by Caro LaFever
“No.” Throwing her an immediate frown, he pounded the butt of the cigarette in an ashtray perched precariously on the stack of newspapers. “That’s not how it works.”
The son had to come to the father, not the other way around. A stupid male need for the power position, she presumed. Jess frowned at him.
“Your father had as much reason to get himself into the deal as I did,” the old man continued. “He didn’t want you to be alone when he was gone.”
Her frown turned into another scowl.
“You don’t understand.” The gnarled hands fisted. “My boy needs to be here at the ranch.”
“And signing a sales contract on the ranch with my father was going to get him here?” she said with disbelief.
“Like the deal Nick signed with your dad, the sales contract was just another piece of the puzzle.”
Frustration surged again.
But she was close. She sat on the stool and stared at the man. “Tell me the rest.”
Sighing, he settled farther into the chair, as if he were about to tell a story he’d held inside far too long.
Excitement washed through her. She didn’t believe she’d ever trust Nick again or return to the loving relationship she’d treasured for such a brief time, yet at least she’d understand. Understand what had blown them together and then, apart.
“Nicholas had to leave,” his pa said in a low voice. “He had to go out into the world and spread his wings. I understood that.”
“All right.” What she really wanted to say was perhaps you drove him away into the world with your rules and your demands, but she didn’t, because she wanted him to continue to talk.
“He’s thirty-four. It’s time for him to come back here and take the reins.”
Jess tried to stay silent, except she couldn’t imagine Nick being satisfied with only running this ranch. The man had a brain the size of Einstein. He needed far more to challenge him and keep him engaged than just this place. Although she’d gathered from the conversation around the Thanksgiving table this homestead had thousands of acres, it still wouldn’t be enough to keep that sharp brain occupied. “I don’t think this ranch—”
“I know what you’re going to say.” His gaze narrowed. “Ádh Ranch isn’t enough for my boy.”
The strange name hit her again. She supposed she should stay on topic as the man seemed willing to spill, but her damn curiosity swung in a different direction before she could stop it. “What does Ádh mean, anyway?”
“It means lucky in Irish. The Townsends were lucky to escape Ireland when they did and find this land we’ve lived on for a hundred years. The name seemed appropriate to my ancestors, I guess.”
Lucky. The word fit the son, too. In so many ways, Nick was a Townsend whether he wanted to acknowledge it or not.
“I’m glad you’re interested in the ranch.” A grin turned the old man’s grim mouth into a replica of his son’s real smile. “That’s what I’d hoped for, when I agreed with your father that something needed to be done.”
“You and my dad agreed that something needed to be done about what?” Curiosity drained into exasperation. She could just imagine these two old men putting their heads together and plotting.
“My Nicholas needed to stop playing around with flaky women like his mother.”
It was her turn to narrow her eyes. “I met the other side of the family. They are lovely people.”
A grunt came from him. “Maybe. But Nick’s mother was crazy.”
“Crazy because she left you?”
The old body stiffened and his glare returned. “It’s not my fault the woman couldn’t stand the isolation.”
“So she left, and took Nick with her.” One puzzle piece at a time, Jess thought.
“He was too young to stay with me.” A leathery hand absently swept across the leather chair’s arm. “Only four at the time.”
Sorrow seeped through the words, telling her more of the story. “Did you ever tell Nick you wanted him to stay with you?”
The hand fisted. “What was the use?”
These two men. She wanted to take them both and shake them until they saw the true reality. The reality that they both loved each other fiercely. “I think you should tell him.”
“Naw.” The one word drawled into the cool room, slow and blunt.
A sharp silence fell, and Jess decided she’d pushed enough into the fraught relationship.
Wait a minute.
Why should she care about these two men, and if they ever found their way to each other? This old man had conspired with her own father to steal her heritage. And Nick had lied to her from the moment they met.
She stood in an abrupt jerk.
Edward Townsend stared at her. “Going somewhere?”
“I’m leaving.” Turning, she headed for the wooden stairs.
“I thought you wanted to know about the deal I struck with your dear old dad.”
Jess fought the curiosity bubbling inside. “You’re not going to tell me. You’re only playing with me.”
“Your dad called me up about a year ago. Out of the blue.” A match scratched on a box and the smell of smoke drifted across the room to surround her once more.
She shouldn’t care.
She should just wait until this stupid storm passed and she returned to Peter and her lawyers. She should file for divorce, forget about her hotels and her soon-to-be-ex-husband, and take the money her dad had left her.
Start over. Start fresh.
Jerking around, she glared at the old man sitting sedately in his chair. His expression smoothed, as if he’d been worried he couldn’t catch her.
But he had.
Damn him.
“Tell me,” she snarled.
“He’d met my boy and was impressed.” No amount of gruffness could conceal the pride in his voice. “And he talked about you.”
“Me.” Her hand curled on the stair rail, a mixture of grief and anger coursing through her.
“Yeah, you.” The old man puffed on his cigarette, his gaze on her not wavering. “He was very proud of you.”
“So proud he left his business to your son, not me.”
“He left it to both of you.”
“That’s not what Nick told me this morning,” she spat.
“He’s the executor of Clyde’s estate, that’s true.” Another puff of the cigarette. “Knowing your father, I would assume he didn’t want to bother you with details when you were grieving for him.”
The statement slammed into her like a crowbar. She’d never once thought her father would have been worried about her grief after he died. He’d brushed aside her grief when he’d been alive, why would he have cared about it after his death? “I don’t think—”
“Clyde spoke of you often.”
“Often.” This trail of deals and contracts got more and more complicated. “You spoke often.”
“We sure did.” He gave her a brief glance before focusing on his cigarette once more. “Talked to him mere hours before his death.”
“When we were on our honeymoon.” The golden, happy, joyful memories swirled inside, so bittersweet tears clogged her throat.
“Yeah, we both thought we’d done the trick with you two.”
“Tricks. Deals. Plays. Both Nick and I are human beings. Not pawns in a game.”
Astonishment covered his wrinkled face. “Neither Clyde nor I thought of either of you in that way.”
“Really?” Storming to the chair, she hovered over him. “That’s not how you both acted.”
“Stop acting like a banshee, shrieking away,” he grouched. “We were just looking out for our boy and girl.”
She didn’t retreat. “By tricking us. By lying to us.”
“We never lied to either of you.” He met her scowl with a straight, truthful look. “Clyde and I found common ground, that’s all.”
Disgusted, she eased back. “Common ground. What the hell does that mean?”
“My boy need
ed to come home, and to do that, he had to find a woman who was worthy of bringing to the ranch.” He dragged on his cigarette, his gaze never leaving her face. “Your father said you were that woman.”
“And you believed him?” Jess gave him a snort of disbelief. “Why would you do that?”
“You and Nick seem to have gotten this idea I’m some hick out in the wilds.” He returned to glaring. “I looked you up, of course. I hired an investigator to check on you. Clyde didn’t mind. He opened up his business, and let me take a look at that, as well.”
“My father would never do that,” she said, certainty settling in her gut.
“No?” Puffing again, his eyes twinkled, reminding her of his son once more.
Jess pushed the image of a twinkling-eyed Nick away. “No.”
“Perhaps your dad had his reasons. He suddenly had different priorities, didn’t he? His time was running out.”
True, her father had stated that time and time again to her, much to her distress. Could this old man actually be telling her the truth? “My dad let you see our business records.”
“Yeah.” Another cigarette butt plunked into the ashtray. “After mulling it over, I decided Clyde was right. We needed to join forces.”
“Against Nick and me.”
“Naw. Don’t be ridiculous.” Annoyance crossed his face. “It was all done for you two.”
“Spell it out, Mr. Townsend,” she snapped.
“I told you to call me Ed,” he replied his voice serene, his expression smoothing. “After all, we’re kin.”
“I’m divorcing your son as soon as possible.”
“That would be a foolish thing to do.” Placing his hands in his lap, he tried for angelic, yet fell far short. The wicked look in his blue eyes told her so.
Neither he nor his son were born angels.
She’d known that about Nick and accepted him—his anger, his charming facade, his knack of riding the edge—because she’d fallen in love. But she didn’t have to accept this man’s attempt. “Don’t try and play me.”
“That’s my boy’s trick, not mine,” he said with a stout tone in his voice. “Wouldn’t dream of trying it with a woman like you.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“A woman who’s smart as a whip. Who’d take on an army to protect my son.” The blue gaze didn’t falter in the face of her scorn. “Who’s strong enough to deal with Nicholas.”
The words swarmed around her like the icy shards of a blizzard storm. They pricked her pride, stung her heart. Because this man didn’t know her well enough to say these things, and although he might know her father, Clyde McDowell hadn’t believed these things about her at all. “Now you’re being ridiculous.”
She took a step back.
“Are you saying you aren’t this woman?” His gaze narrowed. “Are you saying your dad was a liar?”
“My dad wouldn’t have said any of that to you.”
The old man stilled. “But he said all of it and more, Jessica. Your father thought the world of you.”
The tears that had off and on clogged her throat during this conversation, swelled. “He didn’t.”
The door above them flew open with a bang. “¿Qué demonios?”
At the sound of her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s voice, Jess hastily brushed the tears off her cheeks and ducked her head.
The clatter of cowboy boots rang in the room. “What are you doing, Pa?”
“Just having a conversation with your wife.” Edward Townsend’s voice went tough and hard.
“And smoking, too, aren’t you?” His son marched to the ashtray and glared down. “How many times have I told you? No more smoking. Your doctor told me about your condition.”
Shock pushed aside her tears. “Your condition?”
Both men stiffened.
“What condition?” She barely knew this old man, but she didn’t want him to grow sick like her dad and die. At least, not until some kind of peace and understanding could be obtained between he and his son. A peace and understanding she and her dad had clearly not achieved.
Your father thought the world of you.
That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. Her dad would have told her.
Wouldn’t he?
“My doctor shouldn’t be telling squat to you,” the old man grumbled at his hovering son. “That’s private.”
“I’m your son, although you hate the thought,” the same low grumble came from above. “Deal with it.”
Jess wanted to ask the same question again—what condition?—but she managed to stifle her curiosity. Better to focus on getting away from Nick and finding another bolthole. She’d heard enough from Edward Townsend for the moment. Time to mull over what he said was what she needed.
Her shoe clattered on the first wood step.
Nick swiveled to catch her in his gaze. “What were you telling Jessie?”
The question was pure aggression, pure accusation at his father. The protective look on his face made her want to weep again. Because she couldn’t allow herself to believe it was real.
“Just talking about her dad, that’s all.”
The son jerked back to scowl. “Leave her alone. She’s grieving.”
“I wasn’t the one who initiated the conversation, was I, Jessica?”
Taking another step of escape, she threw the old man a bone. “No, you weren’t.”
“See?” He harrumphed.
Nick wasn’t buying it. When she took a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw it in the line of his long body, the tense fists at this side. “You keep away from her, do you hear me, Pa?”
“Yeah. I hear you.” The father glared up at his son, his blue eyes lasers of pain in his wrinkled face.
Before Nick’s attention swerved back to her, Jess made her escape.
Chapter 33
Nick knew he’d made the wrong decision as soon as he’d set sight on his pa when they’d arrived at the ranch. But not until he’d seen Jessie’s tears in the basement had he realized he’d likely made a fatal mistake.
She’d never forgive him now.
He’d hurt her again.
Or let her get hurt by Edward Townsend. He should have known she’d be hurt by his old man. It was what his old man did. To everyone.
His mamá.
Himself.
His Jessie.
After throwing another threat or two his father’s way, he’d stomped up the stairs to find his wife had escaped from him again. Before he could find her and apologize for his stupid mistake of bringing her here and for his ugly thug of a father.
“Going to take a nap, she said.” Mrs. Wallach wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and threw him a worried look. “She looked peaked. I knocked on her bedroom door to give her some aspirin, but she didn’t answer.”
She’d looked more than that. She’d looked downright distraught. The thought made his insides go wild. He’d been the one to bring her here. He’d been the one to put her in his pa’s vicinity. What the hell had the old man said to her?
A swirl of Spanish curses lay on his tongue, and before he shot them at the undeserving housekeeper, he slammed on his old cowboy hat, jerked on a wool jacket, and strode through the door.
Icy wind filled with wet snow hit him in the face as soon as he paced off the porch and down the steps. Although the blizzard produced a near white-out, he’d know the way around this place blindfolded. One of the ranch hands had shoveled the porch and a thin path to the outbuildings: the barn where his dad kept the horses, the old tin-roofed ice house that was now used for storage, the bunkhouse where the crew would doubtless be playing a round of poker. It made his walk a bit easier.
For a moment, Nick thought about joining them. He’d be able to take his mind off Jessie and his pa, maybe he’d even relax.
Naw. That wasn’t going to happen.
More likely, he’d curse at Tiny and Fred. Probably start a fight with Cole or Jackson. Then his father would arrive and proclaim that nothi
ng had changed.
Crazy savage.
Kicking a pile of snow in a futile attempt to let off the steaming anger roiling inside, he stomped toward the barn. The howling blizzard cut through the old wool coat, making him shiver. He’d hang out with the horses for awhile. They never accused, and never fought back. As a kid, he’d often hid away in the barn’s loft, listening to the low whinny of Big Man, his pa’s horse. Taking in the pungent smell of alfalfa.
Dreaming about being something more than a boy who never could do right.
The big wooden door rolled back, bringing with it a sullen Nick and the blustering storm. A half-dozen nervous nickers came from the row of stalls lining one wall. The brick floor was dusted with a soft spray of sand, just as his father liked. The leather saddles still were stored along the wall on stands, all of them neatly covered in wool blankets just as they’d always been.
Except for one.
Odd. He slammed the rolling door shut with a loud bang, and frowned at the bare saddle. If his father saw this, he’d have a fit. With a rough move, he walked to the crisply folded mound of blankets, chose one, and efficiently covered the offending saddle. Once that was done, he peeked into the tack room to note that in here, nothing was out of place.
Edward Townsend ran a tight operation. Only his son had ever disrupted the routine.
Sneering into the small mirror hanging on one of the tack room walls, Nick veered past the immaculate room, striding down the hallway. The horses were all new, which made sense. He’d been gone for sixteen years.
Grief and homesickness and something near to guilt swept through him.
The emotions were as icy and driving as the blizzard wind howling outside.
A soft whinny caught his attention. Blinking back the wetness in his eyes, he walked to the end of the stalls. “Jesús.”
A tawny nose poked through the stall’s wooden bars. Gray whiskers were new, but the deep darkness of the brown eyes was not.
Pa had kept Caballo.
“Hey, guy.” Reaching out a shaking hand, he slowly ran his fingers along the horse’s muzzle, onto the short hair between those eyes. The gelding nickered, a hushed, quiet sound. His fingers laced through the coarse hair between perked ears, remembering.
