Lone Star Winter. Diana Palmer
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way into the ramshackle house. “He thought a woman’s place was in the kitchen, period. I’d much rather be working in the garden or doctoring cattle than cooking stuff.”
“Can you cook?”
“Breads and meats and vegetables,” she said. “Not with genius, but it’s mostly edible.”
She poured black coffee into a mug and handed it to him. When she sat down across the table from him, he noticed the dark, deep circles under her eyes.
“You aren’t sleeping much, are you?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’m still halfway in shock, I guess. Married and widowed and pregnant, and all in less than two months. That would be enough to unsettle most women.”
“I imagine so.” He sipped his coffee. She made the decaf strong and it tasted pretty good. He studied her narrowly. “You haven’t had any more problems at night, have you?”
“None at all, thanks.” She smiled. “And thank you for having my car fixed. I guess if people are going to own old cars, they need to be rich or know a lot about mechanics.”
“They do,” he agreed. “But I’ll keep your little tin can on the road.”
“It’s not a tin can,” she said. “It’s a very nice little foreign car with an—” she searched for the right words “—eccentric personality.”
“Runs when it feels like it,” he translated.
She glared at him. “At least I don’t have to have a ladder to get into it.”
He smiled. “Remind me to have a step put on just for you.”
She didn’t reply, but that statement made her feel warm and safe. God knew why. She was certain he wasn’t really going to modify his vehicle just for her. She’d only been in it once.
“Do you like opera?” he asked out of the blue.
She blinked. “Well, yes…”
“Turandot?”
“I like anything Puccini composed. Why?”
“It’s playing in Houston. I thought we might go.”
She pinched her jean-clad leg under the table to see if she was dreaming. It felt like it, but the pain was real. She smiled stupidly. “I’d really like that.” Then her face fell. She moved restlessly and averted her eyes. “Better not, I guess.”
“You don’t have to wear an evening gown to the opera these days,” he said, as if he’d actually read her mind. He smiled when her eyes came up abruptly to meet his. “I’ve seen students go in jeans. I imagine you have a Sunday dress somewhere.”
“I do.” She laughed nervously. “How did you know I was worried about clothes?”
“I read minds,” he mused.
She sighed. “In that case, I’d love to go. Thank you.”
He finished his coffee. “Friday night, then. I’ll go round up Harley and see what he knows about your place.” He got up, hesitating. “Listen, there are some things going on around here. I don’t want to frighten you, but Lopez has men in and around town. I want you to keep your doors locked and be careful about strangers.”
“I always am,” she assured him.
“Do you keep a gun?”
She grinned. “No. I have Puppy Dog.”
“Puppy Dog will get under a bed if there’s trouble,” he assured her flatly. “I’ve still got Nels staying in the bunkhouse at night, and he’s armed. All you have to do is yell. He’ll hear you. He’s a very light sleeper.”
“You can’t be sure that Mr. Lopez means me harm.”
“I’m not. But I’m a cautious man.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll keep both eyes out for trouble.”
“I’ll pick you up Friday night about five. Okay?”
She nodded. “I’ll be ready.” She went with him to the front door and stood behind the screened door to study him, frowning. “Cy, is it too soon for this?”
“Because you’ve been a widow such a short time?” He shook his head. “I know you miss Walt. I’m not offering anything heavy, just a trip to the opera. It’s very unlikely that we’ll see anybody who knows us in Houston.”
“I guess you’re right.” She folded both arms around herself. “The walls are beginning to close in on me.”
“I don’t doubt it. A night at the opera isn’t exactly a cause for gossip.”
“Of course not.” She smiled. “I’ll see you Friday, then. And…thanks.”
“I get lonely, too,” he said with surprising candor. He gave her one last grin and walked out to find Harley.
His foreman was tight-lipped as he came striding out of the barn. When Harley forgot to be irritating, he was a cowboy and a half. Most of the men walked wide of him in a temper already. “The whole damned place is about to fall to pieces,” he said without preamble. “The hay hasn’t been cut, the corn hasn’t been put in the silo, there are breaks in half the fences, the calves don’t even have a brand…. What the hell kind of men did Mrs. Monroe hire?”
“Lazy ones, apparently,” Cy said tightly. “Find them and put them all on notice. Lisa’s selling me the place. We’ll put on four new men to work this ranch and share chores with my own.”
“That’s a wise decision on her part,” Harley said. “She doesn’t seem to know much about the business end of cattle ranching.”
“Her father thought women weren’t smart enough to learn it,” Cy mused.
“What an idiot,” Harley replied. “My mother can brand cattle right along with the cowboys, and she keeps the books for Dad.”
“A lot of women are big-time ranchers, too,” Cy agreed. “But Lisa doesn’t really have the knack, or the love, for it. Cattle ranching is hard work even if you do.”
Harley nodded. “I’ll put her part-timers on notice and get the boys over here with a tractor and a combine to hay those fields and harvest the corn.”
“When you get that organized,” Cy said, “I want to know what you saw over at the honey warehouse last night.”
“Not much,” Harley had to admit. “And I got challenged on your land by a man with a rifle. Good thing there was a cow down in the pasture for me to show him,” he added with a grin. “I told him we had a problem with locoweed and offered to show him where it grew. He went back on his side of the fence and didn’t say another word.”
“That was a stroke of luck,” Cy remarked. “Because we don’t have any locoweed.”
“We do now,” Harley murmured. “I set out a couple of plants and netted them, just in case I get challenged again. Now that I have a legitimate reason to be out there, they won’t pay much attention to me. And if they go looking for locoweed,” he added with a mocking smile, “why, they’ll find it, won’t they?”
Cy smiled at the younger man. “You’re a treasure, Harley.”
“Glad you noticed, boss, and how about that raise?”
“Don’t push your luck,” came the dry reply. “I’ll talk to you later.”
“Sure thing.”
Cy drove to the lawyer’s office the next morning to discuss the land buy. Blake Kemp was tall, thirtyish, with a gray streak in his black, wavy hair, and pale blue eyes. He was the terror of the Jacobsville court circuit, although he looked mild-mannered and intelligent. Deceptive,