Jackson: The Sons of Dusty Walker, Book 2
by
Randi Alexander
“JACKSON: THE SONS OF DUSTY WALKER, BOOK 2”
Copyright © 2015 Randi Alexander
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Edited by E Felder
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Cover by Diana Carlisle
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Special thanks to Jackson Young for inspiring the hero of this story. Jackson is a true hero in my book. Spend some time with him at Jackson Young Country and find out for yourself how much fun it is to be a member of the Rowdy Nation!
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system-except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the web -without permission in writing from the author.
Prologue
The attorney for the late Dusty Walker leaned over his desk and set a folder of papers in front of each of the four young men who sat like a row of penguins in their dark suits and white shirts.
Jackson Walker, one of the four, adjusted the gray tie his mother had strongly suggested he wear. Shock had him speechless—for the first time in his life.
The lawyer’s gaze rested on each face. Was he taking in their similarities? Even though the four brothers had never laid eyes on each other until five minutes ago, they sat silently, letting the man have his fill of staring.
His three half-brothers had to be as gobsmacked as Jackson was. He kept his gaze forward, not ready to look at the three faces that proved his dad had been a rat bastard.
The gray-haired lawyer unbuttoned his suit coat and sat, pushing his wire-rimmed glasses up on his nose. “Incredible likeness. Your father never mentioned it.”
Their father, Dusty Walker, hadn’t mentioned a whole hell of a lot of things, like the fact that he had four sons, each of whom had no idea there were three more just like him in other parts of the country.
Killian sat forward in his chair. “Are we quadruplets? Were we separated at birth?”
The attorney shook his head again. “Absolutely not. “Each of you is your mother’s biological son. You are each about a year apart in age. Mr. Walker…uh…Killian.”
Jackson almost laughed. Since they were all four Mr. Walker, the man must have realized he needed to take a different approach.
“Killian, you’re the oldest at twenty-seven, and Dylan, you’re the youngest. It must be a very strong DNA strand in your father to have produced men who look so similar.”
Besides different eye and hair color, their faces and bodies could have been stamped from the same mold.
“When I arrived at your homes last week with the news that your father had died, I was under strict instructions not to mention that you had brothers. It was among your father’s last wishes that you learn of your siblings’ existence by bringing you together.” The attorney picked up a sheaf of papers. “I apologize for bringing you to Kansas under these circumstances.”
Jackson had spent the week since learning of his father’s death with his mother, then had made use of the first-class flight from the Pacific Northwest and the limo transportation provided for him by the law firm. When he’d arrived at the lawyer’s office, he’d been shown into a separate office until the attorney, Stanley Benner, Esquire, had asked the four of them to come into his office.
The shock when they’d seen each other kept them all silent, warily watching each other.
The attorney rattled the papers in his hand. “As I told you, Dusty and his wife Theresa were killed in an auto accident. We were told they died instantly.” He looked from one to the other. “So, if there are no more questions, I’ll begin reading the key points in the will.” He waited a few seconds, meeting each of their gazes.
“Yeah, I’ve got one.” Rogue looked at his brothers. “How did he…?” He held up a hand. “Let me rephrase that. Why? Why four families in four different states?”
The lawyer tossed the papers on the desk and laced his fingers together. “Your father wanted to have children, and he confided to me that his wife didn’t want them. This broke his heart.”
“So he went around looking for incubators?” Killian spat out.
“That’s a little disrespectful.” Benner frowned.
“You’re calling me disrespectful?” Killian made a rude noise. “I’d say your client is the one who was disrespectful.”
“She knew about all of us?” Dylan held his hands out, palm up. “His wife, I mean?”
“No, she did not.” Benner’s cheeks turned ruddy. “And I was sworn to silence under attorney/client privilege. I’m assuming that your mothers made you aware of your father’s marital situation?”
One of the men cleared his throat, but no one spoke.
Jackson’s father had spent very few weeks with him every year, and now he—they all—knew why. The man not only had a wife, but four families. The time his dad did spend with Jackson was dedicated to grooming his son to one day run the family business; poring over contracts for regional mineral rights, surveying land, and interpreting tests to determine if the acreage had value.
Jackson stared at the law degree on the wall, but his mind spun back ten years to when he’d just turned fifteen and his mother had let Dusty’s secret escape: Dad had a wife in Kansas. Worse, despite knowing Dusty was married, Sapphire, Jackson’s mother, was Dusty’s lover, which made Jackson a… Shaking away the memory, he focused his attention away from Oregon and back to Kansas.
“So, in the interest of time, I will read the highlights of the will. The entire document is in the folders I set in front of you.” The attorney cleared his throat and read for a quarter of an hour. The details included a grocery list of assets: a mineral and water rights company that boasted assets near five-hundred million dollars, including a private ten-person jet, a storefront in the small town of Red Creek, Kansas, as well as a big house on the outskirts of town.
The brothers sat silent.
“Of course, there are the four houses in four compass points of the US. In the north, Montana, where Killian resides. Texas, from where Rogue hails. Dylan, of course, from Nashville, and Jackson, from Oregon.” Jackson’s gaze flicked to each of his brothers as they glanced at each other, then back at the lawyer. “These houses are currently company property, but your father notes that you four, as the new owners of D. Walker Mineral, can opt to transfer the homes into your mothers’—”
“Hang on.” Dylan stiffened. “You’re saying he left the company to us?”
“Yes, of course.” Benner looked surprised. “I didn’t read that portion of the will because I assumed…” He hefted out a sigh. “The company is now legally in your names, exactly one quarter going to each.”
Dylan let go with a long, low whistle.
Jackson closed his gaping mouth and swallowed. He owned a fourth of a half-billion dollar
company? Hell, he’d always figured Dusty had plenty of money. Their house, which sat a block from the ocean in Bandon, had an unobstructed view of the Pacific from the rooftop deck, and stood within walking distance of his mother’s pottery shop downtown. But half a billion? Man, what he could do with a fourth of that. “So, if we sell our quarter?” Jackson said the words slowly, figuring the other three had to be pondering the same question.
“There are repercussions.” The attorney flipped pages. “Ah, here. ‘Heretofore, the parties to which—”
“In plain English, please.” Killian put one booted foot on the opposite knee.
“Of course.” The man set down the papers and leaned back in his chair, placing one hand on his round belly. “The company is essentially frozen as-is for a full year. After that time, if one of you wants to sell, the others have the option of buying you out at half-worth.”
“Half-worth?” Rogue fisted his hand. “Meaning they’d buy me out at a fifty-percent discount?” The guy looked pissed.
“Yes, that’s correct. Your father wanted to keep the company in the family. Wanted you four boys to run it together.”
Jackson could wait a year. He had a sizeable savings account. All he needed was money to get him to rodeos and pay his entry fees. But hell, no matter what his father wanted, there was no room in his life for small-town Kansas and an eight-to-five job. He’d be the first to sell his quarter of the company.
Benner attempted a smile. “However, you are each officially on the payroll, and your first paychecks will be cut the day you successfully complete the one…” He swallowed then cleared his throat. “Stipulation in the will.”
All four of them leaned an inch closer.
“Stipulation?” Dylan prodded.
“To inherit, you must spend a week in Red Creek, working in your father’s office, learning more about the business, sharing with each other what you’ve learned from your father over the years. You must also reside for that week at your father’s house—your house—on Osprey Lake.”
“A week?” Jackson shook his head. He’d be damned if he’d be forced to work and live with three strangers, even if they were blood relatives. “What’s the timeframe here? Anytime in the next year?”
Rogue slapped open his folder and pulled out his copy of the will. “What section is that in?” His words came out clipped.
“Second from the last page. You’ll see that there’s a thirty day time limit.” The attorney checked his calendar. “Today is August second. You’ll need to decide which week in August works for all four of you, and plan to be back here then. Or if this week works…” He shrugged.
Killian tapped his fingertips on his knee. “Dad wants the four of us to live in the same house and work in the same office? For an entire week?”
“Like summer camp for the bastard sons of Dusty Walker.” Dylan mumbled a curse.
Jackson rubbed the spot between his eyebrows. Good. At least he wasn’t the only one who found this situation bizarre. “What the fuck was he thinking?”
Rogue kept reading silently.
Benner’s face turned a dark shade of red. “He loved each one of you, I know that because he took great pains to create provisions to make sure you were taken care of after his death, as you were while he was alive.”
“Listen here.” Rogue stared at the will. “It says we each have to spend a week, but it doesn’t say it has to be the same week.”
“No, it…uh…what…?” The attorney sat forward and frantically flipped through his paperwork.
“I say we each take a week, get this goddamn stipulation out of the way, and figure out the rest later.” Rogue looked at his brothers. “Agreed?”
“Yeah. Okay.” Dylan accessed his phone. “I can stay this week. I got nothin’ goin’ on.”
Jackson grabbed his folder. “I can do the week after.” The sooner he got this bullshit out of the way, the sooner he could get back to his real life. A burst of unease gripped him. Rodeo was his real life? Traveling solo around the country, one-nighters with buckle bunnies, broken bones and torn ligaments. One hell of a life he’d chosen.
Killian rose. “Sure, I’ll do the third week.”
“That leaves week four for me.” Rogue stood and tucked the folder under his arm.
“Now wait, boys.” The lawyer stood, still staring at his copy of the will as Jackson and Dylan got to their feet. “Your father wanted you all to be here together. At the same time. To get to know one another.”
The brothers stood in a half-circle. Jackson’s gaze dropped to the belt buckle Killian wore, then to the other two brothers’ belts. The exact same belt buckle on all four of them. The one given to Jackson by his father.
“Am I seeing things?” Jackson caught Killian’s surprised gaze.
Killian looked down at his own waist. “Son of a bitch. I can’t believe this. They’re all alike.”
“Kinda fucked up, huh?” One side of Dylan’s mouth curved up. “The old man gave us the same belt buckle, like we’d use them to somehow magically find each other.”
Jackson wanted to fling the buckle into the nearest lake and watch it sink. So much for imagining his father thought he was special. Special, like one of a matched set of four.
The room went silent, then, as if on cue, they all turned toward the door.
“Wait.” The attorney raced around his desk and stood in front of the men, his brow wrinkled, his breath coming fast. “Your father’s wish was to have you spend this time together.” His hands fluttered like he didn’t know what to do next.
“Well then…” Killian patted Benner’s shoulder as he strode past him. “I guess he should have had his lawyer write that in the will.”
Jackson bit back a grin. That Killian was a smart-ass, but thank heavens Rogue had the brains to read the contract and get the four of them out of the bunking-together clusterfuck. Dylan—he couldn’t read the kid, but he appreciated how the youngest blurted out whatever came into his head. He almost wished…naw. Fuck, they were complete strangers. Best to keep it that way.
The four brothers left the office, walked to their separate limousines, and left the parking lot.
Then, the fun began.
Chapter One
Jackson Walker stood on the white line running down the middle of Main Street, Red Creek, Kansas as the sun rose behind him. His shadow grew shorter by the second, merging with his body. As if his deceased father, Dusty Walker, was casting a reminder that his third-oldest son would be walking in his boots that week.
He glanced along the right side of the street where the town stretched out for a few blocks before hitting the open space of the farm implement dealer. Gazing at the left side of the street, he watched the activity inside Cubby’s, where the metal Open sign hung on the restaurant door in this time-warp of a town. He’d eaten breakfast at his father’s…no…his and his three brothers’ massive house out on the lake, but with his cowboy metabolism, he’d be hungry again before the sun hit a forty-five degree angle.
Next to Cubby’s, and directly to Jackson’s left, lights gleamed from the big main level windows of the three-story building bearing the name D. Walker Mineral Company. Although barely past seven in the morning, the employees were already busy at work, like they’d been struck with gold fever. He wandered that way, ready to start another long day. Today was only Tuesday, and he’d signed on to stay the week, but yesterday, learning the business from the three people who had worked for Jackson’s father, had exhausted him. The massive amount of information he needed to assimilate made him dizzier than riding a world-class bucking bronc.
He pushed open the glass door and greeted Abby, the receptionist/bookkeeper. She winked at him from behind her tall counter, and pointed toward the little kitchenette hidden around a corner. “Coffee’s fresh.” Her short, blonde curls bounced as she adjusted her chair. Jackson guessed her to be in her mid-forties, working to supplement her and her husband’s income from their small farm outside of town. Although the com
pany used an accounting firm in Kansas City, Abby managed to keep everything at the office running smoothly.
“Thanks.” He trudged back toward the big office at the end of the hall. Along the way, he passed the four open doors of the other offices, but only one desk was occupied. The specialists worked odd hours, depending on what time zone their current project landed in, and today, Vic typed as he spoke Spanish into his earpiece.
Would Jackson ever get used to this incredible venture he’d ended up owning a quarter share in?
His father’s banged-up wooden desk didn’t look like it belonged to a multi-millionaire. Nor did the worn leather chair. But then, his old man had traveled more than he officed, especially seeing as how he’d been juggling five families around the country.
Kicking the rolling chair back with a little too much aggression, he grabbed at it before it hit the bookshelf. Who the hell did Dusty Walker think he was, starting families wherever he pleased? And when the hell had his dad planned to introduce the brothers? At his retirement party? “Shit.” Jackson would probably never find the answers he was looking for. The attorney, Stanley Benner, didn’t have any clue, or at least he wasn’t talking.
With a long exhale, Jackson unbuttoned the cuffs of his white and blue plaid cotton shirt and rolled up the sleeves, staring out the window at Red Creek, which wound its way along the backs of the buildings on this side of the street. How often had his dad looked out at this view? Had he ever thought of Jackson, wishing he could be out west with his son?
He frowned. With one of his many sons.
A twinge of loneliness hit him. Dad was gone.
Jackson looked in the direction of the cemetery where Dusty and his wife, Theresa, were buried. Or at least, what was left of them after the car crash that killed them both instantly. A good plan would be for Jackson to go visit the graves, forgive his dad, make his peace. But the anger residing inside him at the man’s screwed-up idea of “the perfect family” grated like an old rusty gate swinging in the wind.
He scratched the side of his head, pulling on his too-long hair. He’d always taken pride in having the same dark-brown hair as Dusty. But now, Jackson wished he’d gotten it cut in Oregon before he’d left to come here Sunday night. He’d spotted a barber pole somewhere down a side street. If the August humidity got any heavier and made his hair curl, he’d go get it chopped clean off.
Jackson: The Sons of Dusty Walker Page 1
