by Caro LaFever
He looked back over his shoulder, and shot her another fake smile. She knew it was fake not only because of his body language, but because there was rage in his eyes. “Pa likes to eat early and he doesn’t appreciate anyone being late.”
Again, the shock ran through her. The shock she’d felt when she realized Nick had more than the rollicking, accepting family she’d met in Las Vegas. Shock at walking through the whip of the wind, up the sturdy stairs of this ranch, and putting her hand into the rough, gnarled hand of his father.
His pa.
The old man was as tough and tenacious as the desert surrounding him. She had seen it in the way he held himself, the way his hand bit into hers. She’d also spotted the stubborn tilt of chin his son possessed, and the way he stood before her, as if daring her to judge just like Nick did when he was angry. More than anything, though, the impact of the same celestial-blue eyes told her what this man in front of her claimed was, for once, true.
The old man was his father.
Edward Townsend had pulled her into the ranch and grumbled all the way into the kitchen. She’d trailed behind him because she had nowhere else to go. And also…
Because she was curious.
Dammit.
She did not want to be curious about this man standing at her bedroom door. Not anymore. Not now. “I’m going to ask for a tray in here,” she announced. The last thing she wanted to do was feed this damned curiosity.
Jerking around, he gave her a glare. A real emotion. Perhaps the only one he had as far as real emotions was that anger of his. “My father won’t like that.”
“What do I care?”
“You should care,” he snarled. “He’s the reason you don’t own your hotels.”
Before she could gasp or question, he marched off, leaving a gaping door and herself behind.
What a remarkably uncomfortable dinner.
Jess had experienced uncomfortable dinners before. Dinners where her father complained about the service or grilled one of their hotel managers. Dinners where she ate hardly a bite because her stomach churned with frustration or anxiety.
This one? This one topped them all.
“Tell me you didn’t invest in that trashy casino on St. Mart’s.” Nick’s father sat at the head of the long, wooden table, just as her father had taken the same place in whatever restaurant or meeting room they were in. Though Clyde McDowell and Edward Townsend looked nothing alike, there was something about how the two men commanded a room that was the same.
“As a matter of fact, I did.” His son lounged on the end of the table, his suave charm on full display, his fake smile fooling everyone except herself.
“Stop throwing that ugly grin at me when it’s not real,” the father barked. “I’ve had enough of that to last me the rest of my life.”
Shock leapt inside her. She’d been wrong. Someone else wasn’t fooled, as well.
“You must have a lot of time on your hands to be tracking every one of my moves on the Web.” The son ignored the demand, his smile going wider. “You never used to care what I did, because I always did it wrong. Things must have changed.”
The rest of the inhabitants at the table rustled and fell silent. The half-dozen men had come into the kitchen so quickly and dug into the food so fast, she’d barely gotten a hello. Tall and lumbering, short and squat—every one of them was rugged. Their faces were ruddy and weathered, their hands nicked and scarred. They’d all gathered around Nick, slapping him on the back and greeting him like he was a prodigal son.
His father had glared at the gathering from his seat.
“No fighting,” the housekeeper stated with stout authority, before slamming down another steaming dish in the center of the table. When Jess had entered the kitchen, she’d been astonished at the amount of food, yet in the last few minutes most of it had disappeared into hungry men’s mouths. “Not the first night, at least.”
“Pa and I aren’t fighting, Mrs. Wallach.” Nick’s smile held. “We’re just chewing the fat.”
The old man gave his son a hard look before focusing again on his plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The son paid no attention to his own food and, instead, beamed his charm on the housekeeper and the two men closest to him. In typical fashion, the woman smiled back and the men grinned in return. If Jess hadn’t known him better, she would have believed his languid pose and his sunny grin.
But she did know him, so she knew it was fake. He was angry, temper turning his blue eyes black. The tell-tale white line encircling his mouth told her the same thing.
Uncomfortable didn’t even begin to cover this tension.
He’s the reason you don’t own your hotels.
The words swirled in her brain, as they had since the hour they’d been spoken. What did Nick mean? Clearly, Edward Townsend had known her father, and the two old men had talked. But how could that possibly have led to her losing the hotels?
Curiosity kept sliding closer, like a creeping vine, wrapping around her icy cold heart.
She shouldn’t have come. She should have ignored her damn curiosity and stayed in the bedroom. What happened here had nothing to do with her, and as soon as the blizzard passed, she could wash her hands of her soon-to-be ex-husband and this situation.
“I suppose you’ll be planning on tearing the building apart, and putting in some of your highfalutin’ gewgaws.” Edward Townsend tossed the words toward the other end of the table like a spiked knife.
“Yeah,” his son drawled. “That’s my plan.”
“You should have used those brains you have to build a real business,” the old man countered. “Something solid.”
“Seems to me your boy has done just fine,” Mrs. Wallach said. “Seems to me he’s done you proud.”
A loud grunt was his response.
Nick flicked the housekeeper another grin, yet the black of his eyes turned hard.
“I can’t be proud of a son who makes his living by playing tricks and cheating unsuspecting guests. Crazy business, if you ask me.”
“No one asked.” Nick’s words were edged with pure fury.
The words landed in the center of the table with a thud. Jess could almost imagine the bowls filled with green beans and potatoes shuddering while the platters of meat rocked. Something shuddered and rocked through her, too. Something she should stuff down, but it erupted before she could catch her tongue. “That’s absurd. That’s not what he does at all.”
The old man’s head jerked around and his bushy brows, so like his son’s except for the color, furrowed. “What did you say?”
The question shot at her, an accusation, except she’d grown up with a man who did the exact same thing when challenged. A man who bristled and bullied to see what a girl would do. What she wasn’t going to do was retreat. “Nick doesn’t cheat anyone. He runs a business. He runs it fair and square, and he’s brilliant.”
A silence fell across the table once more and everyone stopped stuffing food into their mouths. Jess suddenly realized she’d stuck up for the man who’d tricked her. The man she hated. Frustration and embarrassment flooded through her and the inevitable blush rose from her neck to her face.
“Thanks, Jessie.” The soft, accented voice slid down the table to land straight into her heart. “I don’t deserve it from you, but I appreciate it.”
His father straightened, latching onto the weapon. “So what did you do to your wife, Nicholas? What did you do to her that made her hate you?”
I don’t hate him. Not really.
The words trembled on her lips, though she was aware enough now to keep them back.
The son glanced at his father before focusing again on her. “That’s between her and me. We’ll figure it out.”
Jess couldn’t break his gaze for some reason. It galled her, the hold he still had on her. The way he was able to play her. She wanted to pick up a bowl of steaming food and throw it at him, but she wouldn’t. Because he had an enemy in his father, just as in some ways, she’
d had an enemy in hers. And she wouldn’t be part of tearing him down. Not in league with his father.
“I suppose that’s why you finally showed up here.” Edward Townsend’s piercing blue eyes narrowed. “She’s stuck with you for now, eh?”
She caught something in those old eyes that stunned her. There was pain in the blue, a dazed hurt. Yet, how could this man think his son would want to visit, when all he heaped on him was abuse?
“Yeah,” Nick said, with a nonchalant shrug. “That’s exactly why.”
Even as he threw the verbal knife at his father, she could tell it hurt him. She suspected he thought the only reason he was here at this ranch was to take advantage of the blizzard to buy him some time with her. The reality was deeper, though, she was sure of it.
Once more, curiosity warred with her instinct to keep out of it. What Nick had said in her borrowed bedroom had made no sense, but his words had rung with harsh truth. Perhaps her conclusions about the deal between her husband and her father weren’t as clear-cut as she thought.
Disquiet and unease slithered next to her heart.
“Well, for whatever reason, your son is here for the first time in sixteen years, and you should be grateful,” the housekeeper exclaimed. “You old coot.”
Sixteen years? Jess glanced at the father, and then the son. She couldn’t imagine staying away from her father for sixteen months, much less sixteen years. What had happened to drive these two men apart?
Curiosity bubbled again, and this time, she didn’t try and squelch it. Nick had played her for a fool, true. Except maybe there was more here than just a simple trick to gain control of her hotels. She owed it to herself, if no one else, to figure this out before she left.
Chapter 31
“I must say,” Mrs. Wallach hummed under her breath as she stirred the bread stuffing, “it’s sure nice to have another woman around here.”
Jess smiled back at the woman. After spending a sleepless night listening to the howling wind and missing Nick’s warm body by her own, she’d stumbled into the kitchen, looking for a cup of hot tea. She’d found the housekeeper already at work on today’s Thanksgiving feast.
Pecan and pumpkin pies lined a rack on one side of the stove. Piles of peeled potatoes burbled in steaming water, while the twenty-five-pound turkey sat in a huge roasting pan. Somehow between the first and second cups of tea, she’d found herself eagerly agreeing to be the older woman’s assistant.
“We’ll stuff this bird and pop it in the oven.” Mrs. Wallach lifted the bowl of breading mixed with chestnuts and slid it by the pan. “Do you want to hold the bowl or stuff?”
The memory of Nick and her cooking together rushed through Jess. The gift he’d given her by realizing her wants and delivering what she needed. The way he’d held her in the cradle of his body as they’d sliced the onion and smashed the garlic. The simple act of being together he’d so easily introduced her to.
Together.
“Jessica?” The housekeeper’s voice rose. “Is everything okay?”
No, everything wasn’t okay. She shouldn’t remember his attentiveness, his tenderness. She shouldn’t let herself sink back under his spell. Sure, she’d decided to listen and dig until she understood the details of this horrid deal between her father and Edward Townsend, and her soon-to-be-ex. But that didn’t mean she had any intention of falling into foolish love once more.
Her temper rose, this time at herself. “Yes. I’d like to stuff.”
Mrs. Wallach chuckled. “Be my guest. Using your hands is the best way.”
Jess dipped one hand into the warm, soggy breading, and punched it deep into the turkey. It felt good to punch, to stuff. It felt good to cook with someone besides Nick Townsend. At least, she kept telling herself that.
“Nicky used to do this when he lived here. It was the only time he ever attempted to do any kind of cooking.”
Her damn curiosity spiked, and before she could stop herself, it burbled out of her mouth. “I thought he grew up in Las Vegas.”
The older woman glanced at her, mild surprise on her face. “He didn’t tell you about the ranch?”
“He hasn’t told me much at all.” The wry tone in her voice stunned her. Because she should be angry about that, right? She should be fuming and spewing the ugliness he’d put inside her out into this hidden world of his—a world he hadn’t shared with her.
“Ah, well, when love comes storming into a person’s life sometimes it’s hard to fill in the pieces of the past right away.” Mrs. Wallach hummed encouragement, as Jess punched another handful of stuffing into the bird. “He did live with his mother in Las Vegas until he was fourteen. Then she died in a traffic accident, and he came to live with his father.”
Jess didn’t need much imagination to understand what a shock that must have been. To go from the rollicking, loving family she’d met, to this barren, rocky land, with a father who defined the word curmudgeon. “He didn’t fit in.”
The housekeeper chuckled. “I guess you could say that, at least at first. But you know him.”
She did know him. Nick Townsend would have faced the obstacles set before him with open defiance. He would have barreled into his new life with a dogged will she’d come to adore.
Adore.
Shit.
“He must have been impossible.” He was still impossible, she reminded herself.
Another chuckle was the response. “Yes, he certainly was. A chip off the old block, if you ask me.”
She glanced at the older woman. “They don’t get along.”
The amused look fell off Mrs. Wallach’s face to be replaced with a frustrated grimace. “They’re too much alike, damn them. Both stubborn as mules, neither willing to back down.”
She shouldn’t care. Except she did. “That’s why Nick hasn’t visited in years.”
“He used to call. Every month.” The woman nodded her head, as Jess stuffed the last of the breading into the turkey. “Ed mentioned it every time. Lately, though, he doesn’t call as much.”
The memory of the pain and hurt in the old blue eyes flashed through her mind. “He loves his son.”
“Oh, of course.” Walking to the counter, Mrs. Wallach placed the empty bowl into the sink and started the water. “And Nicky loves his father.”
She stepped next to the woman and washed her hands, her thoughts swirling. “Then, why do they go at each—”
“Neither of them are willing to bend.” A gusty sigh escaped the older woman. “I’ve tried to keep the peace between them since the boy arrived here twenty years ago. I don’t think I’ve done a good job of it.”
“That’s not your job.”
“It has to be someone’s job, because neither of those two ornery males are going to do it.” Wiping her hands on a towel, the woman shook her head. “Now with the situation regarding the ranch, I don’t know what to do.”
Curiosity spiked once more. She wouldn’t allow herself to quiz Nick because he’d take it as interest in him and use it to his advantage. Still, why not take a chance and ask some questions to a person who clearly knew some details, if not all? “What’s the situation?”
“Yeah, Mrs. Wallach.” A silky, accented drawl came from the kitchen’s archway. “What is the situation with my pa and the ranch?”
The housekeeper turned to scowl at Nick. Jess kept her gaze on the soaking bowl and the turkey because she knew her face blazed with embarrassment at being caught quizzing. Dammit. She hadn’t wanted him to know she was curious. Not one little bit.
“As if you don’t know,” the older woman huffed. “As if you and your father haven’t talked.”
“Actually, we haven’t.” The silky tone turned harsh. “Pa didn’t tell me he intended to sell the ranch right out from under me.”
“Sell the ranch?” Mrs. Wallach huffed again. “As if he would.”
“He would, and he did.”
The hardening edge of Nick’s voice made Jess glance at him to gauge his temper. But it wasn
’t anger she saw in those blue eyes this time. The look matched the one she’d seen in his father’s eyes last night.
Hurt.
Both men were hurting each other. Why? What could possibly have driven them to cut and shoot and poke until both sets of blue eyes held a wealth of pain?
“Who would he have sold the place to?” The housekeeper bustled to the coffee pot and poured a cup. Walking to the man lounging on the arch, she offered it. “Who would want this place other than you?”
He eyed the cup before taking it and gulping down a sip. “A Mr. Clyde McDowell, that’s who.”
“What?” Jess couldn’t help the yelp. “My dad bought this place?”
“Yeah,” he drawled. “He sure did.”
“That’s impossible. Your father loves this place, Nicky. And he knows it belongs in the family. There must be some other reason for all this talk about him selling.” Mrs. Wallach glanced at both of them with disbelief. “Who is Clyde McDowell? Your father, Jessica?”
“Yes, he was my—”
“Some family,” he cut in, his voice expressionless, with very little of his accent. “Pa broke his promise to me.”
“No, I didn’t.” Another gruff male voice cut in, too. This time, coming from the other end of the kitchen, where the hallway led to the back of the house. “I always keep my promises, Nicholas.”
“Really?” His son changed in a flick of a moment. If Jess hadn’t had her attention pinned on him, she would have missed it. The way his eyes went blank, hiding the pain. The way his lips curled into a slight sneer. The way his long body turned from a stiff stance to a languid pose conveying he didn’t care. “I guess I must have imagined the sales contract Clyde showed me.”
“The sales contract was only part of the deal I made.” Edward Townsend eyed his son with rigid animosity. Like he was offended. Like he was miffed at Nick for believing he’d been betrayed.
The son straightened, his expression going as blank as his eyes. “What the hell does that mean?”
