrs. Wallach’s hug. “You knew my father?”

  “My boy hasn’t been honest with you, has he?” A tough, bitter note came into his pa’s voice. “Typical.”

  That tone Nick knew well. It was the tone he’d heard time and time again, as he failed to brush a horse down correctly, or steer a cow into the right field, or do a thousand chores the right way. The last word was familiar, too. From the moment he’d made his first mistake by cheating at cards with the hands, he’d carried the label of thief and liar. He supposed his entire life had revolved around those labels, trying to run from them, trying to prove them wrong. Then, coming full circle with what he’d done with his Jessie.

  He’d lied to her. He’d stolen from her.

  And he’d certainly cheated her.

  His father had been right about him. The truth sank its teeth into him, pouring poison into his veins. Why the fuck had he brought his wife here, of all places? Was the demon lurking in him intent on finally proving to him what he’d known deep inside for years?

  “Now, Ed.” Mrs. Wallach frowned, before tugging his Jessie into the kitchen and over to the table. “None of that. It’s been too many years since we saw our Nicky. No fighting.”

  His father grimaced, but said nothing. Clearly counting that as a win, the matronly woman patted the younger woman’s hand. “I’m Mrs. Wallach, the housekeeper here. This grumpy old man is Nick’s father, as you can see.”

  How could his wife see? He didn’t resemble his father. Unlike Edward Townsend, who scarcely stood five-foot-seven, he’d grow
n past six feet by the time he’d reached the age of sixteen. His pa was built like his Scots-Irish ancestors—scrawny, short, and sturdy. Nick must have been a throwback to some long ago Viking ancestor because his mamá’s brothers were short as well.

  His height had always irritated his father.

  From the expression on his face when Nick had walked up the ranch’s front steps to stand before him after fourteen years, his pa hadn’t liked the strength and breadth he’d added to his body, either.

  “Jackson put your luggage in the master bedroom.” Swinging back to him, Mrs. Wallach held her firm smile. “Dinner will be at six p.m. as usual, so you both will have time to clean up and rest.”

  When he’d left this place, he’d spent months teaching himself that not everyone lived by a set of rigid rules and times. Not everyone in the world believed a man had to rise before dawn, put in a dozen hours of work in the raging sun or brutal cold, before going to bed ahead of the ten o’clock news. Not every person believed meals should be served at precisely the same time every day.

  Not everyone agreed with his pa.

  It had taken him months to figure that one fact out.

  “I’m not going to sleep with him.” Jessie’s stiff rejection shot into the room like a bullet.

  A bullet that struck him straight through the heart. He’d been so focused on seeing his pa and coming home, he’d lost the thread of why he’d come here for a second. But the ugly reality swept into him with a vengeance.

  His wife hated him.

  For a very good reason.

  His father cackled in clear delight. Leaning back, he snagged his thumbs into his jeans’ belt loops. The familiar habit, something Nick had seen him do a thousand times, was like another gunshot, to his gut this time.

  He’d missed his father.

  Missed him.

  Jesús.

  “Guess you’ve got some problems, idiot.” His pa chuckled once more. “It’s not like you to not know how to satisfy a woman.”

  He stiffened and glowered at his pa again. “What the hell does that mean? How would you know?”

  “You think I haven’t got the means to track what you’ve been up to these last few years?” The chuckle died to be replaced by a tight mouth. “You think I didn’t keep an eye on you?”

  Shock ricocheted through him. “¿Qué?”

  His father’s gaze narrowed into slits. “Foreign crap.”

  “I can make up another bedroom, no problem.” Mrs. Wallach stepped into the tense conversation with an ease born of long practice. “Come with me, Jessica, and I’ll show you the way.”

  The two women left, leaving the two men behind. The kitchen went silent, the only sound the howl of the blizzard outside, and the tick tock of the stove’s clock.

  “Master bedroom?” Nick grabbed for his usual demeanor. The one he’d cultivated for years. The suave, smooth look of a man who’d made billions and didn’t care what any other man thought of him. Especially not an angry old man who lived in the past. “What happened? You get tired of being alone in all that space?”

  “No.” The one word was blunt and hard. “I got tired of holding the place for you.”

  Holding the place. For him? Another shock rumbled through him, throwing him off his stride. “What the fuck does that mean?”

  “Foreign crap and bad language.” His pa huffed. “Some things never change.”

  “Don’t be an ass. Unless something’s changed around here, Jackson and the rest of the boys swear a blue streak all the time.”

  “Not in the house.” His father stared across the table at him. “As you well know.”

  Rules and more rules. Edward Townsend had a rule for everything in life, and his son had spent years trying to learn them and follow every one. Not until he’d escaped this ranch had he understood he’d never succeed. Not until he’d lived a few years had he realized he no longer cared.

  Shoving his shaking hands in his pockets, he smiled. “Guess I’ll go unpack.”

  “You do that.” His father’s gaze didn’t waver.

  “In the master bedroom.”

  His shot didn’t appear to faze the old man. “Yeah,” he said. “Imagine that.”

  Since his pa wasn’t one for imagination, the comment froze his brain. The only thing he could think was…

  What the fuck had he gotten himself, and Jessie, into by coming here?

  Jess peered through the thick-paned window.

  What she saw gave her little hope of escaping any time soon. Unlike the fast blizzard she’d experienced once before, this one was dumping inch after icy inch of snow at in incredible clip. If she had to guess, a good two feet had come down since their arrival. The wind whipped the snow, sheets of mist and frost sweeping into the air, making it impossible for any sane person to take one step out into the storm.

  Which was exactly what her conniving, cunning, liar of a soon-to-be ex-husband had hoped.

  Buying time.

  Time to cajole her and pretend he really loved. Time to soften her stance and make her believe once more. Time to draw her with his lures and body and sex, until she became so addled she didn’t care what he’d done.

  Snorting, she turned to inspect the bedroom that nice housekeeper had led her to.

  Log beams arched over her head, rough and rugged. The walls were the same rough pine wood, only a lone western landscape over the bed attempting any hope of decoration. Yet the bedspread was a cheery red and blue quilt Jess would bet was handmade, and a toasty blaze glowed from the hulking stone fireplace in the corner. The bedroom matched what she’d seen of the interior of the ranch. Solid, no-nonsense, but with a layer of homey detail that softened the aggressive male tone.

  If she had to be a prisoner, at least she had her privacy, and this room wasn’t bad. Not for a day, maybe two.

  She frowned at the raging blizzard. It wouldn’t be longer than that, would it?

  You’re willing to camp out here for days?

  Her experience with blizzards was limited to a short blast of snow when they’d stayed at the McDowell hotel in Chicago several years ago. It had been exciting to drive in from the airport with the flurries starting to gain force. Fun to cuddle in her PJs instead of attending the dinner that had to be canceled. Her dad had chided her for acting like a little girl as she’d ordered room service. But the storm had passed quickly, over in one short night.

  You’re willing to camp out here for days?

  Was Nick right? Or lying again?

  A big gulp of grief raced up her throat at the thought of her husband’s lies and her father’s death. The fact that Nick Townsend had betrayed her crushed every single element of confidence and joy she’d experienced in the last month. Layered onto it, though, was the added pain of knowing her dad was gone forever. And he’d lied to her, too.

  She couldn’t decide which was a worse knife in the back—the one her father had sliced into her, or her soon-to-be-ex-husband.

  Pushing away the thoughts and swallowing the grief, Jess strode to her suitcase, the one the airplane’s crew had dropped off, and unzipped the tab. The clothes she’d packed for Las Vegas and Tasmania wouldn’t work here, that was clear. In her old life, she’d have a wardrobe in every McDowell hotel, and could easily go and buy anything she needed. But she didn’t own the hotels anymore, and there was nowhere to shop in the middle of a desert.

  “Just for a day or two,” she muttered as she shook out her one pair of jeans and a simple cotton shirt. “No longer.”

  As soon as this damn blizzard stopped, she’d call Peter and have him fly the McDowell plane here to pick her up. There wasn’t anything Nick Townsend could do about that. She merely had to endure and smile and ignore for a little while. Then she’d be free to file for divorce and start a new life.

  With no dad. And no husband.

  A short, sharp gasp escaped her, echoing in the room.

  A rap at the door drew her attention away from the welling grief. “Yes?”

 
; The door swung open to a concerned Nick. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” He’d heard, the one moment she’d let grief overwhelm her. The realization made her face heat, and her temper, as well. “Leave me alone.”

  His lips tightened, but he didn’t press, and he didn’t take the bait by launching an attack of his own. Instead, he held a pile of wool and cotton out. “I brought you these.”

  “What are they?” She didn’t move from her stance on the other side of the bed.

  “I figured you wouldn’t have warm clothes, and Mrs. Wallach kept some of my old wardrobe.” Daring to give her his signature smile, he stepped into the bedroom and dropped the pile onto the bed. “Sweaters and sweatshirts.”

  “I don’t need your clothes.” She clutched her own tighter. “I don’t need anything from you.”

  “No?” Something dangerous flashed in the blue of his eyes. “You don’t need my kisses? My lovemaking? My—”

  “It wasn’t lovemaking,” she spat. “It was all a lie. It was just fucking a woman so you could fool her.”

  A memory flooded inside her, making her cold heart turn to ice.

  I want us to be a family. A family I’ve never had.

  “That’s why you pushed for a child, wasn’t it?” Her hands fisted at her sides, clammy palms and chilled fingers. “You thought you’d use a pregnancy to bind me to you, right? Just in case I ever found out the truth.”

  Shock ricocheted across his face. “¿Qué?”

  “Well, you can lose that delusion. I got my period while we were in Tasmania.” She’d been a bit depressed when it had come, but she’d consoled herself that they had plenty of time. What a foolish woman she’d been to think of this liar as a worthy father.

  “You think I’d go that far, Jessie?” His voice turned harsh and the look in his eyes made her want to weep, even though he didn’t deserve her tears. “You think I’d chose a woman I didn’t love to be the mamá of my children only for money? Only for your damn hotels?”

  “Yes. I think you’d do that and more.”

  Sighing, he turned and drifted toward the door, like he could hardly manage to care. Except his movements were tense and tight, nothing like the graceful dance she was used to watching. The realization satisfied something dark and ugly inside her.