Colton Cowboy Protector. Beth Cornelison
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away, his gait brisk and confident, and disappeared into the crowd of guests.
When the doorbell sounded a few seconds later, Tracy was still standing in the foyer, gaping at the spot in the mingling crowd where the devilishly handsome but curt cowboy had joined the soirée. A woman wearing a housekeeper’s uniform and her silver hair twisted up in a bun scurried out from a side door and balked when she saw Tracy.
“For Pete’s sake, don’t just stand there, girl!” The older woman flapped her thin hands as if to shoo her out of the entry hall. “There are guests to serve and drinks to be poured. Get busy! Don’t make me report you to the catering company.”
Tracy gave a self-conscious chuckle. “I’m not with the caterers. I’m looking for—”
The woman jostled her out of the way to open the front door. Tracy’s opportunity to ask for directions was lost as the housekeeper greeted the arriving guests with enthusiastic smiles and hospitality.
Rather than continue to stand at the door like a bump on a log, Tracy sidled into the living room. She clutched her messenger bag close to her body to avoid jostling anyone or knocking over one of the numerous champagne flutes resting on trays in the exquisitely furnished room. Dressed in basic khakis and a simple print blouse the same caramel color as her hair, she noted that she was underdressed for whatever event the Coltons were celebrating. Feeling all the more out of place, and hoping to camouflage herself against the French-vanilla walls, she began inching her way through the clusters of guests.
Maybe she should just leave. Clearly, now was not the time to approach Jack. She was an uninvited interloper at a high-society event. She didn’t belong. Story of her life.
Sighing with resignation, she’d started weaving her way back toward the front door when a large, boisterous man with a thick shock of silver hair caught her arm. “Hey, little darlin’. Whatcha doin’?”
Busted.
“I—I’m sorry. I was just leaving...”
“Leaving? Hell, darlin’, the party’s just getting started good.”
She recognized the green eyes that flashed at her with mirth. Tall, Dark and Surly’s eyes had mesmerized her with the same bright emerald shade, and the gruff cowboy could be this flirtatious gentleman in thirty years...if he added this man’s playful smile.
“Why is your hand empty? You should have a glass of bubbly. This is a celebration, darlin’!” He snagged a glass of champagne off a passing tray and shoved it at her. “Bottoms up!”
“Oh, I’m not—” She stopped short as she realized who this animated man was. She’d seen his picture when she’d researched the Lucky C on Google before coming to Oklahoma. “You’re Big J! I mean...J-John Colton.”
Though John laughed and nodded amiably, she felt her cheeks heat with embarrassment. Great. She’d just called one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in the ranching industry—heck, in all of the United States’ agribusiness—by his nickname. Way to make a good first impression...
“Yes, I am, darlin’. Yes, I am.” He took a step back and gave her a slow once-over that brought the stinging flush back to her cheeks. “And who might you be? I believe I’d remember meeting you, if I’d ever had the pleasure.”
“Tracy McCain. I’m actually here to speak to Jack. Can you point me toward him?”
“I could, but...I’m still enjoying your company.” The older man winked. “Besides, Jack is probably hiding somewhere until time for the announcement.”
“Announcement?”
Big J gave her a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look. “Greta’s engagement. That’s why we’re all here lifting a glass.”
“Oh.” Tracy fumbled for anything Laura might have told her about Greta.
But Big J seemed oblivious to her mental catch-up and helped her out by adding, “It’s not every day a daddy gets to toast his only daughter getting hitched, so we went all out for my Greta.”
Only daughter...of course. Greta was Jack’s sister. The youngest of the Colton children. Tracy smiled and raised the glass John had foisted on her. “Well, here’s to Greta.”
“To Greta!” Big J clinked his glass with hers, so hard the contents of both drinks sloshed out.
Without warning, he gave a shrill whistle, startling Tracy so much that a shot of adrenaline raced through her, tripping her pulse.
“Brett! C’mere, son.” Big J waved someone over, and a tall, athletic-looking man with short brown hair separated himself from a circle of cloying women and strutted across the room.
Tracy goggled as he approached. Dear God, did the Coltons have an account at hunkycowboys.com? She had yet to meet one who didn’t look as if he’d walked off the pages of a hot-ranch-hands catalog.
Big J put his hand on Brett’s shoulder when he reached them, and jerked his glass toward Tracy. “Brett, my boy. This lovely filly is Tracy McCann.”
“Um...McCain.”
“I am going to leave her in your good hands,” Big J continued, as if he hadn’t heard her correction. “She’s looking for Jack. But before she talks to your brother, I think she needs something to eat.”
“No, really, I’m not here to eat. I just need to speak to Jack.” Tracy’s stomach chose that inopportune moment to growl. Thankfully, the din of the party conversation and background country music muffled the sound.
Brett took her hand and, rather than shaking it, merely left his fingers wrapped warmly around hers as he gave her a smile that twinkled in his trademark Colton-green eyes. “My dad’s right. You don’t want to meet my brother on an empty stomach. Besides, the brisket is so tender it will melt in your mouth. Follow me.”
He tugged her hand as he led the way out to the pool, where a small acoustic band was playing the country tunes she’d heard inside. Brett steered her to a buffet table piled high with beef brisket, rolls, fresh fruit, veggies and dips, cheeses of all types, and an array of the most sumptuous-looking desserts Tracy had ever seen. Her mouth watered, and she decided it would be a good idea to have at least a little something to eat. She and Brett both picked up plates and started down the buffet. “Wow!”
He chuckled. “I know, right? Abra knows how to put out a spread, huh?” He used the tongs from a tray of cheeses to pile sliced beef and bite-size meat pastries onto Tracy’s plate. When melodic laughter drifted to them from a small group by the desserts, he called, “Hey, Ryan, save some of those brownies for the rest of us.”
“You snooze, you lose,” a muscular man with telltale green eyes marking him as another Colton quipped. “Greta said I could have hers.”
The brunette woman beside Ryan elbowed him. “I said you could have mine, not the rest of the tray!”
Brett hitched his head toward the group. “Tracy, have you met this crew? My brother, Detective Ryan Colton of the Tulsa PD, and of course, the honorees, my baby sister, Greta, and her fiancé, Mark You-Better-Be-Good-to-Her-or-I’ll-Kick-Your-Ass Stanton.”
The russet-haired man next to Greta laughed as he offered his hand to Tracy. Brett’s face sobered, and he gave Mark a squinty-eyed glare. “I’m not joking, man.”
Greta shoved her brother’s shoulder. “Brett, stop trying to intimidate my fiancé, you big goof.”
Brett grinned broadly. “Yeah, okay.” But when Mark smiled in relief, Brett blanked his face again in an instant and raised an eyebrow. “But I mean it.”
“I already warned Mark that I know a hundred ways to kill a man and hide the body without being caught,” Ryan deadpanned.
Tracy gave Mark a sympathetic look. “Tough gig, marrying into a family with this much testosterone.”
“Yeah,”