The Cowboy Wore A Kilt

by Grace Burrowes

  Text copyright ©2016 by the Author.

  This work was made possible by a special license through the Kindle Worlds publishing program and has not necessarily been reviewed by Carolyn Brown. All characters, scenes, events, plots and related elements appearing in the original Blame it on Texas remain the exclusive copyrighted and/or trademarked property of Carolyn Brown, or their affiliates or licensors.

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  THE COWBOY WORE A KILT

  Grace Burrowes

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Epilogue

  To those who build dreams

  Chapter One

  "What aren't you telling me?" Declan MacLeod asked.

  Thaddeus Brewster never put all of his cards on the table. Thad wasn't dishonest, exactly. Back in Scotland he'd be considered a canny sort. Here in Houston, Thad Brewster was good people to know, and had good business instincts. He was also—more's the pity—Declan's boss.

  "Why do you do that?" Thad asked, propping a lean hip against his desk.

  Declan was building a house of cards, a simple twenty-card tower, four braces across the bottom, narrowing to a single pair of cards supporting each other at the top.

  "I do this, because you waste my time beating around the bush, and I like to build things."Loved to build things—businesses, oil rigs, a dam across the stream. Declan didn't care which as long as he was creating something interesting and useful.

  Thad prowled across the office and took the seat opposite Declan at the poker table. The office was like Thad, a blend of Old West and Big Oil, with a wide streak of showy taste. The skyline view of Houston was priceless, and the antique poker table probably cost more than Declan's truck. To the people Brewster did business with, that table spoke of respect for tradition, and for men and women who knew when to take a risk.

  Odd bunch, Texans. Like the Scots, in many ways.

  "Easily bored is your problem." Thad fired a card across the table and brought the whole house down. "I'm gonna need you to hop up to the Panhandle."

  Declan had been in the States more than two years, but he'd never get used to the size of the place. From Houston to Amarillo was about the same distance as from Edinburgh to Paris.

  "Why send me more than five hundred miles inland?"

  "A little project. Nothing anybody needs to know about."

  Well, of course. Thad had brought Declan in from the Aberdeen office to handle special assignments, because Declan's engineering background included both petroleum and structural projects, and he had a master's degree in marine biology. Even in the oil business that was an unusual combination.

  "What's a marine biologist supposed to do with himself in the middle of the desert?" Nothing good, or Thad wouldn't be flipping a red poker chip through his fingers while staring out across the skyline.

  Declan's title was Director of Special Projects for Brewster Energy, Inc., and he reported directly to Thad, the primary shareholder. Declan's job description was troubleshooter, errand boy, and black knight, depending on what scheme or mess Thad had dragged the company into. Declan had managed acquisitions—hostile takeovers—and the subsequent selling off of assets. He'd delivered pink slips to twenty-year employees whose divisions were no longer profitable.

  To stay here—in Texas—he'd dig ditches if he had to, though lately, digging ditches in the Texas heat would be preferable to some of the projects Thad had stuck him with.

  "You won't be a marine biologist," Thad said, "or an engineer. You'll be a tourist, one who wants to learn to ride horses so he won't look stupid at the corporate retreat."

  "You cut the retreat from the budget two years ago." Management turnover had picked up every quarter since, surely a coincidence.

  "I'm rethinking my strategy."

  "You're up to something."

  Thad grinned, the cowboy charm coming as naturally to him as the steps of the dances that half of Texas stomped, scooted, and slid through every Saturday night. The Texas version of a ceilidh was a noisier and more flirtatious affair than its Scottish cousin, and sometimes more violent too, but good fun, nonetheless.

  "I'm always up to something, Declan. You know that."

  "And half the time, that something puts my ass in a sling, while you walk off with the money." That had begun to rankle as well. Thad had inherited the company from a man who'd had a nose for oil, no matter what jungle, war zone, or environmental regulation he'd had to battle to get the product out of the ground.

  Thad lacked the old man's instincts, but had the full complement of expensive tastes and charm. He stood six-one in his bare feet, had Texas-blue eyes, and sandy blond hair that the ladies seemed to enjoy messing up.

  Thad also wasn't as conscientious about looking after his people as his father had been. To a Scotsman, that was a signal shortcoming.

  "You'll like this project," Thad said, propping his boots on the edge of the poker table. "A little R&R, some scenery, some time away from the boardroom. Enjoy it while you can."

  Declan liked to build things. Thad liked to tinker and twiddle. He fished a paper clip out of a drawer, and unbent the wire.

  "While I learn to ride horses? On what planet is riding a horse a required skill in the petroleum industry?" Besides, Declan already knew how to ride, more or less.

  Thad tried to refold the paper clip back to its original configuration, which couldn't be done because of the effect of the stress on the wire.

  "You're scoping out a property. I'm talking to Davis International about a deal, and Miranda Davis is the touchy-feely, get-to-know-your-inner-idiot type. She owns an entire off-site facility for executive seminars, business retreats, and management refreshers. Rents it out and makes goddamn money off the place. I don't have anything like that."

  Thad had a tuxedo, which he dutifully wore to all of the fundraisers. He invariably escorted some oil baron's daughter, or up-and-coming screenwriter who just happened to be gorgeous, but he was, to use the American term, a tightwad.

  "You barely bother with charitable giving at all." And that was not very Texan of him.

  "Yeah, and I don't plan to start now. A little place in the country to do training, off-site planning, or take the clients I need to impress is fine. I'll leave it to Miranda to save the great unwashed."

  Insight hit as Declan counted out the twenty cards he'd need to rebuild his tower. "You want Miranda to save you. I've seen the earnings reports, Thad. The whole industry is taking a beating." Though Davis International, which had diversified into renewable energy twenty years ago, was doing singularly well.

  The paper clip snapped in two. Thad tossed the two halves toward the trash can, missed, and got out another paper clip.

  "We're in a slump is all, Dec. Every industry has ups and downs."

  Declan's job was not to talk sense into a CEO who'd fiddle while Rome burned…or put up solar panels. Let Miranda Davis lecture some business reality into Thad. She was reported to be a good talker, and a better listener.

  "So I'm off to the wilds of the Panhandle, where I'm to do what?"

  "Steal candy from a baby," Thad said, flashing a smile worthy of a great white shark. "You'll scope out a little dude ranch, make sure it's worth what it's appraised for, do some due diligence, and then buy the place out from under the owner."

  Due diligence being Thad's euphemism for spying.

  "Does the owner want to sell?"

  "They never do, but I've taken the trouble to have my bank buy the mortgage, so the mea
ns of persuasion are in your hands. I'm not saying you have to break anybody's fingers, just help the owner see reason. A nice corporate country club out there in canyon country will be good for the local economy. We'll hire some cowgirls to change the sheets and serve the drinks, employ the trades in the construction phase, and even pay a few taxes if we have to. Know what I mean?"

  Declan snatched the paper clip from him. "I will break your fingers if you ever again imply that I'd use physical force to further your business objectives."

  Thad was on his feet in the next instant, leaning across the table, his face inches from Declan's. "You work for me, Dec. You don't tell me what to do."

  Thad looked good on magazine covers, but Declan was close enough to see his eyes, to see the fundamental insecurity that drove much of the man Thad was. Not a pretty sight.

  Declan picked up two cards—the king and queen of hearts—and balanced them against each other as the cornerstone for his new construction.

  "I'll take a look at this ranch, and give you a report regarding its potential as a business retreat venue. When you've had the benefit of my insights, you can decide whether I'm to make an offer."

  "You have one week, starting Monday," Thad said, resuming his seat. "I don't care what you have to do to get that property. I want to be able to tell Miranda Davis that I'm building a state-of-the-art corporate training center up in Palo Duro Canyon. She'll check the land records to make sure I'm not bluffing, so get me that ranch."

  Get me that ranch.

  Increasingly, that attitude bothered Declan. A Scottish laird of old had given orders, demanded respect from his clan, and spoken with all the authority of law where his people were concerned. He'd also been willing to give his life to protect them, and had held all clan lands in the name of his people.

  Thad lacked loyalty to anything except his own bottom line, and Miranda Davis would be a fool to do business with him.

  So what did that make Declan, who depended on Thad Brewster for his every groat?

  ***

  Green-up was coming early, a mixed blessing in Claudia Jensen's opinion. The new hay would be ready sooner, the winter chill gone, and the flowers were always a cheering sight…but the heat of summer came right after green-up, and that heat lasted for months.

  A place that got only twenty inches of annual rainfall and even less snow took heat seriously.

  Palo Duro Canyon had seasons, sometimes several in the space of a day, and this Sunday was no different. The horses got a day of rest, same as everybody else on the Bar J, but they were restless, cantering the fence line of their paddock in a pattern Claudia knew meant a change of weather on the way.

  She waved to get Kara's attention, then motioned pitching square bales. Kara nodded and signed, "You want me to help?"

  Claudia replied in the negative, and said she'd be ready for a glass of lemonade when she'd thrown the extra hay.

  Kara was good around the horses, but she was a kid, and too much hard work was the surest way to drive a young person from the ranching life. For a teenager with severe hearing loss, recreation was a challenge, or would have been, but for the horses.

  Claudia threw the extra hay and stopped to visit with a gelding hanging his head over the gate. His white forelock was streaked green where some other horse had slobbered on him.

  "I don't own horses, I own hay vacuums," Claudia said, scratching Boo's forehead. He was the peacekeeper, the guy always willing to amble away when tempers flared, and he was Kara's salvation. Damned horse would jump anything provided Kara was in the saddle. Too bad grays were a nightmare to keep clean for show days.

  A line of steely clouds that had started the day off to the north was moving closer, very likely bringing a reprise of winter. Claudia was tossing extra rations to keep the horses warm, because blanketing a dozen equines, then unblanketing, then re-blanketing, was foolish when good tucker, movement, hanging with the herd, and staying dry did a safer, more efficient job.

  She'd spread the fodder into fifteen different piles across the various paddocks—always have more piles of hay than horses, so nobody lost the game of musical snacks and got testy—when a red Mirage came tooling up the drive. Dust hung in the air behind the little car, which stood out like an exotic bird against the mesquite and juniper landscape.

  White vehicles were cooler, which the locals and the car rental agent at the Silverton airport knew darned well, so this was a tourist.

  A paying guest, rather. Claudia's mom had been particular about that.

  Claudia closed the paddock gate and took up a lean against the lamp post. Either Monday's guest had come early, or this was somebody without a reservation.

  A tall somebody. The driver got out, going directly to the back of the car and extracting a silver suitcase.

  The fancy, expensive kind that held up forever.

  "Howdy," Claudia called, pasting her best Hospitality Smile on her face. "Welcome to the Bar J. I'm Claudia Jensen."

  The guy wore sunglasses—they looked expensive too. He stuck out his hand and shook. "Hello, Miss Jensen. I'm Declan MacLeod, and I'm very glad to have found you."

  Well, hell. Mr. MacLeod had warm hands, a devilish smile, and a Scottish accent that suggested he could moonlight as a voice actor. Kara would never hear that accent—a sorrow—while Claudia wouldn't forget it for a long time.

  "You're a day early, Mr. MacLeod. I had your reservation down for Monday to Saturday. We have plenty of room though, and we're always glad to meet a new friend."

  You could tell a lot about a man by his belt buckle. The young guys went strutting around with their rodeo championship buckles flashing—half of 'em bought in pawnshops—or some huge silver and turquoise number that pretty much shouted, "Hey, darlin', look at my zipper!" while it made getting on and off a horse a slightly riskier proposition.

  Mr. MacLeod's buckle was a simple pewter Celtic knot, his belt worn leather, his jeans comfortable with some wear left, and his T-shirt a soft blue with "Caledonia" in black script across his chest. He wore running shoes and a soft corduroy jacket with suede patches at the elbows.

  Not quite cowboy, not quite nerd, not quite tourist. Not quite stunning either, but close. Broad shoulders, narrow waist, trim without being skinny. His features would go craggy as he aged. For now, he was doing a good version of rugged. His reservation form said he wanted to learn to ride—as if that could be done in a week flat.

  "I'm early, you say?" He ran a hand through dark auburn hair. "I do apologize. I must have given my assistant the wrong dates. Will it be any bother to put me up?"

  Pute me opp?

  "No bother a 'tall," Claudia said, though she treasured her quiet Sunday nights. "Is that your only bag, and can I carry it for you?"

  "I have a satchel on the passenger's seat. If you'd bring that along, I'd be grateful."

  Mr. MacLeod didn't look around for some guy to pick up his suitcase, and yet, he also didn't insist on managing everything on his own. The satchel was odd—a combination computer case and briefcase in tooled leather with a shoulder strap. A one-off, and he'd probably paid dearly for the leather work.

  Either MacLeod was well-to-do, or he liked nice things and took care of them. The rent-a-runt said he didn't spend money on casual displays, and the running shoes said he liked his comforts.

  And yet, he didn't entirely add up, and Claudia disliked mysteries. "What brings you out here to the Bar J? Your reservation said you want to spend time in the saddle, but there are a lot of places to do that."

  "I wanted peace and quiet, which you appear to have in abundance, and some new scenery. How old is this place?"

  Ranching in the Canyon hadn't really started until after the Civil War, but the presence of water and the Canyon's sheltering walls made it a great place to set down roots.

  "The Jensens go back six generations, and we used to be a much larger family."Which was why the hacienda looked like something out of a Fred Harvey coffee-table book. The façade boasted salmon-color
ed adobe walls, exposed timbers, and a wide covered porch that could easily seat dozens at the various groupings Claudia had arranged.

  "You have a cat, Ms. Jensen. That has to be one of the largest cats I've ever seen."

  Also one of the most shameless. "We call him Hotay, short for Don Quixote. In his younger days, he tilted at a lot of windmills that just happened to look like lady cats."

  Hotay—Claudia's dad had called him Hottie—was all black, long-haired, and lazy, but he looked nice lounging on the front porch and all over the website photos. His hair did not look so nice on the furniture.

  "He's friendly," Mr. MacLeod said, hunkering down to scratch Hotay behind the ears. "Is he permitted in the house?"

  "He comes and goes as he pleases. Looks like we'll be getting some weather, so I expect he'll be by the fire tonight. Your room is on the ground floor."

  Mr. MacLeod held the door for Claudia, and Hotay shot through her legs and headed straight for the sofa.

  Storm coming for sure.

  Fortunately, though Sunday was supposed to be a day of rest, Claudia had Mr. MacLeod's quarters ready to go. She'd put him at the back of the house because the rooms there had the best views and doors that opened right onto the terrace.

  "You're my only guest this week," she said, snatching a key from behind the front desk, "so there's not much point locking your door, but I won't be offended if you do. Supper's at six, and you'll be dining with my niece and me tonight. Kara is deaf, so don't think she's being rude if she doesn't answer you. She reads lips fairly well, and can read, write, and sign like a house afire. Don't yell at her and don't try to talk to her unless you're facing her in good light. Password for the wireless is Bar J Ranch, initial letters uppercase, without spaces."

  What was she forgetting? Claudia was forgetting some part of the welcome speech, because Mr. MacLeod was standing too close.

  He waited at Claudia's back while she unlocked the door to his room—she'd kept the door closed so Hotay wouldn't make himself at home—and at close quarters, she picked up a scent from her guest. Cedar and sage with notes of everything from black pepper to clove.