“Drat,” he said. “I’d heard you might have had a tiny hankering for Pete. Scuttlebutt must have had it wrong.”
“Now, Mr. Morgan—”
“Josiah,” he repeated.
“Josiah, it isn’t good to listen to idle gossip. You of all people should know that.”
He smiled again, searching her face with keen eyes, showing no remorse at all for putting her on the spot. The wily old rancher was everything people said he was, and yet, she somehow found him endearing.
“Well,” he said after a moment, “it was worth a try.”
“What was worth a try?”
He stood and put out a hand so that he could gently take her hand in his. “I was hoping it was you, but there are other women who might be interested in my renegade son, Pete. He’s a good-looking man—strong, tall, tough. Ladies like that sort, don’t they? The strong, silent type? And yet sophisticated and endearing, like Cary Grant. Yes, I’d say the best of John Wayne and Cary Grant.” He grinned at her. “I’m just the proud pop, though. Maybe women aren’t looking for good-looking, strong, independent rascals anymore.”
She really didn’t know what to say to such audacity. There was no doubt Pete was a sexy man. She’d been wildly attracted to him when she’d met him in January. He was indeed very handsome, and his devil-may-care attitude drew her in. Tall, long-haired, with eyes of glacial blue—his very face spelled danger. She shivered, remembering. He’d come across like a tough guy, but when he wanted to be charming—and he’d definitely been charming—a woman knew she’d take off her dress pretty fast for him. He’d not made any moves on her, not really. In fact, he’d seemed bent on making Dane jealous over Suzy, and so Priscilla had felt safe.
But it was the gleam in Pete’s eye when he looked at her sometimes that let her know his charms could be dangerous—if he hadn’t been treating her like a sister, for Suzy’s sake. In other words, he was a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
There was no way this would work. Josiah couldn’t possibly understand. Families had their share of matchmaking enthusiasts, busybodies and downright meddlesome fussbudgets bent on having their own way. At least Josiah didn’t hide his intentions. Wouldn’t his scheming make Pete mad? Priscilla studied Josiah and wondered.
Was the old man really looking for forgiveness—or was Josiah angling for more grandchildren?
Chapter Two
Two days later Priscilla wasn’t feeling very forgiving. Under new rules—and a revised estimation of the value of her real estate, thanks to new bank software—Priscilla learned the value of her home and business had sunk by forty thousand dollars. In the blink of an eye, she’d lost the foothold she thought she’d been gaining. Real estate was supposed to keep its value, if not go up, but with current economic conditions, banks were tightening lending standards and the way they evaluated properties.
Her situation wouldn’t have been so devastating except that she’d been counting on her home to provide equity for her tea shop. The loss of forty thousand would put her out of business.
“Fine,” she told her friend Deacon Cricket Jasper, who’d come over for tea and a visit. “I’ll go back to doing what I was doing before I became a small businesswoman. I’ll work for the government crunching numbers in some dreary office. At least I’ll have some retirement funds put away.”
“I don’t know,” Cricket said, looking around the wing of the home that served as the shop. “You’ve done pretty well, and this place is popular. Get an outside appraisal and ask for a home equity line of credit at a different bank.”
Priscilla considered that. “No one’s lending money these days, certainly not to take a chance on a tiny tea shop and etiquette lessons.” The thought depressed her. Her heart was in her business. “I’d be in trouble if people were to suddenly cut back on parties and etiquette lessons for their children. Maybe it’s better this way.”
Cricket nodded. “One of my favorite sayings is that when God closes a door, he opens a window.”
Priscilla smiled. “You’re a good friend to remind me.” She glanced around her pretty little shop. The walls were painted a light, cheery pink. White tables sat here and there, inviting conversation; two pink-and-white-striped antique sofas lined the walls for intimate groupings. A sparkling chandelier hung from the ceiling, illuminated by tiny purple bulbs hidden around the ceiling tray so that soft amethyst light bathed the crystals of the chandelier and reflected the hue on the ceiling. It was a comforting place. At night, when the shop was closed, she liked to sit in here with a good book, a side-table lamp lighting the pages. “It was just such a shock when I talked to the man at the bank. He was so sympathetic, but I felt bad. I’m not the only person this has happened to, so I don’t intend to feel sorry for myself, but it wasn’t welcome news.” Priscilla took a deep breath. “However, I also liked my friends in the government office. I’ll be fine.”
Cricket stood and hugged her. “It will all work out. In the meantime you can always go see what Mr. Morgan had up his sleeve. There’s usually money involved when he wants to pawn off one of his sons.”
Priscilla laughed, surprised, and shook her head. “As much as I liked him, I fear Josiah is a one-man con game. Truthfully, the games he’s up to are beyond my scope.”
“Yet he has such amazing success, especially with those hardheaded boys of his. Wouldn’t it be an old movie plot if he was behind this loan problem?” Cricket went out on the porch, opening her polka-dot umbrella. “This is the coldest and dreariest February I think I’ve ever seen in Fort Wylie.”
“Mr. Morgan might be a busybody, but he wouldn’t deliberately sabotage my business,” Priscilla said, laughing.
“I know. I was being dramatic. I think it’s the weather.” Water puddled at the base of the porch as the rain came down harder.
“Drive carefully,” Priscilla said. “The roads can be slick.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow. In the meantime, I’ll be praying for you.” Cricket cast a glance back through the door longingly. “It’s so comfortable in your shop that I hate to leave. I can’t stand the thought that it might not be here much longer.”
Priscilla waved goodbye, not sure what to say about that. She’d heard of several people in Fort Wylie having money woes—her situation was better than most.
She went inside to examine some financial statements and see what she could come up with.
P ETE M ORGAN sat on a military plane mulling over his prospects. The last thing he wanted was to return home to the Morgan ranch, but he’d been offered a million dollars to do so, as had his brothers. Gabe and Dane had fallen under the spell of money and lovely women, but Pete was harder, more stubborn. He wouldn’t have been a secret agent if he weren’t tough as steel, a trait he’d inherited from the old man. Maybe that was the only good thing he’d ever gotten from Pop. The old goat had wanted his boys tough, and that was how they’d turned out.
The oldest son, Jack, wasn’t in touch with anyone in the family. He called the rodeo circuit home. Pete had no home at the moment. After he’d finished his assignment and been debriefed, he’d had time to ponder his life. He was glad he was retiring, not sorry it was all over. He was happy enough, if any of the Morgans knew what happiness was. Gabe and Dane were certainly new men since their marriages.
Maybe that was what he was missing.
Pete pushed the thought from his mind. That was Pop talking, getting in his head with his desire for more grandchildren, somehow wanting the past to be overlooked.
Pete had no intention of caving. He decided he’d