by Caro LaFever
“It means you don’t know everything,” the father said. “As I’ve told you a thousand times.”
Again, Jess caught the slight movement, the flinch skittering across the son’s face for a mere moment. Obviously, that phrase had been said to him a time or two. Or maybe even a thousand. Why did this man continually put down his only son, when he loved him? The love might be covered in a bluster and bombast, but she could see it in the way the man looked at his boy when Nick glanced away.
“Come, come.” Mrs. Wallach stepped between the two men, her hands akimbo. “No fighting on Thanksgiving Day.”
The old man grumbled under his breath, as he walked to the stove and turned the heat on under the tea kettle. Nick eased back into his languid pose, like he couldn’t be bothered. Yet Jess detected the glitter of interest in his eyes. She was curious, as well. Too curious to keep her questions buried. “How did you know my dad, Mr. Townsend?”
“Call me Ed.” He turned and grabbed a tea bag. Ripping it open, he plopped it into a mug and carefully spooned in two scoops of honey before adding the steaming water.
He drank tea. Like she did.
And he was particular about it, too. Like her.
Jess didn’t know why this made her feel a certain amount of affinity towards the man, but it did. Trying to shake off the emotion, she folded her arms in front of her. “Tell me how you knew my dad.”
He gave her a look, up and down.
Her father’s memory roared back. The way he’d give someone the same look-over to intimidate. The way he’d try to keep her out of the loop to protect her. The similarity between the two men was uncanny. What had these two come up with? She had a sense there was a river of meaning underneath the ugly contract both men had signed. A river that washed through Nick and her, taking them up and carrying them swiftly to a destination she couldn’t understand.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he finally said. “Clyde was a good man.”
“How the hell did you know him, Pa?”
At the snarl from the doorway, the father swung a glare that way. “No swearing.”
“Sí, sí, sí.” The sing-song of Nick’s accent went rich with sarcasm. “I’m not subject to your rules anymore, old man.”
“No fighting,” the housekeeper’s sharp voice cut through the growing tension. “Nicky. Help me get the turkey in the oven like you used to do.”
Jess eased back to the side counter, not willing to tempt herself by getting close enough to catch his scent, or feel his warmth as he passed. He gave her a look that told her he’d noticed the shift, and his luscious lips twisted, catching her attention anyway, and making her feel the heat of attraction. Much to her relief, he swept past her without stopping, lifting the roasting pan with ease and slipping it into the oven.
“There.” Mrs. Wallach banged the stove’s door shut and clapped her hands, her expression purposefully cheerful. “The turkey will be ready just in time for our noon lunch.”
“Some things don’t change, do they, Pa?” Nick took another languid pose, on the counter this time. “Lunch on the dot at noon. Doesn’t matter if it’s a holiday or not. It has to always be the same time. Rules and more rules.”
“A ranch survives on rules,” the father barked.
A bark so much like his son’s it caught her breath.
The mystery of Nick Townsend Jess had desperately wanted to understand—the ugly anger, the need to be free, the careful artifice of careless charm—became clearer the longer she saw these two men interacting. And even though he’d tricked and lied to her, she couldn’t help the instinctive compassion welling inside.
Her imagination filled in the holes of this emerging story.
A young boy, raised to be wild and free on the streets of Las Vegas. Transported to a place where everything was rigid and strict. Where a man ruled his kingdom as surely as her father had ruled his. She’d grown up with the rules, with the gruff love her dad had doled out in small increments. But Nick hadn’t had that luxury. He’d been thrown into a situation he didn’t understand at a time in his life where he would have immediately rebelled.
Her compassion mixed with her curiosity, making it hard not to reach out and smooth her hand down his tense arm and grab his hand. Lace their fingers around each other’s. To step to his side. To be together.
Together.
Nick swung his head toward her in a sharp jerk, like he’d heard the word lingering in her mind.
She couldn’t look away. He needed a friend here, and she was that. Although it galled her to realize it, she was still his friend.
“Hey,” he murmured.
He didn’t move, yet she felt him surround her. With his presence and his vitality. With his pain and the memory of the pleasure he’d given her again and again.
“She’s a strong woman, from what her pa told me,” a rough voice cut through their connection. “And she’s got brains enough to keep up with you.”
Jess swiveled around to gape at the old man. “What?”
“Remember, Jessie.” The son’s voice was in utter contrast to his father’s. Soft, smooth, silky. Bringing back memory after memory. “¿Qué.”
“Foreign crap.” Another bark rang in the room. “Why are you teaching your wife that?”
“Because it’s a part of me, Pa. And I’m not going to pretend it isn’t anymore.” Nick’s gaze never veered from hers. “Deal with it.”
The old man grumbled as he walked to the table with his tea.
Shaking off the tug of her soon-to-be ex-husband’s attraction, she zeroed in on Edward Townsend once more. “Tell me what your deal with my father was about. I have a right to know.”
“So do I, as a matter of fact.”
The father ignored his son, his gaze piercing her like a blue laser. “Clyde didn’t confide in you? That’s interesting.”
“Seems to be a reoccurring issue around here,” Nick slid in. “Fathers not telling their children what’s going on.”
“I have my reasons,” the old man said. “I suppose Clyde had his.”
“My father is dead and you’re not.” She kept to her task. “It’s time to clear this up.”
“Is it?” Those blue eyes turned as sly and shadowed as the ones of the man she’d married.
“Ed,” Mrs. Wallach huffed by the sink as she batted the bobbing potatoes swimming in the water. “I will never believe you sold this ranch to an outsider.”
“But Clyde McDowell wasn’t an outsider. His daughter is married to my son.” Smirking at all of them, he slid into his seat at the head of the table. “That makes us kin.”
“I hadn’t married her when you signed the contract, old man,” his son snarled.
“As I said before, you didn’t see the entire deal.” He sipped his tea, slow, before continuing. “I’m not a fool. I knew what I was doing.”
Somewhere in this morass of hints and clues lay the truth. The truth of the contract between her father and Nick, between two old men. And perhaps, even more importantly, the ultimate reason for why she and Nick were bound together.
Together.
Jess stared at the old man and he stared back. She could see by the light in his eyes, he was enjoying this exchange. Not because he was the center of attention, but because his son was here. Here at the ranch and here at his side. Even though they were circling each other like rabid dogs ready to fight, the prodigal son had returned.
Was that the reason?
“This isn’t about my hotels at all, is it?” she said.
“Your hotels?” Taking another long, slow sip of tea, Edward Townsend made her wait. “They aren’t yours, though, are they?”
“They are if we stay married.” With a quick step, Nick came to her side and grabbed her hand. Lacing his fingers through hers, he pinned her with his own blue-laser stare. “I’ll deed them over to you the minute I can, Jessie. Créeme.”
“Foreign crap.”
The mutter from the end of the table didn’t stop the shock
wave rolling through her mind. “What are you talking about? Dad gave the hotels to both you and me when we married.”
“Demonios.” Her soon-to-be ex-husband swore under his breath and tightened his grip on her when she tried to break away. “No, he didn’t.”
“He did,” she insisted, her heart breaking all over again. “He assured me he would.”
“Lots of assurances flow from one end of the spectrum to another as situations change.”
Nick jerked around to glare at his father, but didn’t let her go. “That makes not a whit of sense, Pa.”
“Sure it does.” The old man lounged in his chair, a replica of the son’s languid poses. “You’ll see what I mean eventually, boy.”
“How do you know this about Dad’s will?” Jess couldn’t focus on anything other than the tears clogging her throat and the hopeless anger churning in her stomach. “How do you know?”
Twisting back to stare at her, Nick’s mouth firmed. “Okay. You might as well know the worst. The lawyers for your dad’s trust contacted me before we left for Tasmania.”
“Why you?” she whispered. “I’m his daughter.”
“I was named the only executor of his estate.” His hand tightened on hers. “I’m also the only owner of the hotels.”
The words thundered in her head until the pounding of her heart went dead. “No.”
“I’m sorry, Jessie.” His blue eyes gleamed with honesty.
Except she didn’t believe in him or his honesty anymore.
She didn’t believe in much of anything.
Chapter 32
The wooden stairs led down into a deep, dark pit. But Jess needed an escape from Nick’s worried looks and Mrs. Wallach’s tentative pats. She couldn’t hide in her bedroom, one of them was bound to invade and question and attempt to soothe. Staying in the kitchen for much longer, she’d be pinned into conversation. Granted the ranch house had a living room, a family room, an office and several other bedrooms.
Yet she knew her soon-to-be-ex-husband very well. And she was beginning to know the housekeeper’s good intentions, too.
He’d track her down, if she stayed in the predictable parts of the house. Mrs. Wallach would descend on her with offers of tea and cookies, or some other attempt to heal the divide.
She didn’t want to talk anymore. She didn’t want any more conversations.
There’d been no time for any of that when the rest of the ranch crew descended into the kitchen in a rush of humanity. Hearty breakfasts and constant chatter about the weather and the cattle, stopped any further revelations. By the time breakfast was done, Nick had been roped into doing some chores outside. His pa went with him, leaving only Mrs. Wallach behind with Jess.
The housekeeper had given her a look and put her to work. Which was probably for the best. It wouldn’t do for Jess to spend endless hours thinking about what Nick had told her. She couldn’t do anything about it stuck here in the middle of a desert blizzard. Not until she returned to civilization could she find out if it was true.
Her gut told her it was true, though.
The ultimate betrayal. From her father.
He hadn’t even trusted her enough to leave her a speck of her heritage. He’d transferred his protection of her to her husband. The man who now owned and controlled the McDowell empire.
But only if she stayed married to him.
At least she had that one speck of control. And no matter how much Nick needed her as a friend or how strong his attraction pulled, she was going to use that last speck. She was going to prove a point.
She didn’t need to be protected.
Jess slid the door shut behind her with a quiet click. What she’d find here in the basement, she had no idea. Still, it would be better than evading as she’d been doing throughout the Thanksgiving feast they’d just completed. Nick had tried to shuffle her into the pantry. Mrs. Wallach had tried to counsel her about the stubbornness of men. Edward Townsend had glowered at her with glittery eyes while she’d tried to pretend to eat the turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes.
They were all too much. She needed some time alone.
Slinking down the dark stairs, she kept her eyes peeled and her ears perked. But no bothersome soon-to-be-ex-husband popped up to claim her. No comforting housekeeper hummed. The only sound she heard was the constant howl of the wind that had become the backdrop to her life.
She came to the bottom of the stairs and swept her hand over the wall, looking for a light switch, and finding nothing. Odd. Relying on her hands to guide her, she slid along the panels until she hit a big stack of boxes.
Storage. The basement must be used for storage. But why no lights? The scent of smoke wafted around her in a sudden swirl, and she stiffened. Was there a fire starting here in the basement? She needed to clamber back up the stairs and warn everyone.
“Doing some investigating of your property?”
Jess jumped, her heart galloping.
“Eh?”
The last quiet utterance made her ease onto her heels. It was the familiar, gruff voice of Edward Townsend, reaching out from the black inkiness. As the shock subsided, she took in his words. Her property? What did the man mean by that?
Swiveling back to the dark room, she narrowed her eyes. “Where are you?”
“Taking a moment down here in private.” Another stream of smoke billowed, surrounding her.
“You’re smoking.” She had no objection to smoking, but it was the only thing she could think of to say. With this man, starting a conversation with a barrage of demands wouldn’t go over well. Like father, like son.
“Don’t start.” A shuffling noise told her he’d moved from one place to another. “I get enough of it from Nicholas and Mrs. Wallach.”
The image of Nick nagging his pa about smoking rose inside her brain, stifling more words. Because the picture was so crystal clear, she knew it was real.
“I only smoke once in awhile. Outside as instructed,” the old man grumbled. “And I can’t very well do it on the porch in the middle of a blizzard. Under the circumstances, I came down here.”
“Why is there no light?”
At her sharp question, a lamp flickered on. “There. Satisfied?”
He sat in an ancient leather armchair surrounded by boxes and trunks. A stack of newspapers stood at the chair’s side. “This is your hideout, isn’t it?”
Blue eyes glared at her, so like his son’s it nearly took her breath. Except something about the way he shifted, turned her catch of a breath into a whisper of amusement.
At the sound of her chuckle, his glare went fierce. “Don’t tell anyone.”
Here was this man who presented himself as a tyrant, worrying about her tattling. Her chuckle turned to laughter.
“A man has a right to smoke.” His glare switched to the cigarette in his hand. “A man has a right to some time by himself.”
She snorted, another blast of amusement. “Do you want me to leave?”
“To go and tell my secrets?” he barked. “Sit.”
Her gaze followed the wave of his hand to alight on a small stool. “I’m supposed to sit at your feet?”
Red-gold brows furrowed, reminding her of another set of lush brows. “You’ve got your pride, eh?”
“I’m not someone who you can push over.”
A grunt of reluctant admiration was his response.
Jess straightened her shoulders. “I’m not going to just lay down and give up.”
“No, you aren’t, are you?” He took another slow puff. “Good.”
Surprise swam through her. “Good?”
“My boy tricked you, I take it.”
“Your boy. You. And my father tricked me.”
“You can’t hold me to blame for what’s happened.” A trickle of smoke rose in the cool air. “I didn’t even know you when I signed the contract.”
“But you knew of me, didn’t you?” She didn’t have all the pieces, yet she had enough to place some bets.
> “Sure.” Blue eyes narrowed. “I don’t make deals until I know the entire lay of the land.”
Curiosity bloomed and she took a step closer. “What was the deal?”
Another grunt, this one of disgust, came from the leather chair. “It’s my boy who tricked you. You’ll have to talk to him.”
Frustration burst inside her for the millionth moment. If she had a dime for every time a man had told her to talk to someone else, she’d be as rich as the Queen of England. “I’m done.”
“What?”
“I’m done with being shifted from one man to another.” Striding to him, she leaned over, her hands slamming onto the leather arms of the chair. “You’re going to tell me.”
“Am I?” A wicked grin, so like his son’s, drifted across his face. “How do you propose to make me?”
“Listen to me.” Leaning closer, she scowled. “I haven’t read this damn contract you and Dad signed, but I bet I can guess at some details.”
“Yeah?” To his credit, the old man didn’t flinch or try and push her away. “Go ahead and guess.”
“I saw only part of the deal when I read the contract Nick and my father signed. Right?”
“Can’t say.” He shrugged, lifting the cigarette to his lips. “Was it only one page?”
“Yes.” She gritted her teeth at him when he blew a billow of smoke into her face. However, she didn’t back down. She sensed this man was more than willing to talk, if given half a chance.
“Then, you’re correct. I would assume your father wouldn’t have wanted Nick to see the other portion of the deal.”
Straightening, she kept her gaze pinned on him. “So tell me. What’s the other part of the deal?”
He fiddled with the cigarette before taking another deep draw. The blue of his eyes dimmed. “I needed to get my boy’s attention.”
He used to call. Every month. Lately, though, he doesn’t call as much.
“Couldn’t you have called Nick yourself, and asked him to come here? Wouldn’t that have been easier than pulling my dad and me into the situation?” She folded her arms in front of her before she reached out to soothe this old man. Because the hurt filtering across his face was painful to watch.
