Gambling on a Secret (5 page)

* * * *

“Hello?” Charli called as she entered the reception area of Tracy’s Classic Chic Salon the following Monday morning.

A tall, slender woman peeked around the archway of the adjoining room. “Oh, hi. I’ll be right there.

“Hi. I’m Charli Monroe. I think I’m a little early for my appointment.”

“Don’t worry about it. It’s good to finally meet you,” Tracy said with a smile.

“Same here.” She and Tracy had spoken on the phone a few times regarding Dylan, but they hadn’t met until now. She stopped at the doorway into the salon parlor. An older woman sat in the chair patting her short blonde curls.

Tracy moved toward the other customer, but said to her over her shoulder, “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be finished in a few minutes.”

“My dear, you are an artist,” the patron drawled in a strong Texas accent when Tracy stood behind the styling chair.

“Aw, Mrs. Cartwright,” Tracy said. “You say that every time.”

Charli turned toward the floral couch in front of the double window, picked up a
People Magazine,
and began leafing through it. A few minutes later, the older woman and Tracy came out of the parlor.

“Tracy, dear, I really wish you’d come to the next planning session for the Forest County Charity Ball,” Mrs. Cartwright said. “You have such wonderful taste.”

“Thank you. I’ll consider your invitation.” Tracy punched the keys of an antique cash register to total the bill. “That’s twenty-five dollars.” She accepted the credit card and scanned it. “Isn’t it a little early to be planning for an event that doesn’t happen until July fourth?”

“My goodness, no!” the older woman gushed, aghast. “We have to make sure everything is perfect. Please think about it.” She tucked her credit card into her Gucci handbag. “This year we’re hoping to do something special for all the veterans in town. Too bad your brother is having such a hard time. He’d be perfect to speak at one of the committee meetings.”

Tracy looked puzzled. “Why Dylan?”

“He was over there so many times and was part of the–oh, what are they called?” Mrs. Cartwright tapped her cheek with a long manicured fingernail a few times, then chirped, “The Green Berets. Zachery mentioned he’s still drinking heavily. Must be so terrible for you, honey.”

When Tracy glanced over at Charli, she looked down at the magazine in her lap. Damn, Tracy hadn’t caught her eavesdropping, had she? She pretended to focus on the article about Brad Pitt.

In a reserved tone, Tracy said, “Dylan’s getting better. It won’t be too long before he’ll be the man he was before his injuries and the divorce.”

“He was such a good boy from what I remember of him when he’d visit with my son, Lance. And he did such a wonderful job helping you remodel this old house.”

Dylan did this?
She couldn’t help but look around the lobby of the salon. The Victorian house was beautiful. The rich decor of cream, gold, olive green and rose complemented the rich, red tones of the wood flooring. Moreover, the carved molding was gorgeous, polished to match the unique floor.

Tracy’s evenly spoken words drew her back into the conversation. “Dylan and Lance are still good friends.” Tracy moved from behind the antique desk and spoke with obvious pride. “He’s always been a talented craftsman. I wouldn’t have been able to live here if he hadn’t helped me fix up this place.”

“When Zachery came back from Afghanistan two years ago, he was changed, too. I suppose Lisa’s death and having to raise their little girl alone would change anyone, though.”

Charli flipped the page of the magazine as Tracy glanced over at her again.

Turning back to the older woman, Tracy asked, “How’s Zack doing? I only see him occasionally.”

Was Tracy’s voice wistful? Must be a story there.

Mrs. Cartwright sighed. “I think my dear nephew is burning the candle at both ends, if you ask me. The time of mourning is over. He needs a wife, and Amanda needs a mother. She’s quite the handful.”

“She takes after her father for sure.”

The older woman laughed. “Yes, she does.” She turned toward the door and smiled at Charli. “Oh, my, forgive my rudeness. Hello, I don’t think I’ve seen you around.” The woman held out her hand, and Charli stood and shook it. “I’m Winnie Cartwright. The mayor’s wife.”

Charli returned her smile. “Charli Monroe. Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Cartwright. I actually have a meeting with your nephew Zack tomorrow concerning some horses I’d like to buy.”

“Oh, I hate the beasts. Never go near them.” She placed a hand laden with jewels onto her ample chest and shivered to add emphasis to her dislike for horses.

How could anyone despise horses?

Winnie smiled and readjusted the strap of her purse. “I was thrilled when my son Lance finally decided to take over my husband’s share of the CW Ranch. Paul, however, still gets involved because Lance is the senior partner of my father’s law firm.” Her brown eyes widened and her pink lips opened slightly. “Oh, you’re the young woman who bought the old Blackwell place. I guess that makes us neighbors, too, since the CW and Blackwell Ranch share a boundary. You must tell me all about it. Jock was such a strange bird. He had bipolar disorder and refused to take his medicines.” Mrs. Cartwright made a
tsking
sound and shook her head. “It was a shame how he cheated his boys out of the ranch, but then, I guess he had his reasons.”

The older woman leaned toward her, her voice low. “I heard he did it because there’s still oil under the land and didn’t want them to reopen those oil wells, which makes no sense at all. Jock was always sinking his dwindling family fortune into one scheme after another.” She chuckled at her own joke. “Have you met our neighbor, Leon Ferguson, yet?”

“Yes, Mr. Ferguson and I have met.” She wasn’t offering any more to the old busybody. She may not have been in town long, but she had been here long enough to know Winnie Cartwright was the tried and true queen of the gossip chain the locals called the Colton Grapevine.

Tracy cleared her throat. “Miss Monroe, I’m ready whenever you are.”

Charli silently thanked her for the save and said to the mayor’s wife, “If you’ll excuse me?”

“Of course, dear.” Winnie’s lips compressed in displeasure, no doubt at being so easily dismissed. “We must talk again.”

Settled into the chair by the shampoo sink after the front door closed, she smiled at Tracy. “Thank you.”

“Not a problem. Winnie can be a bulldog if she smells a grape.”

“A ‘grape’?”

“A juicy story. The folks around here call them grapes–you know, like what grow on a grapevine.”

She nodded her understanding, and Tracy turned on the water.

“You said when you made the appointment you wanted a trim?”

“I’d like to have my hair layered and shortened a little.” At least, she hoped that’s what she wanted. “Maybe see if you can do something with the front. I’m tired of pulling my hair back all the time.”

“Sounds doable.” After a few uneasy moments of silence, Tracy commented, “Your hair is such a pretty color. And the curl’s natural, too, isn’t it?”

She sighed. “I tried to straighten it once, but it didn’t work. As for the color, I’m stuck with it, too. I have too many freckles and too pale a complexion for any other shade.”

Tracy cocked her head to the side as she applied shampoo and worked it into her hair. “With your skin tone, I’d have to agree. But really, I like the golden red.”

“Thanks.”

The other woman worked with her fingers to massage her scalp. A butterfly clip held Tracy’s twisted, golden highlighted brown hair at the back of her head. Friendly gray eyes were set in a face sharp with angles, much as her brother’s, except Tracy’s features were delicate, feminine.

Tracy rinsed the lather from her hair. “I can’t imagine what the old ranch house must look like on the inside. I heard it was neglected for a lot of years even before Jock Blackwell died.”

Tracy was hoping to harvest her own juicy grapes. Charli hated nosy people and suspected anything she told this woman would end up all over town. Nevertheless, she had to give a little if she hoped to get a little. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly. “It’s in pretty bad shape, I’m afraid. Every day I live there, I find more needs fixing.”

Tracy motioned for her to move onto the swivel chair before the gilt-framed mirror. “What are you planning on doing with the ranch? You’re not married, are you? The house is so big.”

“No, I’m not married.” Nor would she ever be
.
She’d never trust a man with her heart again. Love didn’t exist in a man’s world, even when they professed it. They used those pretty words to get what they wanted from a woman, but they never gave any of themselves in return. She’d learned that too many times the hard way.

Biting back the bitterness, she repeated what was already public knowledge. “I want to get into the cattle business, possibly go organic eventually. I’ve done a lot of research on it, and there’s a big market overseas for organically grown beef.”

“Yeah, there is. If a rancher has the capital to put out, it’s the way to go. So, that’s why you moved to Colton?” Tracy didn’t sound convinced. “Your landlady told me you were going to college. You definitely know how to stay busy.”

Leave it to Aida Mae Pratt to share her personal information. Thank God, she hadn’t shared much with the elderly woman.

She’d play along. “I would say I know how to make sure I lose my mind.”

Tracy joined her in a laugh. “You’re taking social work, right? Whatever made you choose that field?”

No one knew of her other plans–the real reason she’d bought the ranch. How would the people of Colton feel about those plans?

Measuring her words carefully, she said, “I want to work with troubled teens someday by opening a halfway house or summer camp. You know, for teenage mothers or for girls who just can’t live at home anymore.”

“Wow, sounds ambitious.”

As Tracy finished combing out the tangles in her hair, Charli changed the subject. “So, how long have you lived in Colton?”

Tracy shrugged and reached for the scissors. “Since I was a teenager, but I consider Colton my hometown. I was born in England and lived all over. My father was an officer in the Army.”

“Did your brother join the Army because it’s the family tradition?”

She knew her question surprised Tracy by the way she paused in her work. “Partly. Dylan had hoped to inherit Oak Springs–not him exactly, our mother–but our grandfather decided to give it to his stepson. Dylan would have made a great rancher. He loves that kind of life. Going to the Army was the only other thing he could think of doing.”

“Oh.” She hadn’t been expecting Tracy’s straightforwardness, which made her suspicious. She remembered Mrs. Pratt’s comments about Dylan mooching off his sister. Did Tracy simply want to get him out of her house? “I’m still looking for a manager.”

Tracy scrunched her brows and concentrated on her hair. “I know. My brother applied for the job almost three weeks ago. You haven’t filled the position?”

“No, I haven’t filled it yet,” she said as Tracy worked with the scissors, snipping at her waist-length hair. “I drove by the house he built near Fort Hood. It’s beautiful.”

“It is. He built it after he and his wife were stationed in Italy for a while. I don’t know what you’ve heard about my brother, but he’s not really as bad as the rumors claim.”

“I spoke to Mr. Ferguson. He seemed surprised I interviewed him. He told me some of what happened to Dylan.”

Tracy stopped in mid-snip of her locks.

Charli winced. She hoped like hell the woman knew what she was doing
.
She hadn’t had her hair more than trimmed since she’d walked out of the Florence McClure Women’s Correctional Center in Nevada four and half years ago.

With her bottom lip caught between her teeth, Tracy looked at her. “Leon and Dylan don’t get along.”

“I’ve heard. Was the oil business also your grandfather’s?”

Tracy laughed, but it sounded a bit shaky. “My goodness, no. It came from Leon’s grandfather on his mother’s side. Leon changed the name and moved it to Dallas from Houston. Without having a son, Leon’s granddad taught him the business and left it to him. But my grandfather was a major stockholder in the company when he and his father-in-law were business partners.”

Tracy turned the chair until she faced her. As Tracy worked on the front of her hair, Charli looked up at the stylist. “What happened to Dylan?”

Tracy stopped cutting again and met her gaze. “He was in a bad situation in Afghanistan during his last deployment.”

“I know he was injured.” She remembered Leon’s comment about Dylan having comrades who had died in the bombing. “He has PTSD.”

His sister swallowed and nodded. “He’s not suicidal or dangerous.”

“He’s an alcoholic.”

Tracy stared at her. However, instead of confirming or denying the statement, she turned the tables on her. “I heard you lived in Las Vegas before moving in with your grandfather. Must have been something, growing up in Vegas. Are your parents still there?”

Her guts twisted into a frozen knot. How had anyone learned about her life in the city? Her life in Vegas was a closed book. No one could ever know what she’d done when she’d lived there. After finding her voice, she said, “No, my mother is dead.”