A Texan Returns. Victoria Chancellor
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asked with a big grin as she parked her car in front of the bank on the corner.
“Wyatt, what devilment do you have planned this time?” First National’s president, George Russell, called out from the bank’s entrance, chuckling and waving as Wyatt, Toni, Cassie and Louisa walked past. Good thing the citizens of Brody’s Crossing only knew about a few of his misdeeds. The tip of the iceberg, so to speak.
They crossed Main Street and headed to the city administration building on the opposite corner. Hopefully, this meeting would be quick. He’d get his sentence and get this ordeal over with. He had no intention of doing anything to give the citizens of Brody’s Crossing any new fodder for gossip. He was a changed man, an adult.
Well, most of the time, anyway.
He got his assignment from a rather apologetic city manager. Decorate the community center lawn for the holidays, using some existing decorations. In return, in Wyatt’s honor, city officials were moving the annual chili dinner to the same weekend as the parade. They wanted him to make a few comments and attend the dinner, and then he was free to go back to California.
The new police chief—Daniel Montoya, according to the name tag and introduction—said very little. After all, this wasn’t a police matter. This wasn’t even a court matter any longer. As long as he didn’t get into any more trouble, Wyatt and the police chief wouldn’t have any reason to see each other except over a bowl of chili next weekend.
“That should give you some good opportunities for PR photos,” Toni told Louisa, then looked at him as if it were his idea to play up his return to town. Hell, if it hadn’t been for Toni blabbing to the reporter, no one would have known about the time long ago that he’d publicly shown his school spirit.
He agreed to the community center project, smiled and shook hands, then stalked back to the H2. He’d decorate the community center as it had never been decorated before. He’d show Toni Casale that he could be a model citizen, even when technically he didn’t need to do a single thing.
“Buckle up,” he told Cassie and Louisa as he pulled out of the parking space, heading around the block and back south toward their home for the next week or so.
“Do you have directions?” Cassie asked, glancing at the GPS installed in the H2.
“I know where we’re going without satellite assistance,” he told her. After all, he’d lived here for eighteen years. Although some new businesses had opened recently, most of the structures were the same, he noticed as they drove east on Main Street, just a couple of blocks from downtown.
Wyatt could have stayed with his parents, but since Cassie and Louisa were here also, he’d opted for the renovated Sweet Dreams Motel. The place looked much better now than he’d remembered from his youth, he thought as he pulled into the newly asphalted lot.
His parents had always referred to the place as “that rattrap” and made disparaging remarks about the people who stayed there. Transients and riffraff, they’d said. To Wyatt, the folks had looked more like hourly workers and poor visitors. Once, he’d ridden his bicycle over to see who was really there. He’d accidentally seen the former chief of police come out of one of the rooms, followed by a woman who wasn’t his wife.
That had started Wyatt’s brushes with the law. The old chief of police had never forgotten the nosy kid from the wealthiest family in town. The new chief, Montoya, seemed like an upstanding guy who wanted no part of the limelight. Smart man.
Wyatt parked between crisply painted white lines, then they went into the office. Before long they had their room keys and headed down the walkway that led to the ten or so doorways.
“So, your room looks comfortable,” Wyatt commented as he deposited Louisa’s suitcase in her room. She’d told him that each room was different. The one she’d chosen was sort of Hollywood glam, with old black-and-white movie-star photos and movie posters from the 1950s. The bedspread was silvery satin, the kind that you could imagine slipping off of at the worst possible time. A shiny aluminum Christmas tree sparkled with pink lights and black ornaments.
“My room is Old West,” Cassie said, poking her head in the doorway. “It is soooo Texas.”
Wyatt smiled. Neither of his employees had ever visited Texas before, so he doubted they knew much about what was authentic and what had been manufactured by Hollywood. He left Louisa’s suitcase on her floor and walked next door to Cassie’s room. Sure enough, there was knotty pine paneling, chunky wood furniture and an artificial pine Christmas tree with handcrafted ornaments. A vintage-looking red-and-black blanket covered the double bed.
“Were you a cowboy growing up?” Cassie asked, looking at a Remington reproduction print of cowboys racing after a stampede.
“No, not really, but I can ride a horse.” Although his parents owned a ranch, Wyatt didn’t know much about cattle. Most of his life, there had been more oil than cattle production on the acres. Plus, his parents had always said he was destined for bigger things than running a ranch.
He’d never thought that there was anything wrong with running a ranch, although the idea of doing only that day after day made him itchy. He needed new challenges. He’d always been drawn to technology more than nature.
“I’d love to ride a horse while we’re here,” Cassie said. “I rode a pony when I was a child.”
“That’s all? You’ve never gone riding since then?”
“No.” She grimaced again, and he couldn’t tell if there was a good story or a bad one behind the single-word answer. He hadn’t spent a lot of time around her, since she reported to Brian Peters, his jack-of-all-trades assistant. Brian was back in California, running interference between the new foundation director and Wyatt’s continuing business interests. Cassie had seemed a good fit for the short trip to Texas because he needed someone to handle things that Brian usually tackled.
“We’ll go out to the ranch. Or if my parents don’t have horses you can ride, we’ll visit someone who does. I know lots of people who still live around here.”
“The horses won’t be dangerous, will they?” Louisa asked, entering Cassie’s room. “Getting hurt while we’re here wouldn’t be good press.”
“I don’t want to be any trouble,” Cassie said.
“No, it will be fine. Nice. I haven’t ridden lately, either.”
“You’re a fun boss,” Cassie said.
Louisa nudged her. “Come on, let’s get unpacked. I have a press release to prepare for the Web site and the local newspaper.”
Wyatt left the women and walked a few more steps down the covered walkway to his room on the end. This was the honeymoon suite, the manager had told Cassie when she’d reserved the rooms. It was the largest suite and featured a whirlpool tub and walk-in shower. He unlocked the door and stepped onto thick gray carpet. A king-size bed with a pink-and-gray retro-print satin bedspread dominated the room. Two chairs in what he thought were Danish Modern style sat beneath the corner windows. On the table between the chairs there was a fluffy white Christmas tree with clear lights and glittery stars.
He rolled his suitcase to a stop near the bed, then placed his laptop case on the table. There was also a built-in unit that hid the television, a small refrigerator and microwave.
“For those late-night honeymoon snacks,” he muttered on his way to the bathroom. Not that he knew from personal experience. He’d never been married or even come close. He’d been very careful to avoid that trap.
The bathroom was spacious and modern, tiled in pink and gray, as if it were really from the 1950s. The place would be fine for him. After all, he wouldn’t be in town that long. Just long enough to decorate the community center, participate in a few local activities and see old friends whom, as Toni had pointed out, he’d neglected in the past fifteen years.
Hell, he’d been busy. He’d had a company to build, a product to develop, a fortune to amass.