Must Love Cowboys (27 page)

“Way to go, Tina,” Angela said, now chuckling with genuine amusement. “This should be a very interesting evening.”

“No kidding.” It would be especially interesting seeing as how I hadn't even thought about what to fix for dinner.

If Monday night was pork chop night, Tuesday must be…

“Meat loaf,” I said aloud.

“Huh?”

“That's what we're having for dinner. Meat loaf with, um, mashed potatoes and onion gravy, and”—I was grasping at straws now—“peas and carrots.”

“Sounds great. What's for dessert?”

“Dessert?” I echoed in dismay. “Oh, bloody hell…” This might turn out to be the night when the sugar-free Jigglers finally made an appearance. Nick would forgive me. Eventually. “Don't worry. I'll think of something.”

“I'm sure you will.” Sighing, she added, “Meanwhile, back to the bookkeeping. I'm so far behind it isn't even funny. Thanks again for looking after Dad. I'm actually getting some work done today. It isn't so much that he's a lot of trouble, but I just…worry.”

“I know how that is,” I said. “I couldn't concentrate on much of anything wondering if Grandpa was up to something—especially after I caught him taking a pair of scissors to his PICC line.”

“That'd do it,” Angela agreed. “I haven't had to deal with that sort of thing yet.”

“I hope you never do. It…changes how you feel about someone you thought you knew. Makes you realize you never really knew them at all.” On that cheery note, I figured it was best to get back to less thought-provoking issues, such as the dessert menu. “Guess I'd better get started on dinner.”

“See you at six?”

“Sounds good.”

I hung up the phone wishing I'd told Duane to come back at eight instead of seven. An hour's worth of dinner-table discussion prior to his arrival didn't seem like much. I just hoped he didn't show up early.

In the end, I baked a cake. Delving more deeply into the pantry than ever, I managed to unearth a box of spice cake mix and some ready-made cream cheese frosting. God only knew how long it had been in there, but I couldn't imagine cake mix ever going bad, and after sampling the frosting, I deemed it safe to eat, if indeed such things ever are.

I was icing the cake when Calvin shuffled into the kitchen.

“Have a nice nap?”

“Yeah. I could get used to that,” he said. “Probably should've retired a long time ago.”

I wasn't completely sure how to answer that because after my chat with Duane, I suspected Calvin was about to retire in style, rather than having to scrimp and save to make ends meet. “Speaking of which, guess who was banging on the door when I got back from the main house?”

His brow rose. “Somebody named Duane?”

“You got it.” I scraped the last of the frosting from the tub and spread it on the cake. “Turns out his last name is Evans. He claims to have worked with Jeannine on her single mothers' support charity. Says she asked him to try to find you.”

“Well now, isn't that interesting.” His sarcastic tone mirrored my own feelings precisely.

“That's what I thought. He wouldn't tell me why, so I told him to come back at seven this evening. Figured it would be best for everyone to be here.”

“Just in case, you mean?”

“Yeah. Especially since he was trying to open the door when I spotted him.”

“Which you'd locked when you left, right?”

I nodded. “Although it would've been interesting to see what he would have done if the door had been open. Catching him red-handed would've been a nice touch—depending on what he had planned, of course.” I paused, licking a stray dab of frosting from the back of my hand. “What has me intrigued is his timing. He picked the one time you and Jack were alone in the bunkhouse.”

“Think he actually knew we were asleep?”

“Maybe. Even if he didn't, if he was watching from up on that ridge, he could have seen me leave and then hurried back to wherever he'd parked his car. I was up at the house for the better part of an hour—Angela gave me a tour of the place—so he would've had time. He was wearing a suit and tie, but I suppose he could've changed clothes before he drove up here.”

Calvin nodded in agreement. “Not the sort of outfit I'd want to wear clambering around on that ridge.”

“No, it isn't. A better detective would've paid more attention to his shoes—you know, to notice how dirty they were and such. Me, all I did was focus on not telling him anything.” I couldn't help but laugh. “If Duane really is who he says he is and has a legitimate reason for trying to find you, he'd probably freak if he had any idea what we suspect.”

“Might be best if we don't tell him that. Maybe we can catch him in a lie.”

“That's what I'm hoping. With all of us here asking questions, he's bound to be nervous.” I giggled again, realizing we had one of the most intimidating men to ever don a Stetson on our side. “We should let Wyatt do the talking. He'd probably scare the pants off him.”

“Good cop, bad cop?”

“You betcha.” That being said, the strategy session now seemed more important than ever. The trick would be to keep Bull from spilling the beans.

But then, Wyatt was also better at that than anyone else.

Among other things…

The problem would lie in deciding who should play the good cop role. Given my already adversarial treatment of our visitor, I doubted it would be me.

* * *

I had just picked up my spiffy new oven mitts to take the meat loaf out of the oven when a stealthy footstep behind me made me smile.

I know he's there without even turning around.

I could've called him on it, but opted to let the scene play out. Heat enveloped me. Strong arms surrounded me. Sensuous lips brushed my ear. A deep, purring “mmm…” sent a thrill racing toward my heart and every erogenous zone I possessed.

I sighed with utter contentment. “You know what happens when you pester the cook.”

“Hey, I caught you before you opened the oven, so I figure I'm safe.”

The mere sound of his voice eased the tension in my neck and shoulders—tension I hadn't realized was there until it was gone. And to think, this man had turned me into a bundle of nerves when we first met.

My, how times change…

I was beginning to understand the change in him as well as myself. He'd even said the word a moment ago. Safe. Not only was there passion between us, but a sense of belonging—that safe port in a storm where nothing could harm either of us as long as we were together. I would keep him from dwelling on the past while he kept me from worrying about the future. I wondered if that was what love was: finding that certain someone who could take your worst nightmare and turn it into pleasant dreams.

“How was your day?” I asked. “Cattle and horses and fences behave themselves?”

“For the most part,” he replied. “But from what Calvin tells me, your day was more eventful.”

“No kidding. Boy, do we have a lot to talk about over dinner.”

“Over dinner, hell. The summit meeting has already started. Calvin and Jack were hashing over the story when we came in.” He turned me around in his embrace. “How about you? You okay?”

“I was a little shaken afterward, but I'm all right now.”

The hug he gave me lingered long enough to show his concern. “Sounds like you did a good job of thinking on your feet. I'm really glad you told him to come back later.”

I shuddered slightly. “I wasn't about to let him in the bunkhouse. Especially after Ophelia growled at him.”

“Her testimony alone should be enough to convict him.”

Despite the way his comment might've sounded to a casual observer, Wyatt didn't appear to be kidding.

Yet another point in his favor.

“He asked me if she would attack him, which gave me the perfect excuse to warn him to keep his distance.” I was just glad he hadn't been waving a gun around—not that he'd struck me as that type of villain. Devious and underhanded, perhaps, but not blatantly violent. Prior to his illness, Calvin had spent a good deal of time alone in the bunkhouse kitchen. A determined gunman could've barged right in and shot him dead with no witnesses and very little interference.

On that rather unsettling thought, I pulled Wyatt down for a kiss only a moment before Dean and Nick sauntered into the kitchen.

“Just have to rub it in, don't you?” Dean teased as he picked up a stack of plates.

“Hey, dude, timing is everything,” Nick said. “They can kiss all they want as long as I get fed.” His hands flew to his mouth. “Holy cow. She baked a cake.” Appearing somewhat dazed, he picked up the bowl of mashed potatoes and headed toward the mess hall, shaking his head. “She baked a fuckin' cake.”

I glanced at Wyatt for enlightenment.

“Um, cake is a pretty rare commodity around here,” he said.

“I can't imagine why. It's a lot easier than making a pie.” I'd made a sheet cake from a mix, for heaven's sake. It wasn't like I'd baked a six-layer confection from scratch.

Go figure.

“Here, let me get that,” Wyatt said as I opened the oven door.

“Thanks.” I handed him the oven mitts, recalling another time when he'd simply assumed the task and had snatched the pot holders right out of my hands. I didn't mind it now. He was being helpful—and bless him, I didn't even have to ask.

Lifting the pan of sizzling meat loaf, he inhaled deeply. “Smells great.”

“You're not fooling me, Wyatt McCabe,” I said with a slow wag of my head. “You just wanted the first sniff.”

“You caught me,” he said, chuckling. “Although to be honest, we all smelled it as soon as we came through the back door.”

“Nice.” I shooed him out of the kitchen, then poured the peas and carrots into a bowl, which I handed to Sonny as he came in to lend a hand.

“I see Nick wasn't kidding,” he said. “You really did bake a cake.”

“And it isn't even your birthday,” I quipped. “Lucky you.”

“Lucky us, you mean. We never have cake.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said with a dismissive wave. “So I've heard.”

I took up the gravy, marveling at how easy it was to make a bunch of cowboys happy—unless they were laying it on thick to discourage me from serving up canned pork and beans for dinner. Then again, they'd never had my beans and ham with cornbread before—a menu idea that brought to mind the “campfire scene” from
Blazing Saddles
, along with a serious bout of the giggles.

Bull stopped short in the doorway. “What's so damned funny?”

I handed him the gravy, biting my lip to keep from laughing. His quizzical expression added to the fact that I could easily picture him as one of the cowboys in that scene triggered an explosion of hysteria I couldn't even begin to control.

Bull stared at me for a long time before doing an abrupt about-face and heading back to the mess hall.

“Wyatt, you need to take her out on a date or something,” Bull said, his loud, ringing tones clearly audible from the kitchen. “Big-city woman like that stuck out here in the middle of Bumfuck, Wyoming… I think she's gone stir-crazy.”

* * *

Dinner was a rousing success, despite our preoccupation with real or imagined crimes. After I'd related the afternoon's events to the gang at large, Wyatt was the unanimous choice for the bad cop role, and it didn't take us long to decide who should be the good cop.

“Gotta be Angela,” Dusty said with absolute conviction. “I mean, look at her.”

He was right. With her long dark braids, big brown eyes, and sweet smile, she was the epitome of the kid-sister/girl-next-door-who-wouldn't-hurt-a-fly type. Plus, she'd already proven her concern for Calvin by being the one to stay with him at the hospital. If anyone would encourage him to accept his inheritance, it would be her.

We had almost finished dessert when headlights flashed in the mess hall window.

“Here we go,” Angela said. “Now remember. To start off with, we're gonna let him do the talking. Glare at him all you like, but hear him out.”

Nick answered the door and showed him in.

Not surprisingly, Duane seemed a tad nervous, especially after Ophelia growled at him, although finding a lot more people in the room than he'd expected might've had more to do with his mood.

As rattled as I'd been when I'd first seen him, I hadn't noticed what an attractive fellow he was. Tall, dark-haired, and urbane in appearance, he didn't seem like the type to be out cutting fences and spying on us from the eastern ridge—although he was just the sort of man who could charm an elderly widow.

His gaze swept the room as he took a seat in the chair Nick indicated, touching briefly on Jack before finally settling on Calvin. “Mr. Douglas?” he asked. “Calvin Douglas?”

Calvin nodded. “That's right. And who might you be?”

I pressed my lips together, stifling a smile. Apparently Calvin didn't intend to let Wyatt have all the fun playing bad cop. Or maybe he was simply the justifiably terse would-be victim—a part he could easily play without a script or any coaching.

I met the questioning glance Duane shot at me with a suitably blank expression. He probably had me pegged as a real bitch for withholding what little information he'd passed on to me, but I was okay with that.

He turned toward Calvin again. “My name is Duane Evans,” he said. “I was a friend of your sister, Jeannine Caruthers.”

Calvin leaned back in his chair, his jaw set and his lips pressed in a firm line, fixing Duane with a steely-eyed glare. “Go on.”

Duane let out a fair imitation of a regretful sigh. “I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Mr. Douglas, but Jeannine died of a heart attack this past January. Her death wasn't unexpected—she hadn't been doing well for several months—and she asked me to try to locate you. She said she regretted the estrangement between the two of you and wanted to make amends.”

“That's nice,” Calvin said. “Been nicer if you'd found me before she died.”

“Well, you see, sir, that was something of a problem. Jeannine had no idea where you might be or even if you were still living. Anyway, that's why I'm here. To offer her apologies and to tell you that she named you as her heir.”

Calvin rubbed a hand slowly across his chin. “And if you hadn't found me? Where would the money have gone then?”

“To charity,” Duane replied. “Jeannine was very interested in support for single mothers. In fact, that's how I met her.” Smiling, he seemed to relax slightly. “She would've been very happy to know I'd found you, Mr. Douglas. She seemed very determined for you to inherit her assets.” His gaze focused on me for the space of a heartbeat or two, obviously annoyed that I hadn't shared his sob story about being raised by a single parent with anyone—a story I was finding harder to believe with each passing moment. “Although to be honest, I was hoping the money would wind up going to the foundation.”

“And when would that have been?” Calvin asked.

“If you hadn't come forward or been located within two years of her death, her entire estate would have reverted to the foundation.”

If Duane had kept quiet and waited, he probably would've gotten his wish, eventually. Still, two years was a long time, and if the foundation was in dire need of funds, Jeannine's request had left him with quite a dilemma. I wondered why he'd even bothered to look for Calvin. After all, a promise made to a dying woman wasn't exactly a binding contract. I hated to admit it, but perhaps he was actually telling the truth.

I waited for the guys to chime in with their two cents' worth—Bull in particular. I couldn't believe he was keeping quiet.