“What about Wesley?”
She saw that muscle in his jaw twitch again. “Pat Wesley? Sure, everybody knows Pat.” He tilted his head down again, hiding the rest of his face in shadows. “He’s not here, though.”
All the smiling was beginning to make her cheeks tight. “Where is he?”
She had couched the question in a sultry tone but the corner of the cowboy’s mouth twitched up—was he laughing at her?
He leaned an elbow against a stack of feedbags. He wasn’t her type—but there was something so gritty about this cowboy that she couldn’t look away. “Why do you want to know? Pat’s just a rancher. Keeps to himself—lived here his whole life. Not much to tell, really.”
This cowboy was not following the script. He wasn’t taking her seriously and he wasn’t falling under her spell. Most importantly, he wasn’t giving her anything she could use. Quiet ranchers who kept to themselves did not make for good headlines.
“Do you know if he has an adopted son?” She knew that Carlos Julián Santino would be thirty-four years old. She didn’t know how old this cowboy was—there was no way to tell, with his face in the shadows like it was.
There was that twitching in his jaw again. But he said, “Ma’am, I assure you he does not.”
What if she were wrong? Of course you’re wrong, the voice in the back of her head scolded her.
It was ridiculous for her to have thought she could find the one man nobody else could. She was ridiculous, pinning all her hopes and dreams for ratings gold, for fame and fortune, onto the Beaumonts and their various and sundry bastards.
She swallowed down the bitter disappointment. Unexpectedly, the cowboy tilted his head to one side, letting a little light spill across his features. It was a damn shame he wasn’t more helpful—or more interested—because he was simply gorgeous. He had a strong jaw with a healthy two-week stubble coming in that made her want to stroke his face and other things. What color were his eyes?
No, she shouldn’t be thinking about this guy’s eyes. She should be focused on her end goal—finding the lost Beaumont bastard. What would his eyes be like? Dark? Or light? Zeb Richards’s eyes were a bright green—which really stood out on a black man. She didn’t know if Carlos Santino’s eyes would be light or dark.
Still, she wanted to see what this cowboy’s eyes looked like. Would they tell her something that his body wasn’t? If she could get a good look at his eyes, would she see wariness—or want?
He tilted his head back down, throwing his face completely in shadows again. Crap. This was not her lucky day. This man was immune to her charms and she couldn’t stand in a feed store all day. She might not be very smart, but even she knew when to cut her losses. She pulled out another card and offered it to the cowboy. “If you find out anything, I can make it worth your while.”
He didn’t take the card. “I’m sure you can, Ms. Baker.” He stepped toward her and Natalie tensed. He knew who she was? Was he a viewer? A fan? Or was he one of those anonymous internet trolls who made her skin crawl even as she craved their attention?
Because when they were insulting her, at least they were paying attention. She was someone, even if she was someone they despised.
But he stepped around her, careful to cut a wide enough berth that there was no accidental touching. Instead, he went to the counter and leaned against it, his entire body angled toward Wilmer.
The body language was clear. It was them against her.
She did what she always did when she felt insecure—she took up as much space as she could. She straightened her shoulders and shot another one of her best smiles at the two men.
She said, “Gentlemen,” even though it was pretty clear that was a loosely applied term at best. And then, head held high, she walked out of the Firestone Grain and Feed and contemplated her next move.
* * *
“What the heck was that all about?” Wilmer asked, scratching the back of his head.
CJ Wesley kept an eye on the woman through the grimy windows of the feed store. She stood on the front step, no doubt plotting where to look for him next. Jesus, Natalie Baker was even more gorgeous in real life than she was on television. And in that outfit?
He knew what she was wearing was part of her act. No sane human would drive out to the windswept northern hills of Colorado in December in a skin-tight black skirt that, with black lace overlaying a black silk lining, looked exactly as warm as a bathing suit. Between the skirt and the sky-high heels—he was damn impressed at how she walked in them—her legs were what men wrote poetry about.
CJ cleared his throat. He wasn’t a poet and he wasn’t interested in Natalie Baker. As he watched, she stepped carefully down the stairs and moved toward a red convertible—a Mustang. Was there any car less appropriate for December in Colorado than that one?
Then again, everything about Natalie Baker was inappropriate, from her amazing cleavage to her fake smiles to her terrifying questions.
“No idea,” CJ lied.
“She’s one of those TV people,” Wilmer said, and CJ had to wonder if Wilmer had just figured that out. He was many things, but Wilmer was not a morning-chat-show guy. If anyone paid even the slightest attention to the morning shows, they’d recognize Natalie Baker immediately. She kept her finger firmly on the pulse of the Denver social scene. If a sports star cheated on his wife, an actress fell in love or, say, a billionaire fathered a bunch of illegitimate children, Natalie Baker was there.
Which meant she was here.
Of course, CJ knew Natalie Baker was a beautiful woman. Her face smiled out at him in high definition every morning. But in real life, she’d not only been more beautiful, but also more...delicate, too. Although that could have just been the juxtaposition of her expensive clothes and perfect makeup with the grime of the feed store.
Wilmer waited until her car was out of sight before speaking again. “What do TV people want with your dad?”
“Don’t have a clue,” CJ lied again. Because he knew. He knew exactly why Natalie Baker was here. It had very little to do with his father, Patrick Wesley.
It had everything to do with Hardwick Beaumont.
CJ shook his head, hoping Wilmer would read it as confusion. “Dad’s not even here,” he reminded Wilmer because CJ knew one thing: all the gossip in this town ran through Wilmer. The Firestone Diner was almost as bad, but Wilmer Higgins at the Firestone Grain and Feed was officially worse. CJ had to get out in front of this and make sure Wilmer had his version of events before anyone started looking around too hard. “You know that man’s never done a scandalous thing in his life.”
It helped that Pat Wesley had lived in Firestone for all of his fifty-six years. Everyone thought they knew everything about him and not a damn bit of it was scandalous. He was the third generation of Wesleys to raise beef cattle on his land—CJ was the fourth. As far as this town was concerned, the most outrageous thing Patrick Wesley had ever done was marry a woman named Bell that he’d met while he was in the army instead of the girl who’d been his high-school sweetheart. But that had been thirty-three years ago, and since then?
CJ knew exactly how dull his dad was. It was not a bad thing. Patrick Wesley was a good man and a good father, but his idea of a wild Friday night was driving to the next town over to eat at Cracker Barrel and even then, he’d be home by eight and snoring in his recliner by eight thirty. Safe? Yes. Reliable? Absolutely.
Newsworthy? Not a shot in hell.
CJ didn’t know what made him madder about the sudden appearance of the gorgeous Natalie Baker asking questions—that the people he’d