Lone Star Winter (16 page)

 

To Amy in Alabama

L
ibby Collins couldn't figure out why her stepmother, Janet, had called a real estate agent out to the house. Her father had only been dead for a few weeks. The funeral was so fresh in her mind that she cried herself to sleep at night. Her brother, Curt, was equally devastated. Riddle Collins had been a strong, happy, intelligent man who'd never had a serious illness. He had no history of heart trouble. So his death of a massive heart attack had been a real shock. In fact, the Collinses' nearest neighbor, rancher Jordan Powell, said it was suspicious. But then, Jordan thought everything was suspicious. He thought the government was building cloned soldiers in some underground lab.

Libby ran a small hand through her wavy black hair, her light green eyes scanning the horizon for a sight of her brother. But Curt was probably up to his ears in watching over the births of early spring cattle, far in the northern pasture of the Powell ranch. It was just barely April and the heifers, the two-year-old first-time mothers, were beginning to drop their calves right on schedule. There was little hope that Curt would show up before the real estate agent left.

Around the corner of the house, Libby heard the real estate agent speaking. She moved closer, careful to keep out of sight, to see what was going on. Her father had loved his small ranch, as his children did. It had been in their family almost as long as Jordan Powell's family had owned the Bar P.

“How long will it take to find a buyer?” Janet was asking.

“I can't really say, Mrs. Collins,” the man replied. “But Jacobsville is growing by leaps and bounds. There are plenty of new families looking for reasonable housing. I think a subdivision here would be perfectly situated and I can guarantee you that any developer would pay top dollar for it.”

Subdivision? Surely she must be hearing things!

But Janet's next statement put an end to any such suspicion. “I want to sell it as soon as possible,” Janet
continued firmly. “I have the insurance money in hand. As soon as this sale is made, I'm moving out of the country.”

Another shattering revelation! Why was her stepmother in such a hurry? Her husband of barely nine months had just died, for heaven's sake!

“I'll do what I can, Mrs. Collins,” the real estate agent assured her. “But you must understand that the housing market is depressed right now and I can't guarantee a sale—as much as I'd like to.”

“Very well,” Janet said curtly. “But keep me informed of your progress, please.”

“Certainly.”

Libby ran for it, careful not to let herself be seen. Her heart was beating her half to death. She'd wondered at Janet's lack of emotion when her father died. Now her mind was forming unpleasant associations.

She stood in the shadows of the front porch until she heard the real estate agent drive away. Janet left immediately thereafter in her Mercedes.

Libby's mind was whirling. She needed help. Fortunately, she knew exactly where to go to get it.

She walked down the road toward Jordan Powell's big Spanish-style ranch house. The only transportation Libby had was a pickup truck, which was in the shop today having a water pump replaced. It was a long
walk to the Powell ranch, but Libby needed fortifying to tackle her stepmother. Jordan was just the person to put steel in her backbone.

It took ten minutes to walk to the paved driveway that led through white fences to the ranch house. But it took another ten minutes to walk from the end of the driveway to the house. On either side of the fence were dark red-coated Santa Gertrudis cattle, purebred seed stock, which were the only cattle Jordan kept. One of his bulls was worth over a million dollars. He had a whole separate division that involved artificial insemination and the care of a special unit where sperm were kept. Libby had been fascinated to know that a single straw of bull semen could sell for a thousand dollars, or much more if it came from a prize bull who was dead. Jordan sold those straws to cattle ranchers all over the world. He frequently had visitors from other countries who came to tour his mammoth cattle operation. Like the Tremayne brothers, Cy Parks, and a number of other local ranchers, he was heavily into organic ranching. He used no hormones or dangerous pesticides or unnecessary antibiotics on his seed stock, even though they were never sold for beef. The herd sires he kept on the ranch lived in a huge breeding barn—as luxurious as a modern hotel—that was on property just adjacent to the Collinses' land. It was so
close that they could hear the bulls bellowing from time to time.

Jordan was a local success story, the sort men liked to tell their young sons about. He started out as a cowboy long before he ever had cattle of his own. He'd grown up the only child of a former debutante and a hobby farmer. His father had married the only child of wealthy parents, who cut her off immediately when she announced her marriage. They left her only the property that Jordan now owned. His father's drinking cost him almost everything. When he wasn't drinking, he made a modest living with a few head of cattle, but after the sudden death of Jordan's mother, he withdrew from the world. Jordan was left with a hard decision to make. He took a job as a ranch hand on Duke Wright's palatial ranch and in his free time he went the rounds of the professional rodeo circuit. He was a champion bull rider, with the belt buckles and the cash to prove it.

But instead of spending that cash on good times, he'd paid off the mortgage that his father had taken on the ranch. Over the years he'd added a purebred Santa Gertrudis bull and a barn, followed by purebred heifers. He'd studied genetics with the help of a nearby retired rancher and he'd learned how to buy straws of bull semen and have his heifers artificially
inseminated. His breeding program gave him the opportunity to enter his progeny in competition, which he did. Awards starting coming his way and so did stud fees for his bull. It had been a long road to prosperity, but he'd managed it, despite having to cope with an alcoholic father who eventually got behind the wheel of a truck and plowed it into a telephone pole. Jordan was left alone in the world. Well, except for women. He sure seemed to have plenty of those, to hear her brother, Curt, talk.

Libby loved the big dusty-yellow adobe ranch house Jordan had built two years ago, with its graceful arches and black wrought-iron grillwork. There was a big fountain in the front courtyard, where Jordan kept goldfish and huge koi that came right up out of the water to look at visitors. It even had a pond heater, to keep the fish alive all winter. It was a dream of a place. It would have been just right for a family. But everybody said that Jordan Powell would never get married. He liked his freedom too much.

She went up to the front door and rang the doorbell. She knew how she must look in her mud-stained jeans and faded T-shirt, her boots caked in mud, like her denim jacket. She'd been helping the lone part-time worker on their small property pull a calf. It was a dirty business, something her pristine stepmother
would never have done. Libby still missed her father. His unexpected death had been a horrible blow to Curt and Libby, who were only just getting used to Riddle Collins's new wife.

No sooner was Riddle buried than Janet fought to get her hands on the quarter-of-a-million-dollar insurance policy he'd left behind, of which she alone was listed as beneficiary. She'd started spending money the day the check had arrived, with no thought for unpaid bills and Riddle's children. They were healthy and able to work, she reasoned. Besides, they had a roof over their heads. Temporarily, at least. Janet's long talk with the real estate agent today was disquieting. Riddle's new will, which his children knew nothing about, had given Janet complete and sole ownership of the house as well as Riddle's comfortable but not excessive savings account. Or so Janet said. Curt was furious. Libby hadn't said anything. She missed her father so much. She felt as if she were still walking around in a daze and it was almost March. A windy, cold almost-March, at that, she thought, feeling the chill.

She was frowning when the door opened. She jumped involuntarily when instead of the maid, Jordan Powell himself opened it.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked coldly. “Your
brother's not here. He's supervising some new fencing up on the north property.

“Well?” he asked impatiently when she didn't speak immediately. “I've got things to do and I'm late already!”

He was so dashing, she thought privately. He was thirty-two, very tall, lean and muscular, with liquid black eyes and dark, wavy hair. He had a strong, masculine face that was dark from exposure to the sun and big ears and big feet. But he was handsome. Too handsome.

“Are you mute?” he persisted, scowling.

She shook her head, sighing. “I'm just speechless. You really are a dish, Jordan,” she drawled.

“Will you please tell me what you want?” he grumbled. “And if it's a date, you can go right back home. I don't like being chased by women. I know you can't keep your eyes off me, but that's no excuse to come sashaying up to my front door looking for attention.”

“Fat chance,” she drawled, her green eyes twinkling up at him. “If I want a man, I'll try someone accessible, like a movie star or a billionaire….”

“I said I'm in a hurry,” he prompted.

“Okay. If you don't want to talk to me…” she began.

He let out an impatient sigh. “Come in, then,” he
muttered, looking past her. “Hurry, before you get trampled by the other hopeful women chasing me.”

“That would be a short list,” she told him as she went in and waited until he closed the door behind him. “You're famous for your bad manners. You aren't even housebroken.”

“I beg your pardon?” he said curtly.

She grinned at him. “Your boots are full of red mud and so's that fabulously expensive wool rug you brought back from Morocco,” she pointed out. “Amie's going to kill you when she sees that.”

“My aunt only lives here when she hasn't got someplace else to go,” he pointed out.

“Translated, that means that she's in hiding. Why are you mad at her this time?” she asked.

He gave her a long-suffering stare and sighed. “Well, she wanted to redo my bedroom. Put yellow curtains at the windows. With ruffles.” He spat out the word. “She thinks it's too depressing because I like dark wood and beige curtains.”

She lifted both eyebrows over laughing eyes. “You could paint the room red….”

He glared down at her. “I said women chased me, not that I brought them home in buckets,” he replied.

“My mistake. Who was it last week, Senator Mer
rill's daughter, and before her, the current Miss Jacobs County…?”

“That wasn't my fault,” he said haughtily. “She stood in the middle of the parking lot at that new Japanese place and refused to move unless I let her come home with me.” Then he grinned.

She shook her head. “You're impossible.”

“Come on, come on, what do you want?” He looked at his watch. “I've got to meet your brother at the old line cabin in thirty minutes to help look over those pregnant heifers.” He lifted an eyebrow and his eyes began to shimmer. They ran up and down her slender figure. “Maybe I could do you justice in fifteen minutes….”

She struck a pose. “Nobody's sticking me in between roundup and supper,” she informed him. “Besides, I'm abstaining indefinitely.”

He put a hand over his heart. “As God is my witness, I never asked your brother to tell you that Bill Paine had a social disease…”

“I am not sweet on Bill Paine!” she retorted.

“You were going to Houston with him to a concert that wasn't being given that night and I knew that Bill had an apartment and a bad reputation with women,” he replied with clenched lips. “So I just happened to mention to one of my cowhands, who was
standing beside your brother, that Bill Paine had a social disease.”

She was aghast, just standing there gaping at his insolence. Curt had been very angry about her accepting a date with rich, blond Bill, who was far above them in social rank. Bill had been a client of Blake Kemp's, where he noticed Libby and started flirting with her. After Curt had told her what he overheard about Bill, she'd cancelled the date. She was glad she did. Later she'd learned that Bill had made a bet with one of his pals that he could get Libby anytime he wanted her, despite her standoffish pose.

“Of course, I don't have any social diseases,” Jordan said, his deep voice dropping an octave. He checked his watch again. “Now it's down to ten minutes, if we hurry.”

She threw up her hands. “Listen, I can't possibly be seduced today, I've got to go to the grocery store. What I came to tell you is that Janet's selling the property to a developer. He wants to put a subdivision on it,” she added miserably.

“A what?” he exploded. “A subdivision? Next door to my breeding barn?” His eyes began to burn. “Like hell she will!”

“Great. You want to stop her, too. Do you have some strong rope?”

“This is serious,” he replied gravely. “What the hell is she doing, selling your home out from under you? Surely Riddle didn't leave her the works! What about you and Curt?”

“She says we're young and can support ourselves,” she said, fighting back frustration and fury.

He didn't say anything. His silence was as eloquent as shouting. “She's not evicting you. You go talk to Kemp.”

“I work for Mr. Kemp,” she reminded him.

He frowned. “Which begs the question, why aren't you at work?”

She sighed. “Mr. Kemp's gone to a bar association conference in Florida,” she explained. “He said I could have two vacation days while he's gone, since Mabel and Violet were going to be there in case the attorney covering his practice needed anything.” She glowered at him. “I don't get much time off.”

“Indeed you don't,” he agreed. “Blake Kemp is a busy attorney, for a town the size of Jacobsville. You do a lot of legwork for him, don't you?”